“Masters, mistresses, pay me mind if you will! Your host, the good and generous Master Trigosi, presents for your dining satisfaction a most delectable and stimulating dish.”
The harbinger worked the crowd, twirling his silvery sword cane, making dramatic sweeps and pointing it here and there for emphasis. Tonight's audience was healthy in number and gave an appearance of better than usual affluence. The early acts – a clever prestidigitator from Nemeris who could make intricate but not especially thrilling numerological predictions, and twin boys who combined acrobatic stunts with a racy song they were clearly too young to appreciate themselves – had not provoked an edifying response. He hoped the tide would turn with this performer. He had negotiated her contract himself, and after a string of less than resounding successes was staking a great deal of credibility on her popularity. Boss Trigosi was not a man who long tolerated disappointment.
“Hailing from the glittering Woleji Isles, this dazzling northern beauty will warm your hearts and more, perhaps, if your coin chances to catch her eye.” He paused a beat for an obliging rumble of predatory laughter. “She has danced before the courts of the Belaberin and Furilysse nobility, she has sweetened the stages of Leph and Gomsaka, she has raised ardours in Omnur and Sallide and Peshk! She appears before you now, performing the barbarian ritual dances of the Chost'rok Tribes! Sarema, Sorceress of Solano!”
A frenetic bass drum rhythm began pounding from the balcony above. Two emerald satin curtains rippled and a pale, muscled leg emerged, exposed to the calf and bare but for a collection of golden bangles and exotic feathers at the ankle. It rose and fell in graceful counterpoint to the beat, then at full extension, described an ascending arc until it reached its zenith, disappearing back inside the curtain.
The beat grew more frantic and was joined by a crash of other instruments. Together the aggressive orchestration overcame the few remaining pockets of conversational resistance. The audience gasped as the curtains were flung open, the dancer revealed. She wore little besides patches of golden jewellery, a collection of dazzling plumes and rich maroon tattoos of some angular foreign pattern that suggested thorns or brambles. The effect stunned.
She danced. A leaping, twisting fit of a dance, with movements too sharp and unpredictable to follow for an audience familiar with whirling courtly cotillions or even peasant reels.
A less sophisticated audience might have been scandalised by the frank suggestion of her hips and breasts and long writhing limbs. This however was Fellport, and the Vine and Berry cultivated a reputation for soliciting the most risqué, the most daring, the most challenging entertainments. Her clientele in turn embraced the notoriety. Many of the city's most enduring stars had launched themselves into popular profile on the cedar stage of the Vine and Berry.
Sarema Lephlett was to be no exception. The dynamism of her opening performance segued into a sensuous circuit of the dining floor, an exquisitely drawn swirl and sway of hands, head and torso that provoked the crowd into an enthusiastic simmer.
She was drawn from her meandering path by an ostentatious display of wealth. A well-dressed young rake, known to many therein but even to strangers obviously of noble station, produced two shining gold coins in each hand and tapped an accompaniment between his fingers. His friends, or rather his sycophantic entourage, whistled deliriously and slapped their table. Above, the band leader raised the music's tempo and improvised a new melody derived from a popular romantic ballad, immediately recognisable to the appreciative audience. They jeered and clapped encouragingly as Sarema described a twisting turn about the noble's table and paused before him.
His broad jaw was set in a smug grimace and two tangles of tight chestnut curls obscured the expression in his eyes. He beckoned her closer, holding the coins between upright fingers. She responded with apparent horror, her every muscle articulating indignant refusal at the indecent suggestion. Amusement creeping into his visible features, the noble played along, sharply rapping the coins on the table, commanding her attention. She turned, all coquettish, an unspoken “Who, me?” flirting about her body language.
The music was fading to a suggestive whisper. The noble held the coins up again, a demand now. The dancer appeared to consider the proposal, then mimed disappointment and gestured up and down her body. “There's nowhere for a coin in that costume, my lord!” bellowed one of the hangers-on, to the uproarious amusement of his companions.
She silenced a chorus of anatomically uncomfortable suggestions by climbing on all fours onto the table and broke into a smile that widened and parted, revealing her pink, studded tongue. The entire room became frenzied with applause as the noble placed his coins one by one on the outstretched tongue and watched them disappear.
