The Lies of Locke Lamora - By Scott Lynch Page 0,191

too new to be listed yet. It has been such a bother, believe me.”

“Master Callas,” said Previn, “I sympathize with you, I truly do, but this situation is… you must forgive me, sir, this situation is entirely too irregular for my comfort. I fear that I cannot help you, but I pray you find some means of placating your business associates.”

“Master Previn, I beg of you, please—”

“Sir, this interview is at an end.”

“Then I am doomed,” said Locke. “I am entirely without hope. I do beseech you, sir, to reconsider…”

“I am a lawscribe, Master Callas, not a clothier. This interview is over; I wish you good fortune, and a good day.”

“Is there nothing I can say that would at least raise the possibility of—”

Previn picked up a small brass bell that sat on one edge of his desk; he rang it three times, and guards began to appear out of the nearby crowd. Locke palmed his white iron piece from the desktop and sighed.

“This man is to be escorted from the grounds,” said Previn when one of Meraggio’s guards set a gauntleted hand on Locke’s shoulder. “Please show him every courtesy.”

“Certainly, Master Previn. As for you, right this way, sir,” said the guard as Locke was helped from his seat by no fewer than three stocky men and then enthusiastically assisted down the main corridor of the public gallery, out the foyer, and back to the steps. The rain had ceased to fall, and the city had the freshly washed scent of steam rising from warm stones.

“It’d be best if we didn’t see you again,” said one of the guards. Three of them stood there, staring down at him, while men and women of business made their way up the steps around him, patently ignoring him. The same could not be said for some of the yellowjackets, who were staring interestedly.

“Shit,” he muttered to himself, and he set off to the southwest at a brisk walk. He would cross one of the bridges to the Videnza, he told himself, and find one of the tailors there…

3

THE WATER-CLOCK was chiming the noon hour when Locke returned to the foot of Meraggio’s steps. The light-colored clothing of “Tavrin Callas” had vanished; Locke now wore a dark cotton doublet, cheap black breeches, and black hose; his hair was concealed under a black velvet cap, and in place of his goatee (which had come off rather painfully—someday he would learn to carry adhesive-dissolving salve with him as a matter of habit) he now wore a thin moustache. His cheeks were red, and his clothing was already sweated through in several places. In his hands he clutched a rolled parchment (blank), and he gave himself a hint of a Talishani accent when he stepped into the foyer and addressed the guards.

“I require a lawscribe,” said Locke. “I have no appointment and no associates here; I am content to wait for the first available.”

“Lawscribe, right.” The familiar directory guard consulted his lists. “You might try Daniella Montagu, public gallery, desk sixteen. Or maybe… Etienne Acalo, desk thirty-six. Anyhow, there’s a railed area for waiting.”

“You are most kind,” said Locke.

“Name and district?”

“Galdo Avrillaigne,” said Locke. “I am from Talisham.”

“You write?”

“Why, all the time,” said Locke, “except of course when I’m wrong.”

The directory guard stared at him for several seconds until one of the guards standing behind Locke snickered; the symptoms of belated enlightenment appeared on the directory guard’s face, but he didn’t look very amused. “Just sign or make your mark here, Master Avrillaigne.”

Locke accepted the proffered quill and scribed a fluid, elaborate signature beside the guard’s GALLDO AVRILLANE, then strolled into the countinghouse with a friendly nod.

Locke rapidly cased the public gallery once again while he feigned good-natured befuddlement. Rather than settling into the waiting area, which was marked off with brass rails, he walked straight toward the well-dressed young man behind desk twenty-two, who was scribbling furiously on a piece of parchment and currently had no client to distract him. Locke settled into the chair before his desk and cleared his throat.

The man looked up; he was a slender Camorri with slicked-back brown hair and optics over his wide, sensitive eyes. He wore a cream-colored coat with plum purple lining visible within the cuffs. The lining matched his tunic and his vest; the man’s ruffled silk cravats were composed in layers of cream upon dark purple. Somewhat dandified, perhaps, and the man was a few inches taller than Locke, but that was a difficulty relatively