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"When she was abed, Requin passed the word to all of his gangs, all of his thieves, all of his contacts, all of his friends among the rich and the powerful. He offered a thousand solari, no questions asked, for anyone who could give him the identity of the would-be poisoner. But there was quite a bit of fear concerning this particular assassin, and Requin was not nearly as respected then as he is now. He received no answer. The next night, he offered five thousand solari, no questions asked, and still received no answer. The third night, he repeated his offer, for ten thousand solari, fruitlessly. On the fourth night, he offered twenty thousand… and still not one person came forward.
"And so the murders started the very next night. At random. Among the thieves, among the alchemists, among the servants of the Priori. Anyone who might have access to useful information. One a night, silent work, absolutely professional. Each victim had his or her skin peeled off with a knife, on their left side. As a reminder.
"And so his gangs, and his gamblers, and his associates begged him to stop. "Find me an assassin," he told them, "and I will." And they pleaded, and they made their inquiries, and came back with nothing. So he began to kill two people per night. He began to kill wives, husbands, children, friends. One of his gangs rebelled, and they were found dead the next morning. All of them. Every attempt to slay him in return failed. He tightened his grip on his gangs and purged them of the weak-hearted. He killed and killed and killed, until the entire city was in a frenzy to turn over every rock, to kick in every door for him. Until nothing could be worse than to keep disappointing him. At last, a man was brought before him who satisfied his questions.
"Requin," said Gallardine with a long, dry sigh, "set that man inside a wooden frame, chained there, on his left side. The frame was filled with alchemical cement, which was allowed to harden. The frame was tipped up — so you see, the man was half-sealed into a stone wall, all along his left side, from his feet to the top of his head. He was tipped up and left standing in Requin's vault to die. Requin would go in himself and force water down the man's throat each day. His trapped limbs rotted, festered, made him sick. He died slowly, starving and gangrenous, sealed into the most perfectly hideous physical torture I have ever heard of in all my long years.
"So you will forgive me," she said, taking Jean gently by the arm and leading him toward the left-hand window, "if Requin is one client with whom I intend to maintain absolute faith until the Lady Most Kind sweeps my soul out of this old sack of bones." "But surely, there's no need for him to know?"
"And just as surely, Master de Ferra, there is the fact that I would never chance it. Never." "But surely, a small consideration—"
"Have you heard," interrupted Gallardine, "of what happens to those caught cheating at his tower, Master de Ferra? He collects their hands, and then he drops their bodies onto a stone courtyard and bills their families or business partners to have the remains cleaned up. And what about the last man who started a fight inside the Sinspire, and drew blood? Requin had him tied to a table. His kneecaps were cut out by a dog-leech and red ants were poured into the wounds. The kneecaps were lashed back down with twine. That man begged to have his throat slit. His request was not granted.
"Requin is a power unto himself. The Archon can't touch him for fear of aggravating the Priori, and the Priori find him far too useful to turn on him. Since Selendri nearly died, he's become an artist of cruelty the likes of which this city has never seen. There is no mortal reward that I would consider worth provoking that man."
"I take all that very seriously, madam. So can we not carefully minimize your involvement? Settle for a basic schematic of the vault mechanisms, the most general overview? The sort of thing that could never be specifically tied to you?" *You haven't really been listening." She shook her head and gestured toward the left-hand window of her house. "Let me ask you something else, Master de Ferra. Can you see the view of Tal Verrar beyond this window?"
Jean stepped forward to gaze out through the pane of glass. The view was southward, over the western tip of the Artificers" Crescent, across the anchorage and the glimmering silver-white water to the Sword Marina. There the Archon's navy rode at anchor, protected by high walls and catapults. "It's a… very lovely view," he said.
"Isn't it? Now, you must consider this my final statement on the matter. Do you know anything of counterweights?" "I can't say that I—"
At that moment, the guildmistress yanked on one of the leather cords that hung down from her ceiling.
The first notion Jean had that the floor had opened up beneath his feet was when the view of Tal Verrar suddenly seemed to move up toward the ceiling; his senses conferred hastily on just what this meant, and were stumped for a split second until his stomach weighed in with nauseous confirmation that the view wasn't doing the moving.
He plunged through the floor and struck a hard square platform suspended just beneath Gallardine's house by iron chains at the corners. His first thought was that it must be some sort of lift — and then it began to plummet toward the street forty-odd feet below.
The chains rattled and the sudden breeze washed over him; he fell prone and clung to the platform with white-knuckled alarm. Roofs and carts and cobblestones rushed up toward him and he braced himself for the sharp pain of impact — but it didn't come. The platform was slowing down with impossible smoothness… sure death slowed to possible injury and then to mere embarrassment. The descent ended a bare few feet above the street, when the chains on Jean's left stayed taut while the others went slack. The platform tilted with a lurch and dumped him in a heap on the cobbles.
He sat up and sucked in a grateful breath; the street was spi
He wiped a good few solari-worth of White Plum Austershalin out of his hair as he stumbled to his feet, wide-eyed and cursing.
"A fine afternoon to you, sir. But wait, don't tell me. Let me guess. Proposal not accepted by the guildmistress?"
Jean, befuddled, found a smiling beer-seller not five feet to his right, leaning against the wall of a closed and unmarked two-storey building. The man was a ta
"Urn, something like that," said Jean. A hatchet slipped out of his coat and clattered against the cobblestones. Red-faced, he bent, retrieved it and made it vanish again.
"You might call this self-serving, and I'd certainly be the first to agree with you, sir, but you look to me like a man in need of a drink. A drink that won't bust open against the cobbles and damn near break your skull, that is." "Do I? What have you got?"
"Burgle, sir. Presuming you" ve heard of it, it's a Verrari speciality and if you" ve had it in Talisham you haven't had it at all. Nothing at all against Talishani, of course. Why, I" ve got family in Talisham, you know."
Burgle was a thick, dark beer usually flavoured with a few drops of almond oil. It had a kick comparable to many wines. Jean nodded. "A full mug, if you please."