When the last coin had vanished, she stepped off the table, languorous and commanding. She took the noble by the hand and to ecstatic applause led him onto the stage and through the curtain.
A moment later, as the harbinger whipped the audience's vociferous appreciation onwards and upwards, the noble's four companions finished their drinks and followed.
***
“I want to know who Piety Korsolten's friends were. I want to know where she went for a good time. I want to know who she entertained last night. I want to know who she was in the habit of fucking.”
Jedlow helped the quivering, overweight publisher to his feet and knelt down to pick up the lead letters, scattered like caltrops about the cold shop floor. “Leave those the fuck alone, boy. Speak, Battis. I'm interested in something you have to say, for once.”
Battis Fenchrow fretfully accepted the half-empty tray from the young guardsman and set it carefully down on the swing-arm guillotine bench. “I am always happy to oblige you, Magistrate. No need for roughhousing.” His broad smile was pinched at the edges with nervous tension. “Happy to accommodate, I am.”
Ductio snorted a measure of dried kissel powder off the back of his hand and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I was not aware that I had acquired a reputation for patience, Battis. On the contrary, I believe I am known as a very fucking impatient man who is not to be stalled, dissuaded or buggered about. So do not fucking bugger me about!”
Jedlow had never tried kissel. It was supposed to keep you awake, he thought, though most of his information about its effects had come secondhand from his cousin Terwin, who had probably never sniffed it either. From here it smelled a bit like one of those hot spices that Nemerites put on everything. Why you would want to jam it up your nose he couldn't imagine – you would have to want to stay awake pretty badly.
The broadsheet publisher had refused to open the door to them at first, claiming that his duty to his readers came before the self-serving demands of the Sentry. Ductio had kicked in his door while he was standing behind it, knocking him asprawl. After that he had gotten rough for a few minutes, knocking things over and making a variety of insinuations about Fenchrow's loyalty to Murburan, his journalistic qualifications, his sexual proclivities. Jedlow noticed it had taken quite a while to get around to the subject of the murder victim.
“She's a – she was a widow, inherited the Cardinal from the husband when he took ill from the bottle. That was about six years ago. There was talk at the time that she might have hastened matters with some inventive ingredients, but she bribed – ah, that is, no official charge was leveled.”
Ductio blinked rapidly, as though he had woken with a start. “Not interested in the past.”
“Then you're missing the best bit,” admonished Fenchrow. He hurried on at Ductio's glare. “She managed to get the ownership laws turned about on some technicality -” even Jedlow recognised this as another reference to a bribe - “-and set herself up as owner and manager. Did all right for herself, too. It was a ready concern back then, but she's taken it much further. I'd say it's the number three or four saloon in Fellport these days. Was, I should say. I expect his lordship the Duke will impound it soon enough.”
“Battis, I know you're not suggesting that his lordship the Duke had a motive to commit murder, because if you were I would be duty bound to smash your teeth in. So let's keep this to Piety Korsolten, all right?”
“Very well, very well” Fenchrow appeared to have relaxed a touch, perhaps convinced Ductio had finished bounding him around his office. “She was well known about town, hosted a lot of social gatherings, at her club and her home. I gather from one or two mutual acquaintances that they were quite wild affairs.”
“Wild?”
“She liked to explore her...ah, limitations.”
“Did she? What about last night?”
“I don't know anything for certain.”
“That's never stopped you telling stories before.”
Fenchrow smiled unapologetically. “Quite true. Very well then, I have it on reasonable authority that she hosted an affair at her home. A dozen or so of the brightest and wittiest, local decadents and some exotic foreigner, aphrodisiac cocktails and narcotic powders, that sort of thing. I'm sure I don't need to explain the finer points to you, Magistrate.”
“Final warning, Battis.”
“Then I'll be brief. I gather that the crowd became boring, or boorish, or both. Mistress Korsolten indulged in some hysterics, banished all but a couple of the more choice young morsels, and retired for the evening. She was not, I presume, seen thereafter.”
“Her companions? Who were they?”
