The Lies of Locke Lamora - By Scott Lynch Page 0,194

Locke. “I just wanted to talk to some of the waiters, maybe one of the kitchen stewards.”

“This isn’t a public park. Best you took your stroll elsewhere.”

“Be a friend,” said Locke. A solon appeared in one of his hands, conveniently held up within the guard’s reach. “I’m looking for a job, is all. I just want to talk to some of the waiters and stewards, right? The ones that are off duty. I’ll stay out of everyone else’s way.”

“Well, mind that you do.” The guard made the silver coin vanish into his own pockets. “And don’t take too long.”

Just inside the service entrance, the receiving room was unadorned, low-ceilinged, and smelly. Half a dozen silent waiters stood against the walls or paced; one or two sipped tea, while the rest seemed to be savoring the simple pleasure of doing nothing at all. Locke appraised them rapidly, selected the one closest to his own height and build, and quickly stepped over to the man.

“I need your help,” said Locke. “It’s worth five crowns, and it won’t take but a few minutes.”

“Who the hell are you?”

Locke reached down, grabbed one of the waiter’s hands, and slapped a white iron crown into it. The man jerked his hand away, then looked down at what was sitting on his palm. His eyes did a credible imitation of attempting to jump out of their sockets.

“The alley,” said Locke. “We need to talk.”

“Gods, we certainly do,” said the waiter, a bulldog-faced, balding man somewhere in his thirties.

Locke led him out the service door and down the alley, until they were about forty feet from the guard, safely out of earshot. “I work for the duke,” said Locke. “I need to get this message to Meraggio, but I can’t be seen in the countinghouse dressed as myself. There are… complications.” Locke waved his blank parchment pages at the waiter; they were wrapped into a tight cylinder.

“I, ah, I can deliver that for you,” said the waiter.

“I have orders,” said Locke. “Personal delivery, and nothing less. I need to get on that floor and I need to be inconspicuous; it just needs to be for five minutes. Like I said, it’s worth five crowns. Cold spending metal, this very afternoon. I need to look like a waiter.”

“Shit,” said the waiter. “Usually, we have some spare togs lying around… black coats and a few aprons. We could fix you up with those, but it’s laundry day. There’s nothing in the whole place.”

“Of course there is,” said Locke. “You’re wearing exactly what I need.”

“Now, wait just a minute. That’s not really possible…”

Locke grabbed the waiter’s hand again and slid another four white iron crowns into it.

“Have you ever held that much money before in your life?”

“Twelve gods, no,” the man whispered. He licked his lips, stared at Locke for a second or two, and then gave a brief nod. “What do I do?”

“Just follow me,” said Locke. “We’ll make this easy and quick.”

“I have about twenty minutes,” said the waiter. “And then I need to be back on the floor.”

“When I’m finished,” said Locke, “that won’t matter. I’ll let Meraggio know you’ve helped us both; you’ll be off the hook.”

“Uh, okay. Where are we going?”

“Just around the corner here… We need an inn.”

The Welcoming Shade was just around the block from Meraggio’s Countinghouse. It was tolerably clean, cheap, and devoid of luxuries—the sort of place that hosted couriers, scholars, scribes, attendants, and lesser functionaries rather than the better classes of businessfolk. The place was a two-story square, built around an open central space in the fashion of a Therin Throne villa. At the center of this courtyard was a tall olive tree with leaves that rustled pleasantly in the sunlight.

“One room,” said Locke, “with a window, just for the day.” He set coins down on the counter. The innkeeper scurried out, key in hand, to show Locke and the waiter to a second-story room marked “9.”

Chamber nine had a pair of folding cots, an oiled-paper window, a small closet, and nothing else. The master of the Welcoming Shade bowed as he left, and kept his mouth shut. Like most Camorri innkeepers, any questions he might have had about his customers or their business tended to vanish when silver hit the counter.

“What’s your name?” Locke drew the room’s door closed and shot the bolt.

“Benjavier,” said the waiter. “You’re, ah, sure… this is going to work out like you say it is?”

In response, Locke drew out his coin purse and set it