sank, until perhaps one in five of the capa’s folk were still holding lit fires.
There was more than enough light to see Capa Barsavi as he turned the corner and stepped through the door. His gray hair was pulled back in oiled rows; his three beards were freshly brushed. He wore his coat of sharkskin leather, and a black cloak of velvet lined with cloth of gold, thrown back from one shoulder. Anjais was on his right and Pachero on his left as the capa strode forward, and in the reflected fires of their eyes Locke saw nothing but death.
Nothing is as it seems, came the voice of the Falconer. Stand resolute.
At the front of the crowd, Barsavi halted, and for a long moment he stared at the apparition before him, at the cool orange eyes within a shadowed hood, at Locke’s cloak and mantle and coat and gloves of gray.
“King,” he finally said.
“Capa,” Locke replied, willing himself to feel the hauteur, conjuring it forth from nothing. The sort of man who would stand in front of a hundred killers with a smile on his face; the sort of man who would summon Vencarlo Barsavi with a trail of corpses, the last of them his only daughter. That was the man Locke needed to be, not Nazca’s friend but her murderer; not the capa’s mischievous subject, but his equal. His superior.
Locke grinned, wolfishly, then swept his cloak back from his left shoulder. With his left hand he beckoned the capa, a taunting gesture, like a bully in an alley daring his opponent to step forward and take the first swing.
“Oblige him,” said the capa, and a dozen men and women raised crossbows.
Crooked Warden, thought Locke, give me strength. He ground his teeth in expectation. He could hear his jaw muscles creaking.
The snap-hiss of release echoed throughout the hall; a dozen taut strings twanged. The bolts were too fast to follow, dark afterimages that blurred the air, and then—
A dozen narrow black shapes rebounded off nothing right before his face, and fell clattering to the floor, scattered in an arc like dead birds at his feet.
Locke laughed, a high and genuine sound of pleasure. For one brief moment, he would have kissed the Falconer if the Bondsmage had stood before him.
“Please,” he said, “I thought you’d listened to the stories.”
“Just establishing your bona fides,” said Capa Barsavi, “Your Majesty.” The last word was sneered. Locke had at least expected a certain wariness following the blunting of the crossbow attack, but Barsavi stepped forward without apparent fear.
“I’m pleased that you’ve answered my summons,” Locke replied.
“The blood of my daughter is the only thing that’s summoned me,” said Barsavi.
“Dwell on it if you must,” said Locke, praying silently as he extemporized. Nazca, gods, please forgive me. “Were you any gentler, when you took this city for yourself, twenty-two years ago?”
“Is that what you think you’re doing?” Barsavi stopped and stared at him; they were about forty feet apart. “Taking my city from me?”
“I summoned you to discuss the matter of Camorr,” said Locke. “To settle it to our mutual satisfaction.” The Falconer hadn’t interrupted him yet; he presumed he was doing well.
“The satisfaction,” said Barsavi, “will not be mutual.” He raised his left hand, and one man stepped from the crowd.
Locke peered at this man carefully; he seemed to be an older fellow, slight and balding, and he wasn’t wearing armor. Very curious. He also appeared to be shivering.
“Do as we discussed, Eymon,” said the capa. “I’ll hold true to my bargain, truer than any I’ve ever made.”
The unarmored man began to walk forward, slowly, hesitantly, staring at Locke with obvious fear. But still he kept coming, straight toward Locke, while a hundred armed men and women waited behind him, doing nothing.
“I pray,” said Locke, with a bantering tone, “that man isn’t contemplating what I suspect.”
“We’ll all see what his business is soon enough,” said the capa.
“I cannot be cut or pierced,” said Locke, “and this man will die at my touch.”
“So it’s been said,” replied the capa. Eymon continued to move forward; he was thirty feet from Locke, then twenty.
“Eymon,” said Locke, “you are being ill-used. Stop now.”
Gods, he thought. Don’t do what I think you’re going to do. Don’t make the Falconer kill you.
Eymon continued to shamble forward; his jowls were quivering, and he was breathing in short sharp gasps. His hands were out before him, shaking, like a man about to reach into a fire.
Crooked Warden, Locke thought, please, let