“The young lady in question – and I do mean young – I did not catch the name of. As it happens, though, I did come across the fellow a few days ago. A Corphenite, blonde, my height if not so healthy about the waist. I don't recall the name but -” With his good hand, he dug about in a drawer full of ledgers, invoices, notes of facts, rank speculations and a dozen other documents. “Here it is. Casimir Meldaran. He's a steward, currently shopping around some songbird. Came in here a few days ago to procure the names of some contacts and to drill for muck about the market.”
“What was your impression of him?”
“Didn't like him. Fellated like a goat and was shy of taking it rearward. I sent him to see Berber Trigosi.”
***
Berber Trigosi gave Holthock the harbinger a coin for the cab and told him, “Clean the cuts. See her to her lodgings. Tell Aricia to tend her tonight.” He rubbed each eye in turn with a meaty palm. It had been a long evening, the smoke was thick and the sharp liquor fumes had burned his eyes until they itched.
“Yes, Master Trigosi,” sighed the harbinger, unsure why he had expected to be blamed but relieved all the same. “Thank you.”
“Go now.” Trigosi tilted a hand in dismissal, then paused, swiping the sweat across his forehead and down one temple. “Wait. Speak to her. Impress this upon her: she will speak to no-one.”
“People will see the marks, master. They will make the connection.” Holthock's heart began to pound. This was not over yet, was it? Perhaps it had not yet begun.
“She will rest unseen until she is healed. Her injuries will be justly compensated. The insult is mine to address.”
“Master?”
“Speak no more of this. The matter is closed.”
***
Overhead the Red Ring was visible through a fissure in the horsetail streams of cloud. The man who was sometimes called the Ballad Dog drew his hood back a little to get a better look, a fringe of blonde flopping across his brow.
Three bright red and two fainter blue stars formed a tight circle, itself seemingly outlined by a crimson aureola. This band was at its most distinct on nights like this, when the cloud was high and thinning. Ancient cultists had believed the Ring signified extremes of fortune, and looked to other omens to verify whether the prospects were propitious or otherwise. It was still considered a sign of great folly to embark on any significant enterprise while the Ring dominated the winter sky, though the opposite was true in other seasons.
The Dog tapped his throat at either side with two fingers, then traced a cautious spiral on his palm. Not that he would confess to any belief in the supernatural: he had seen too much in his life to ascribe the ills of the world to anything other than the failed characters of men such as himself.
But he had been raised in a world that saw the spirits of the dead in every hoot of an owl and every shadow that fell across a doorway, a world overlooked by angels of divinity and mercy and retribution and plagued in every corner by devils of sin and temptation. The Dog no longer Believed, but sometimes, his naked soul exposed beneath the cold indifferent regard of the night, he found he believed a little after all. And this was a most inauspicious night to begin a new enterprise.
He just planned for ill destiny to be visited on someone else.
***
“Good morning, Master Fowart, and a fine one for this time of year, yes?” Bey was guessing about the weather, but judging by the dismal murk of the morning of his arrival, it didn't seem too bad a bet. In any case he wanted to stretch his hard-practised accent and attempt to establish himself as a longtime local. Here in the Moistened Cardinal, where his presence was an affront to the normal routine that would already have marked him as an outsider, the potential damage from a failed or exposed assumption of localhood would be limited.
Fowart, the diffident table captain, peered over his shoulder as he hefted a heavy wooden stool off a table. In that moment he clearly could not recall who Bey might be, nor why he should have appeared so long before the saloon's noon opening. “It's Beyda Chur,” said Bey, affecting an untroubled shrug. “I'm not surprised you've forgotten after yesterday. Not the usual course of events, I would suppose.”
He carefully flicked an entirely fictional iota of dust from the tassels on his uniform, doublet and trousers of emerald and walnut, black riding boots, silver buttons and buckles everywhere. Herok had produced it late the previous evening, interrupting their deliberations to drunkenly declare “They're called harbingers here! Harbingers of the entertainments, yes? Yes!”, after which he had stumbled from the dockside bar, leaving a confused and desperately intoxicated Bey to his own devices for nearly an hour. He reappeared as Bey was teetering at edge of the pier, one arm insecurely wrapped around a pylon , urinating into the rippled ocean. For some reason, he possessed a linen-wrapped bundle, which he thrust, indifferent to his preoccupation, into Bey's arms, saying “You'll need these! Look the part! Helps the plan!” He had fallen into the water then, after which the order of events became confused in Bey's recollection. But when he had awoken this morning, there was the bundled uniform, boots and all, and a near enough fit for his first day on the job.
