The Lies of Locke Lamora - By Scott Lynch Page 0,128
drying sponges back and forth like automatons. A clever arrangement of mirrors and skylights let the natural light of day in to illuminate their work. There were few tradesfolk in Camorr more penny-conscious than journeymen scriveners.
At the rear of the first floor was a winding staircase, guarded by a tough-looking young woman who feigned boredom while fingering weapons beneath her brocaded brown coat. The Sanza twins established their bona fides with a combination of hand gestures and copper barons that made their way into the young woman’s coat pockets. She tugged on a bell-rope beside the stairs, then waved them up.
On the second floor there was a reception room, windowless, walls and floor alike paneled with a golden hardwood that retained a faint aroma of pine lacquer. A tall counter divided the room precisely in half; there were no chairs on the customer side, and nothing at all on display on the merchant’s side: just a single locked door.
Jessaline stood behind the counter—a striking woman in her midfifties, with a tumbling cascade of charcoal-colored hair and dark, wary eyes nestled in laugh-lines. Janellaine, half her age, stood to her mother’s right with a crossbow pointed just over Calo and Galdo’s heads. It was an indoor murder-piece, lightweight and low power, which almost certainly meant some hideous poison on the quarrel. Neither Sanza was particularly bothered; this was business as usual for a black alchemist.
“Madam d’Aubart and Miss d’Aubart,” said Calo, bowing from the waist, “your servants.”
“Not to mention,” said Galdo, “still very much available.”
“Master Sanza and Master Sanza,” said the elder d’Aubart, “pleased to see you.”
“Although we are,” said Janellaine, “still very much disinclined.”
“Perhaps you’d care to buy something, though?” Jessaline folded her hands on the counter and raised one eyebrow.
“As it happens, a friend of ours needs something special.” Calo fished a coin purse from under his waistcoat and held it in plain view without opening it.
“Special?”
“Or perhaps not so much special as specific. He’s got to get sick. Very sick.”
“Far be it from me to drive away business, my dears,” said the elder d’Aubart, “but three or four bottles of rum would do the trick at a fraction of the price for anything I could give you.”
“Ah, not that sort of sick,” said Galdo. “He’s got to be in a bad way, like to knocking on the Death Goddess’ bedchamber and asking if he can come in. And then he’s got to be able to recover his strength after playing ill for a while. A sort of mummer’s sick, if you will.”
“Hmmm,” said Janellaine. “I don’t know if we have anything that works quite like that, at least not on hand.”
“When,” said Jessaline, “would your friend require a solution by?”
“We were sort of hoping to walk out of here with one,” said Calo.
“We don’t brew miracles, my dears.” Jessaline drummed her fingers on her countertop. “Contrary to all common belief. We do prefer a bit of notice for something like this. Messing about with someone’s inside—fit to ill and then fit again in the span of a few hours… well, that’s delicate.”
“We’re not Bondsmagi,” added Janellaine.
“Praise the gods for that,” said Galdo, “but it’s very pressing.”
“Well,” sighed Jessaline, “perhaps we can bang something together. A bit on the crude, but it might do the trick.”
“I believe we’ve both in the shop,” Jannelaine said. “Shall I check?”
“Do, and hand over that alley-piece while you’re back there.”
Janellaine passed the crossbow to her mother, then unlocked the door at the rear of the room and disappeared, closing it behind her once again. Jessaline set the weapon gently down atop the counter, keeping one long-fingered hand on the tiller.
“You wound us, madam,” said Calo. “We’re harmless as kittens.”
“More so,” said Galdo. “Kittens have claws and piss on things indiscriminately.”
“It’s not just you, boys. It’s the city. Whole place is like to boil, what with Nazca getting clipped. Old Barsavi’s got to have some retribution in the works. Gods know who this Gray King is or what he wants, but I’m more worried by the day for what might come up my stairs.”
“It is a messy time,” said Calo.
Janellaine returned, with two small pouches in her hands. She locked the door behind her, passed the pouches to her mother, and picked up the crossbow once again.
“Well,” said the elder d’Aubart, “here’s what it is, then. Your friend takes this, the red pouch. It’s barrow-robber’s blossom, a sort of purple powder. In the red