The Lies of Locke Lamora (68 page)

The banquet tables (or perhaps these were merely the appetizer tables; the light afternoon refreshments at a feast like this could rival the main course from any lesser occasion) were laid out with silver-trimmed linen cloths, fifty feet from end to end. Guild Chefs—the masters of the Eight Beautiful Arts of Camorr—stood at attention in their cream-yellow ceremonial robes and black scholars’ caps with hanging gold cords behind their ears. Each chef, male or female, had intricate black tattoos on each of the four fingers of their hands; every design representing mastery of one of the Eight Gourmet Forms.

At one end of the banquet table were desserts (the Fifth Beautiful Art): cherry cream cakes encased in shells of gold leaf that were intended to be eaten; cinnamon tarts painstakingly assembled with honey-paste glue into the shape of sailing vessels, a whole fleet of little ships with white marzipan sails and raisins for crewmen. There were hollowed-out pears, their cores replaced with cylinders of river-melon fruit or brandy creams; there were shaved river-melons, their green exteriors scraped down to reveal the pink flesh inside. Every exposed pink face bore a relief sculpture of the crest of Camorr, and alchemical globes set within the melons made them glow with an inviting pink light.

At the other end of the table were meats. Each one of the silver platters held a
phantasmavola
: an Impossible Dish, an imaginary animal formed by joining the halves of two separate creatures during preparation and cooking. Locke saw a roast boar with the head of a salmon, resting on a pile of black caviar. Nearby there was a pig’s head, complete with a marsh apple in its mouth, with a roast capon for a body. The whole affair was covered in brown caramel sauce and figs, and Locke gave in to the growling sensation at the bottom of his stomach. He let one of the chefs slice him a fair portion of the pig/capon, which he ate from a silver dish with a little silver fork; it came apart in his mouth with the texture of butter, and the flavors set his head whirling. He hadn’t tasted anything so magnificent in weeks, and he knew that it would have taken all of his powers, with the help of the Sanza brothers at their peak, to prepare something so fine in his old glass cellar. But that thought stole some of the savor from his meal, and he finished quickly.

The bullock’s head with the body of a squid, he was happy to avoid.

At the center of the banquet tables was the crowning glory (of this particular level, at least). It was a massively unsubtle subtlety, eight feet in length: an edible sculpture of the city of Camorr. The islands were baked sweetbread on little raised metal platforms; the channels between those platforms ran deep with some blue liquor that was being ladled out in cups by a chef at the right side of the diorama. Each major bridge in the city was represented by a crystallized-sugar replica; each major Elderglass landmark was given a tiny analog, from the Broken Tower in the south to the House of Glass Roses to the Five Towers overlooking everything. Locke peered very closely. There was even a tiny frosted chocolate galleon little bigger than an almond, floating on a brown pudding Wooden Waste.

“How are you faring, Lukas?”

Don Salvara was beside him again, wineglass in hand; a black-coated attendant plucked Locke’s used dish from his fingers the moment he turned to speak to the don.

“I am overwhelmed,” said Locke, without much exaggeration. “I had no idea what to expect. By the Marrows, perhaps it is well that I had no preconceptions. The court of the king of the Marrows must be like this; I can think of nowhere else that would possibly compare.”

“You honor our city with your kind thoughts,” said Lorenzo. “I’m
very
pleased you decided to join us; I’ve just been around chatting with a few of my peers. I’ll have a serious talk with one of them in about an hour; I think he’ll be good for about three thousand crowns. I hate to say it, but he’s rather malleable, and he’s very fond of me.”

“Lukas,” cried Doña Sofia as she reappeared with Reynart at her heels, “is Lorenzo showing you around properly?”

“My lady Salvara, I am quite astounded by the spectacle of this feast; I daresay your husband could leave me sitting in a corner with my thumb in my mouth, and I would be adequately entertained all evening.”

“I would do no such thing, of course,” laughed Don Salvara. “I was just off speaking to Don Bellarigio, love; he’s here with that sculptor he’s been patronizing these past few months, that Lashani fellow with the one eye.”

A team of liveried attendants walked past, four men carrying something heavy on a wooden bier between them. The object was a gold-and-glass sculpture of some sort—a gleaming pyramid crested with the arms of Camorr; it must have had alchemical lamps within it, for the glass glowed a lovely shade of orange. As Locke watched, the color shifted to green, and then to blue, and then to white, and back to orange again.