“I should say not,” sniffed Fowart, whose own black uniform with bone buttons and a single band of white (to declare his seniority amongst the waiting staff) was quite plain in comparison. “I should hate for the proprietor to be murdered every day.”
Bey interpreted that as a joke as performed by one profoundly ill-equipped for the task, but agreed wholeheartedly with the sentiment. He forced a smile and said “Is there an office where the records are kept? I should make myself busy if I'm to be ready for the evening.” From what he had gathered, Saltday tended to be one of the quieter nights, being one of the two days of the week on which markets were not held. And in any case, if Herok came through there would be no real need to maintain the pretense. But Bey was a practiced exploiter of Opportunity, and he knew better than most that you could rely only so far on fortune and favour. Sooner or later, it came down to meticulous hard work, and he was not about to spit on this break. Besides, he would need to become familiar with all aspects of the Moistened Cardinal's routines if -
“You are the new 'arbing-ger?”
The woman's pronunciation was execrable. Bey suddenly felt the odds on success of his subterfuge shortening. “Beyda Chur, my lovely,” he smiled warmly. “And who might I have the pleasure of knowing?” Fowart huffed, seeming put out by the interruption, and returned his attention to setting the furniture in order.
The woman, a short Murb with an expressive round face that displayed her emotion like a billboard and figure to match it, smiled with delight. “I am correct,” she announced, slapping her hands together into a clasp. “You will come now. There is work to do.” Suddenly remembering his question she added “I am Nana. I dress stage. Make costume. Play 'arpsichord. You come now. I show stage.” She folded her arm through Bey's and shut it like a vise, trapping him.
Dumbfounded, he allowed himself to be led into the backstage offices, shouting over his shoulder to Fowart, “I'm expecting a client on important business later in the day, Master Fowart. Would you be so kind as to direct him to me?”
***
“Tell me what happened.”
Trigosi crammed a handful of dried figs between thick lips and chewed noisily. He sat at a little iron table outside a brewhouse in the courtyard opposite the Vine and Berry. He visited every day. The manager, a Lephali émigré who had fled the civil unrest in his own country two decades earlier, had ordered a special chair for Trigosi, who was squashed uncomfortably by the regular bucket seats. Trigosi ate and drank for free, but in return, the Lephali brewman paid an exclusively low rate for his protection.
Kramus and Sellton sat across from him, their cinnamon and reko teas untouched and cool. They exchanged a glance, a mental duel to see who would speak. Kramus lost. “The Corphenite shook us off, Boss. Slipped out through the back storeroom of Cheldale's apothecary.”
Boss Trigosi slurped a tongue into his tea and lapped it across his lips to clean off the fragments of fig, with only partial success. “I see. Is Cheldale an accomplice?”
“No, Boss,” said Sellton. “He gave the Corphy up as soon as we came in. We – ah, we didn't think he'd seen us, so we were watching from across the lane. We wanted to see what he was buying.”
“Do you know what it was?”
Kramus took up the story. “Cheldale says he asked a couple of questions about imported powders, you know, which ships carry for what merchants, and who does he deal with and so on? Thinks he might have been leading up to asking about yellow petals. Couldn't have picked a better man to waste his breath on, though. Cheldale thinks the stuff is poison and won't deal in it. His little daughter, remember?”
“I recall it. Disgusting matter.” Trigosi's eyes narrowed to bulging slits. “Ironic. He would have done better to speak to you two, yes?”
They both clamoured their denials: “Boss, I don't know what -” overlapped “No, Boss, we don't -”
“Enough!” Trigosi slapped the table so hard the copper brewpot bounced off and clattered to the ground. The Lephali brewman, who was hovering near the entrance to his shop in case his customer wanted immediate service, fought down the urge to clear up the mess and retreated backwards into the safety of his kitchen. “I tolerate your enterprise. But I know. Remember that. I know.”
