The Lies of Locke Lamora - By Scott Lynch Page 0,195

in Benjavier’s hand. “There’s two more full crowns in there, above and beyond what you’ll receive. Plus quite a bit of gold and silver. My word’s as good as my money—and you can keep that purse, here, as an assurance until I return.”

“Gods,” said Benjavier. “This is… this is all so very odd. I wonder what I’ve done to deserve such incredible fortune?”

“Most men do nothing to deserve what the gods throw their way,” said Locke. “Shall we be about our business?”

“Yes, yes.” Benjavier untied his apron and tossed it to Locke; he then began to work on his jacket and breeches. Locke slipped off his velvet cap.

“I say, gray hair—you don’t look your age, in the face, I mean.”

“I’ve always been blessed with youthful lines,” said Locke. “It’s been of some benefit, in the duke’s service. I’ll need your shoes, as well—mine would look rather out of place beneath that finery.”

Working quickly, the two men removed and traded clothing until Locke stood in the center of the room, fully garbed as a Meraggio’s waiter, with the maroon apron tied at his waist. Benjavier lounged on one of the sleeping pallets in his undertunic and breechclout, tossing the bag of jingling coins from hand to hand.

“Well? How do I look?”

“You look right smart,” said Benjavier. “You’ll blend right in.”

“Good. You, for your part, look right wealthy. Just wait here with the door locked; I’ll be back soon enough. I’ll knock exactly five times, savvy?”

“Sounds fine.”

Locke closed the door behind him, hurried down the stairs, across the courtyard, and back out into the street. He took the long way around to return to Meraggio’s, so he could enter via the front and avoid the guard at the service entrance.

“You’re not supposed to come and go this way,” said the directory guard when Locke burst into the foyer, red-cheeked and sweating.

“I know, sorry.” Locke waved his blank roll of parchment at the man. “I was sent out to fetch this for one of the lawscribes; one of the private gallery members, I should say.”

“Oh, sorry. Don’t let us keep you; go right through.”

Locke entered into the crowd on the floor of Meraggio’s for the third time, gratified by how few lingering looks he received as he hurried on his way. He wove deftly between well-dressed men and women and ducked out of the path of waiters bearing covered silver trays—he was careful to give these men a friendly, familiar nod as they passed. In moments, he found what he was looking for—two guards lounging against a back wall, their heads bent together in conversation.

“Look lively, gentlemen,” said Locke as he stepped up before them; either one of them had to outweigh him by at least five stone. “Either of you lads know a man named Benjavier? He’s one of my fellow waiters.”

“I know him by sight,” said one of the guards.

“He’s in a heap of shit,” said Locke. “He’s over at the Welcoming Shade, and he’s just fucked up one of Meraggio’s tests. I’m to fetch him back; I’m supposed to grab you two for help.”

“One of Meraggio’s tests?”

“You know,” said Locke. “Like he did to Willa.”

“Oh, her. That clerk in the public section. Benjavier, you say? What’s he done?”

“Sold the old man out, and Meraggio’s not pleased. We really should do this sooner rather than later.”

“Uh… sure, sure.”

“Out the side, through the service entrance.”

Locke positioned himself very carefully to make it seem as though he was confidently walking along beside the guards when in fact he was following their lead through the kitchens, the service corridors, and finally the receiving room. He slipped into the lead, and the two guards were on his heels as he stepped out into the alley, waving casually at the lounging guard. The man showed no signs of recognizing him; Locke had seen dozens of waiters already with his own eyes. No doubt a stranger could pass as one for quite some time, and he didn’t even need quite some time.

A few minutes later, he rapped sharply on the door of chamber nine at the Welcoming Shade, five times. Benjavier opened the door a crack, only to have it shoved open all the way by a stiff arm from Locke, who called up some of the manner he’d used when he’d lectured Don Salvara as a “Midnighter.”

“It was a loyalty test, Benjavier,” said Locke as he stalked into the room, his eyes cold. “A loyalty test. And you fucked it up. Take him and hold him,