“Oh, how lovely!” Doña Sofia was clearly enamored with all things alchemical. “The shifting hues! Oh, those adjustments must be precise; how I would love to see inside! Tell me, can Don Bellarigio’s Lashani sculpt me one of
those
?”

Three more teams of men hauled three more sculptures past; each one shifted through a slightly different pattern of changing colors.

“I don’t know,” said Reynart. “Those are gifts for the duke, from one of our…more unusual guests. They’ve been cleared with my superiors; they certainly do look lovely.”

Locke turned back to the banquet table and suddenly found himself six feet away from Giancana Meraggio, who had an orchid at his breast, a silver plate of fruit in one hand, and a gorgeous young woman in a red gown on the other. Meraggio’s gaze passed over Locke, then whirled back; those penetrating eyes fixed on him, and on the clothes he wore. The master money-changer opened his mouth, seemed to think better of it, and then opened it again.

“Sir,” said Meraggio in a cold voice, “I beg your pardon, but—”

“Why, Master Meraggio!” Don Salvara stepped up beside him. At the sight of a don, Meraggio shut his mouth once again and bowed politely, from the waist, though not very deeply.

“Don Salvara,” said Meraggio, “and the lovely Doña Sofia. What a pleasure to see you both! Greetings to you as well, Captain Reynart.” He dismissed the tall Vadran from his consideration with a shift of his head and peered at Locke again.

“Master Meraggio,” said Locke. “Why, what a fortunate coincidence! It is a pleasure to meet you at last; I have looked for you at your countinghouse, many times, and I am afraid I have never had a chance to pay my proper respects.”

“Indeed? Why, I was just about to ask…who might you be, sir?”

“Master Meraggio,” said Don Salvara, “allow me to present Lukas Fehrwight, merchant of Emberlain, servant of the House of bel Auster. He has come down to discuss the import of a certain quantity of small beer; I’d like to see how those Emberlain ales fare against our native best. Lukas, this is the honorable Giancana Meraggio, master of the countinghouse that bears his name, known by many as the Duke of White Iron, for very good reason. All finance whirls around him like the constellations in the sky.”

“Your servant, sir,” said Locke.

“Of Emberlain? Of the House of bel Auster?”

“Why yes,” said Doña Sofia, “he’s here at the feast as our special guest.”

“Master Meraggio,” said Locke, “I hope I do not presume too much, but do you find the cut of my coat pleasing? And the fabric?”

“A singular question,” said Meraggio, scowling, “for both seem strangely familiar.”

“And well they should,” said Locke. “On the advice of the Salvaras, I secured for myself a single suit of clothes cut in your Camorri style. I requested of the tailor that he select a cut that was especially favored by the best-known taste in the entire city. And who should he name but
yourself
, sir; this suit of clothes is fashioned after your
very own preferences
! I hope you will not find me forward if I say that I find it most excellently comfortable.”

“Oh, no,” said Meraggio, looking terribly confused. “Oh, no. Not too forward at all—very flattering, sir, very flattering. I, um…I do not feel entirely well; the heat, you see. I believe I shall avail myself of some of the punch from that subtlety. It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Master Fehrwight. If you will excuse me, Doña Sofia, Don Lorenzo.”

Meraggio moved off, peering back over his shoulder at Locke and then shaking his head.
Oh, Crooked Warden,
thought Locke,
you’re one funny son of a bitch, aren’t you?

“Lukas,” said Doña Sofia, “have you had enough food for the time being?”

“I believe I shall keep rather well, my lady.”

“Good! Why not hunt down Doña Vorchenza with me; she’s hiding down on one of the other galleries, hunched over her knitting. If she’s lucid today, you’ll love her, I guarantee it.”

“Doña Vorchenza,” said Reynart, “is in the northernmost apartment of the western gallery, two floors down. Do you know the place I speak of?”

“Oh, yes,” said Sofia. “What do you say, Lukas? Let us pay our respects; Lorenzo can circulate and work on the
important affairs
he should be looking into.”

“The matter has not slipped my mind, darling,” said Don Lorenzo with mock irritation. “Master Fehrwight, I for my part hope the old doña is speaking Therin this evening; you may find yourself being introduced to the equivalent of a stone statue. Or perhaps she merely behaves that way when I’m in the room.”

“I wish I could say that it was entirely an affectation, my lord Salvara,” said Reynart. “I should circulate for a while and try to look as though I’m actually on duty. Give my affection to Doña Vorchenza, my lady Sofia.”