He settled back into his high-backed throne. “This we will discuss later. I have another task for you. Perform it well. Make me forget the inconvenience of Master Meldaran late of Corphena.”
Kramus and Sellton were portraits of relief. “Anything you need, Boss,” said Sellton. Of the pair he was the better-spoken and usually the one to placate Trigosi's outbursts of temper. He was mildly surprised that this one had come and gone like a summer shower, without demands for loyalty and, more particularly, the percentage he was due as their superior. But he was too shaken by the exposure and relieved that at least for now there would be no consequences that he did not question their luck. “What's the matter?”
“Last night there was an occurrence. The dancer Sarema Lephlett was abused. Her customer used his fists and marked her face. His associates raped her without payment.” It was obvious even without Trigosi's bitterly stressed words that this last charge was the most intolerable.
They recognised the depth of the insult. Kramus said, “Boss, who would bring such a scandal to your saloon? Was it a foreigner? Someone who didn't know who-”
“On the contrary,” said Trigosi. “It was Seneschal Walden Addenfarrow.”
They almost laughed at this absurdity, but they were both aware that this was not an example of Trigosi's infamously rare humour. “Boss, how can that be? He wouldn't dare. What's happened to the accord?”
Trigosi had thought of nothing else since the previous evening. He had not slept. “The ground has shifted. Something has changed. The Seneschal is certain of himself. He is protected.”
Sellton was frowning with furious thought. “Yes, yes, obviously he feels safe. But who's covering him? It can't be Duke Vormura. He can't afford a return to the bad old days any more than we can. Some foreign power? Maybe a merchant family? They would need resources.”
Kramus added, “Let's not forget to ask the other important question. Why? It's one thing to have protection, but deliberately antagonising Boss Trigosi? Everyone knows that's suicide.” He mulled this over. “Is that it, Boss? Is that what you want us to do? Kill the Seneschal?”
“No.” Trigosi shook his head slowly, a seismic action. “If he believes himself untouchable, we must assume it is so. We will know soon enough. The others were minor nobles and administrators. One was his cousin Galford.” Trigosi reached inside his loose embroidered vest, dipping two fingers into the pocket of his sweat-stained linen shirt. Between the fingers he drew out a copper coin, stained red with dyes. He handed it to Sellton with a certain solemnity.
“Galford is the weak point. Send a message.”
***
Lynnis was concerned, though she had been careful to disguise it with an assumption of fierce, passionate fury. Casimir had not returned until close to dawn. In defiance of his amourous custom, he had fallen asleep instantly. No word, of course, about where he had been.
Lynnis had permitted him to sleep a few hours while the sun crept slowly up. A search of his pockets and moneypurse provided no clue as to what he had been up to. More perplexing still was the complete lack of telltale scents and signs that invariably accompanied his late-night indiscretions. There might have been a hint of...something, some smell that she could not identify, soemthing oddly disconcerting. But nothing that clearly pointed to where he might have been or what he might have been doing.
In the end she had been forced to wake him up and launch the expected barrage of hysterics, tears and accusations that formed the backbone of her charade. Casimir had weathered the storm with denials, reassurances, petty compliments and promises that he would never do anything to worry her again, but – as she expected – nothing resembling either an apology or an explanation.
She could scarcely believe that last night her greatest concern was that he might compromise her mission by turning up dead. Trust Casimir to find a way to ensure things were more complicated than that.
There was no doubt that whatever the cause of this new behaviour, it jeopardised everything she had put in place so far. So far from home, she was on her own and would need to rely on her own judgment. Until she knew better what he was up to, and the degree of risk his actions represented, she could not proceed. Therefore the charade would need to continue.
She cooed, the picture of contrition, “Casimir, my sweet love, I'm sorry I yelled at you. I just get so jealous, sometimes, you know how I am.” She batted ruthless eyelids at his indignant pride. “Did you say something about another saloon? I wrote a new sonnet last night, I just know they will love it at the interview. Let me wear the Urxulian dress, the green one, you know it. They won't be able to resist.”
Nor could Casimir, who acceded to her costume demands and grudgingly forgave her outburst.