“Of course, Captain. Are you coming, Lukas?”

The doña led him to one of the wide Elderglass staircases with lacquered wooden banisters. Softly glowing alchemical lamps in ornate casings gleamed at the foot of the stairs; they would be lovely after dark. The layout of the floor was the same as that of the one above; there was another fifty-foot banquet table crowded with delicacies and wonders, and one of the strangely beautiful glass-and-gold pyramids had been set down beside it.
Curious,
thought Locke.

“My lady Salvara,” he said, smiling and pointing, “perhaps a few attendants could be convinced to borrow one of those sculptures when we leave, and you could have your peek inside?”

“Oh, Lukas. If only—but one does not repay the duke’s hospitality by borrowing his decorative fixtures on a whim. Come, we need to go down to the next level. Lukas? Lukas, what’s the matter?”

Locke had frozen, looking straight at the staircase that led down to the level below. Someone was just coming up that staircase—a lean and fit-looking man in a gray coat, gray gloves, and gray breeches. His vest and four-cornered hat were black, his neck-cloths were rich scarlet, and on his left hand he wore a very familiar ring, over the leather of his glove; Barsavi’s ring, the black pearl of the Capa of Camorr.

Locke Lamora matched gazes with Capa Raza, his heart beating like a war galley’s drum. The lord of Camorr’s underworld halted, dumbfounded; sheer bewilderment fluttered across his face—a look that made mirth rise up from the bottom of Locke’s soul. Then for the briefest second there was hatred; Raza ground his teeth together and the lines of his face tautened. Finally he seemed to have control of himself. He twirled a gold-capped swagger stick of lacquered black witchwood, stuck it beneath his left arm, and strolled casually toward Locke and Doña Sofia.

“SURELY,” SAID Capa Raza, “surely, you must be a doña of Camorr; I do not believe I have had the pleasure of your acquaintance, gracious lady.” He swept off his hat and bent from the waist at the ideal angle, right foot out before his left.

“I am Doña Sofia Salvara, of the Isla Durona,” she said. She held out her hand; he took it and kissed the air above it.

“Your servant, my lady Salvara. I am Luciano Anatolius; charmed, my lady, quite charmed. And your companion? Have we met?”

“I do not believe so, sir,” said Locke. “You look strangely familiar, but I’m sure I would recall if we had met before.”

“Master Anatolius, this is Lukas Fehrwight, a merchant of Emberlain, of the House of bel Auster,” said Sofia. “My personal guest here at the duke’s feast.”

“A merchant of Emberlain? Greetings to you, sir; why, you must be very
resourceful
, to make it all the way up here, into such rarefied circles.”

“I do what I must, sir, I do what I must. I have some unusually good friends in Camorr; they often bring me unexpected advantages.”

“I don’t doubt it. The House of bel Auster, you say? The famous liquor merchants? How
grand
; I’m as fond of a good draught as the next man. In fact, I prefer to make all of my purchases by the cask.”

“Indeed, sir?” Locke smiled. “Why, that is the specialty of my firm; a great many wonderful and surprising things come out of our casks. We pride ourselves on always giving satisfaction—on always delivering full value for value received. Like for like, if you take my meaning.”

“I do,” said Capa Raza, with a grim smile of his own. “An admirable business practice; one near to my own heart.”

“But surely,” said Locke, “I remember now why you must be familiar, Master Anatolius. Do you not have a sister? Perhaps a pair of them? I seem to recall having met them, at some occasion—the resemblance seems
very
striking.”

“No,” said Capa Raza, scowling, “I’m afraid you’re very much mistaken; I have no sisters. Doña Sofia, Master Fehrwight, it has been a distinct pleasure making your acquaintance, but I fear I have pressing business elsewhere; I wish you both much pleasure at the feast this evening.”

Locke held out his hand and put on an innocent friendly smile. “It is always a pleasure to make new acquaintances, Master Anatolius. Perhaps we shall see each other again?”

Capa Raza glared down at Locke’s outstretched hand, then seemed to remember himself; he could hardly refuse such a courtesy without causing a great stir. His strong hand clasped Locke’s forearm, and Locke returned the gesture. The fingers of Locke’s other hand twitched; if only his stiletto had not been inconveniently hidden in a boot, he would now be tempted beyond all rational thought. “You are very good, Master Fehrwight,” said Capa Raza with a placid face, “but I
very
much doubt it.”