Lynnis realised she could no longer trust him at all.
***
Even Jedlow had heard of Boss Trigosi, though the finer points of Grape Corner Gang hierarchy had escaped him until Ductio had explained them on the walk. Jedlow gathered that the reason they had enough time to discuss the disposition of authority in organised crime organisations in Fellport was that Ductio in general hated riding in his buggy, and walked wherever possible. He made an exception on Hedgedays when he was, as he put “Much too fucking shagged to leg it.”
Trigosi was a saloon owner, reputable only in the sense that he had never been arrested for anything. Anyone with eyes in Fellport knew that Trigosi was a ruthless and powerful merchant, and most were aware that he figure prominently within criminal circles as well. As Jedlow had understood it, Trigosi was the head of the syndicate. Ductio corrected this assumption. “He's one of many gangsters as answers to someone they call the Lord. Don't know who he is and nobody I've ever roughed over has said a word. Either they don't know, or they're more frightened of him than they are of me, or both. I'd pay a fucking mint to know.”
“Many, Magistrate? You mean all the gangs cooperate together?”
“Not much. Most of the time they're competing rivals or enemies fighting flat out. But once in a while something weird happens, like the Caber Lane Splatters and the Main Men breaking off in the middle of a bloody fight over control of the north side, each put three men into a team and send them aboard some Agrangese schooner to kill the captain and sink it. Next day they're all back at it, killing each other. I had to beat it out of a man dying of blood loss to get that much.”
Jedlow shivered, sure his imagination was not up to the job of adequately picturing this interrogation. Ductio didn't look all that physically formidable, but it seemed not to deter him from inflicting violence when it suited him. For him, it seemed to be less a matter of physical power than brutality of will. Jedlow's nose throbbed. He hoped he was now on Ductio's good side.
They arrived at Trigosi's club, a grey brick building with high arched windows of stained glass depicting overflowing glasses and steaming plates of food. Wide sloping eaves separated each of the three storeys and red roof tiles shone with lacquer. The club lay on a wide, roughly hexagonal courtyard that was ringed by shops and intersected by a number of lanes. In the centre, in the only patch of sunlight, there was a small rose garden being tended by an old man in a linen apron.
The saloon, called the Vine and Berry, was not yet open for business, but Ductio pushed the front doors open and barged in regardless. Jedlow followed, anxious not to lose sight of the Magistrate here.
Someone stepped out of a cloakroom at the sound of their arrival, but Jedlow was not able to get a good look at him until he was writhing on the ground clutching at his genitals. He was a big man, well dressed, with extensive facial tattooing and several missing teeth. Ductio stepped on his throat with one heavy black boot.
“Mazchrin, yes? Where's your fat fuck of a boss?” He ground his heel for emphasis. The unlucky Mazchrin gargled a response which Jedlow could not interpret.
“I already fucked your mother, Mazchrin,” Ductio snarled. “And she didn't keep me fucking waiting. Now I'll ask you one more time. Where is Trigosi?”
“Magistrate, please,” murmured a soft, high voice. “Violence is unnecessary. I am at your service.” Jedlow was immediate reminded of his Uncle Gurry, who had gone away to Belshevres to study at the college there. When he had returned five years later, he had ballooned to three times his original size and would never do any work on his father's farm, complaining that he had something he called his 'glands'. He did nothing all day but eat fruits and write philosophical monographs. Berber Trigosi had the same shape and smug expression of confident self-entitlement, though presumably in his case he had done something to earn it. Jedlow disliked him instantly.
Ductio grinned, a vicious predator well aware that he was deep inside a rival's territory. “It's not a social call. I want answers.”
Trigosi spread his arms in a conciliatory gesture. “I am anxious to cooperate. The Sentry's peace is good for business. You need only ask.”
“What do you know about Piety Korsolten's death?”
Trigosi affected an expression of deep sympathy and regret. “A tragedy, of course. Mistress Korsolten was a rival but we were on excellent terms. I feel her passing passionately.”
Jedlow was skeptical. So, it seemed, was Ductio. “I didn't ask for a fucking eulogy, I asked what you know.”
“Nothing at all, Magistrate. I understand it was a beating? Perhaps a lover's quarrel that went badly? Her appetite for companionship was well known. She liked to break hearts and inspire jealousy.” He licked his lips suggestively, a grotesquery Jedlow would have given anything not to see. “Those kinds of games can lead to ill feelings. I find it better not to give into animal passion.”
Ductio snorted. “You'd have to pay for the opportunity.”
Trigosi shrugged. “I defer to your expertise on the subject of prostitution, Magistrate.” Jedlow saw red colouring Ductio's neck. “Don't try to fucking ride me, Trigosi. You're not as untouchable as you think you are.”
Now it was Trigosi's turn to flush. Ductio's warning had obviously struck a nerve. Jedlow watched fascinated as the suggestion of some internal debate resolved itself on his fat features. “I...take your meaning, Magistrate. You had another question?”
“Tell me about your meeting with Casimir Meldaran.”
If Trigosi was surprised to hear the name mentioned, he now had his emotions sufficiently under control not to show it. “He is a procurer of artistic contracts from Corphena. He met yesterday to negotiate a contract for his client. Her name is Lynnis Chalcer, also a Corphenite I believe. Talented. I made an offer to engage her. He did not accept the terms. They left. I have seen neither since.”
“He refused the contract? What were the terms?”
“Entirely competitive, Magistrate. Meldaran had an inflated sense of his client's value. My offer was obviously below his expectations.”
“Were you the first saloon they approached?”
“It was not discussed.”
“How long have they been in Fellport?”
“I do not know. I think not long.”
“Did he know Piety Korsolten?”
“I said we did not discuss any other negotiations.” Trigosi seemed annoyed.
“I meant socially.” Ductio was firing the questions quickly, stepping up the tempo each time.
“I have no knowledge of his social life.”
“Is he fucking his client?”
“Perhaps.”
“Perhaps?”
“He was protective of her.”
“Protecting her from what?”
“Nothing specific.”
“So she just needed general protection while meeting with you.”
“I do not appreciate your-”
“What period did he want the contract for?”
“A month or two.”
“Thank you for your time, Master Trigosi.” Ductio signalled Jedlow for assistance and between them they hauled the still-gasping Mazchrin to his feet. “And get yourself a smarter fucking bodyguard. This one's a joke.”
***
Nana's tour of the back stage, the offices and the variety of dressing and storage rooms had been peppered with ribald jokes and suggestive looks. Far from being put off by his hasty off-guard refusals, she had redoubled her playful efforts. Eventually he had been forced to send her away so he could do some work. She had departed with a generous flounce that almost achieved its intended effect of changing his mind.
He put all thoughts of leisure as far as possible from his mind and got to work. For now he had no interest in the state of the saloon's balance sheets, but he did delve into the history of its engagement of entertainment. He quickly identified patterns in the records, the ebb and flow of the audience's tastes, the fleeting popularity of this style or that artist, the inexplicable seasonal preferences for dance in the springtime and oration in the autumn. Bey marked it all with the eye of a natural entrepreneur.
It required no innate analytical skill to see that the stable of performers currently contracted to the Moistened Cardinal was not adequate. There were a handful of musicians on a long-term arrangement – Bey guessed these were the house players – but apart from that, the records showed no sign of performers being paid headliner rates for the past two years. That meant either that Piety Korsolten had somehow convinced top acts to play at entry level rates or that she had simply not been willing to pay for quality. Given Fellport's world renowned appreciation for performing arts, Bey could scarcely believe that either possibility could be true, but he suspected it was actually a bit of both.
In any case, things would have to change, starting with a recruitment drive. Herok might be able to help on that score, but he would try Nana first. He decided it might give her a chance to prove herself useful. She had obviously been underused in the past. He hoped it also might give her something to focus on beside her ardent intentions (which he suspected might have been part of her longevity in the employ of Piety Korsolten).
“Master Chur?” It was one of the boys from the kitchen. Bey hadn't caught his name. “There's a bloke here from the Titles Office. He's asked for everyone in the lounge. Somethin' official.”
About time, thought Bey, and said “I'll be right there.” He took a moment to glance through the register of employees and make sure he had all the names correct. He still couldn't place the kitchen lad, but he had memorised most of the important ones, which is to say the best paid.
When he arrived he was mildly surprised to see that the official was not accompanied by Herok. From their discussion the previous evening he had assumed that the Lephali would be personally involved. Most of the staff of the Moistened Cardinal – waiters, cooks, bartenders, stage hands, even some of the house musicians – had gathered in a semicircle around the official, seated in commandeered chairs or propped against the walls and columns. There were murmurs of impatience, confusion and speculation.
The official was a typical bookish administrator, with pale squinting eyes and an impersonal dress sense. He had placed a large, leather-encased book on one of the dining tables and set an inkpot and quill beside it, much to Fowart's evident horror. When Bey entered he consulted the text and nodded to himself. “Now that everyone is here,” he announced crisply, ignoring the few stragglers trailing in from the kitchen, “I can begin.”
“My name is Cresper Olikarth. As a duly appointed representative of his lordship Duke Yate Vormura though the Ducal Office of Titles, I am hereby officially empowered to enact the following declarations into law.” He cleared his throat with a gentle cough, tapping the page of his ledger here and there until the murmurs of surprise subsided.
“One: it is the declaration of the Ducal Court that the deceased proprietor of the establishment registered as the Moistened Cardinal, namely Mistress Piety Korsolten, died without recognition of an heir or instructions as to legal disposition of her worldly goods.” This provoked little more reaction than some rolled eyes and shaking heads. It was apparent to Bey that his analysis of Mistress Korsolten's organisational abilities was shared by those who had known her in life.
“Two: it is the observation of the Ducal Court that Mistress Korsolten's untimely demise leaves outstanding a debt to the Duchy of Southern Murburan. Resolution of said debt requires payment to the order of eleven thousand, six hundred and five simoleons.”
At this the staff were in uproar, recognising immediately that the usual official response to unpaid debts was an immediate sale of assets to recover the money. “What about our jobs?” bellowed one of the cooks, waving a wooden ladle. Bey knew this one: named Gardenio.
The bureaucrat knocked on the table for attention, and when that didn't work he raised the inkpot and rapped it sharply down, producing a loud crack and a small spray of ink droplets that splattered his hand, a few of the nearest staff and the white linen table cloths. Fowart groaned in anguish. “Please, do not interrupt! It is a misdemeanour attracting a punitive fine to interrupt an official declaration of law!”
The dismayed conversations faded marginally. Deciding that the hubbub was now at a satisfactory level, he said, “Three: it is the declaration of the Ducal Court that the deceased's property be confiscated in lieu of payment of outstanding debts. Four: the deceased's property of residence in the Berrycoat Road shall be sold and revenues raised are to offset said arrears. Five: the establishment registered as the Moistened Cardinal shall be placed under the management of the Court and all profits are to be directed to the service of said arrears.”
Relief was mingled with shock amongst the more politically aware. Such a decision could only have been made at the highest levels, either the Duke himself or at least Seneschal Addenfarrow, his senior administrator. In either case it pointed to remarkable circumstances. The Duke was known to make a point of his public impartiality, keeping himself above the mercantilism of his capital in the interest of stability. By acquiring a stake in that most cutthroat of all Fellport's industries, even at arm's length through a Court appointed administrator, he had effectively bought at stake at the same table over which he presided in judgment. It was apt to be an unpopular decision.
Olikarth silenced the disbelieving staff with another showering rap of the inkpot. “Six. I said, six! Ahem. Six: the Office of Titles has considered submissions for said appointment and has selected an appropriate person, possessed of the means, station and experience considered necessary for said appointment.”
Bey smiled, not at all sure until this moment that Herok could make good on his promises. There was the question of the unspoken price for this considerable favour, but that was a concern for a later time. Right now there was work to do.
“The Office of Titles hereby appoints as Administrator Sir Beyda Aldus Chur of Deremar.”
Bey endured the gasps of surprise and outrage (and one delighted, salacious giggle) with modesty. Soon it would be time for some sort of speech to mark this “period of mourning and transition”, in which he would need to quickly establish his authority and demonstrate the wealth of experience described in his fraudulent credentials.
In the meantime, he made a mental note to find out where Deremar was.