The Gentleman Bastard Series (103 page)

The door swung inward immediately; a wiry man of about fifty peered out at Locke through round optics. He wore a simple cotton tunic cinched up above his elbows, revealing guild tattoos in faded green and black on his lean forearms, and a long leather apron with at least six visible pockets on the front. Most of them held tools; one held a gray kitten, with only its little head visible.

“Master Fehrwight? Mordavi Fehrwight?”

“So pleased you could make the time for me,” began Locke. He spoke with a faint Vadran accent, just enough to suggest an origin in the far north. He’d decided to be lazy, and let this Fehrwight be as fluent in Therin as possible. Locke stretched out his right hand to shake. In his left he carried a black leather satchel with an iron lock upon its flap. “Master Baumondain, I presume?”

“None other. Come in directly, sir, out of the rain. Will you take coffee? Allow me to trade you a cup for your coat.”

“With pleasure.” The foyer of the Baumondain shop was a high, cozily paneled room lit with little golden lanterns in wall sconces. A counter with one swinging door ran across the rear of the room, and behind it Locke could see shelves piled high with samples of wood, cloth, wax, and oils in glass jars. The placed smelled of sanded wood, a sharp and pleasant tang. There was a little sitting area before the counter, where two superbly wrought chairs with black velvet cushions stood upon a floor tapestry.

Locke set his satchel at his feet, turned to allow Baumondain to help him shrug out of his damp black coat, picked up his satchel once again, and settled himself in the chair nearest to the door. The carpenter hung Locke’s coat on a brass hook on the wall. “Just a moment, if you please,” he said, and went behind the counter. From his new vantage point, Locke could see that a canvas-covered door led from behind the counter to what he presumed must be the workshop. Baumondain pushed the canvas flap aside and yelled, “Lauris! The coffee!”

Some muffled reply that he evidently found satisfactory came back to him from the workshop, and he hurried around the counter to take his place in the chair across from Locke, crinkling his seamy face into a welcoming smile. A few moments later, the canvas flew aside once again and out from the workshop came a freckled girl of fifteen or sixteen years, chestnut-haired, slim in the manner of her father but more firmly muscled about the arms and shoulders. She carried a wooden tray before her set with cups and silver pots, and when she stepped through the door in the counter Locke saw the tray had legs like a very short table.

She placed the coffee service between Locke and her father, just to the side, and gave Locke a respectful nod.

“My oldest daughter, Lauris,” said Master Baumondain. “Lauris, this is Master Fehrwight, of the House of bel Sarethon, from Emberlain.”

“Charmed,” said Locke. Lauris was close enough for him to see that her hair was full of curly little wood shavings.

“Your servant, Master Fehrwight.” Lauris nodded again, prepared to withdraw, and then caught sight of the gray kitten sticking out of her father’s apron pocket. “Father, you’ve forgotten Lively. Surely you didn’t mean to have him sit in on the coffee?”

“Have I? Oh, dear, I see that I have.” Baumondain reached down and eased the kitten out of his apron. Locke was astonished to see how limply it hung in his hands, with its legs and tail drooping and its little head lolling; what self-respecting cat would sleep while plucked up and carried through the air? Then Locke saw the answer, as Lauris took Lively in her own hands and turned to go. The kitten’s little eyes were wide open, and stark white.

“That creature was Gentled,” said Locke in a low voice when Lauris had returned to the workshop.

“I’m afraid so,” said the carpenter.

“I’ve never seen such a thing. What purpose does it serve, in a cat?”

“None, Master Fehrwight, none.” Baumondain’s smile was gone, replaced by a wary and uncomfortable expression. “And it certainly wasn’t my doing. My youngest daughter, Parnella, found him abandoned behind the Villa Verdante.” Baumondain referred to the huge luxury inn where the intermediate class of Salon Corbeau’s visitors stayed, the wealthy who were not private guests of the Lady Saljesca. Locke himself was rooming there.

“Damned strange.”

“We call him Lively, as a sort of jest, though he does little. He must be coaxed to eat, and prodded to … to excrete, you see. Parnella thought it would be kinder to smash his skull, but Lauris would not hear of it and so I could not refuse. You must think me weak and doting.”

“Not at all,” said Locke, shaking his head. “The world is cruel enough without our compounding it; I approve. I meant that it was damned strange that anyone should do such a thing at all.”

“Master Fehrwight.” The carpenter licked his lips nervously. “You seem a humane man, and you must understand … our position here brings us a steady and lucrative business. My daughters will have quite an inheritance, when I turn this shop over to them. There are … there are things about
Salon Corbeau, things that go on, that we artisans … do not pry into.
Must
not. If you take my meaning.”

“I do,” said Locke, eager to keep the man in a good humor. However, he made a mental note to perhaps poke around in pursuit of whatever was disturbing the carpenter. “I do indeed. So let us speak no more of the matter, and instead look to business.”

“Most kind,” said Baumondain, with obvious relief. “How do you take your coffee? I have honey and cream.”

“Honey, please.”

Baumondain poured steaming coffee from the silver pot into a thick glass cup, and spooned in honey until Locke nodded. Locke sipped at his cup while Baumondain bombarded his own with enough cream to turn it leather brown. It was quality brew, rich and very hot.

“My compliments,” Locke mumbled over a slightly scalded tongue.

“It’s from Issara. Lady Saljesca’s household has an endless thirst for the stuff,” said the carpenter. “The rest of us buy pecks and pinches from her sellers when they come around. Now, your messenger said that you wished to discuss a commission that was, in her words, very
particular
.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Locke. “Particular, to a design and an end that may strike you as eccentric. I assure you I am in grave earnest.”

Locke set down his coffee and lifted his satchel into his lap, then pulled a small key from his waistcoat pocket to open the lock. He reached inside and drew out a few pieces of folded parchment.

“You must be familiar,” Locke continued, “with the style of the last few years of the Therin Throne? The very last few, just before Talathri died in battle against the Bondsmagi?” He passed over one of his sheets of parchment, which Baumondain removed his optics to examine.

“Oh, yes,” the carpenter said slowly. “The Talathri Baroque, also called the Last Flowering. Yes, I’ve done pieces in this fashion before.… Lauris has as well. You have an interest in this style?”

“I require a suite of chairs,” said Locke. “Four of them, leather-backed, lacquered shear-crescent with real gold insets.”

“Shear-crescent is a somewhat delicate wood, fit only for occasional use. For more regular sitting I’m sure you’d want witchwood.”

“My master,” said Locke, “has very exact tastes, however peculiar. He insisted upon shear-crescent, several times, to ensure that his wishes were clear.”

“Well, if you wished them carved from marzipan, I suppose I should have to do it … with the clear understanding, of course, that I did warn you against hard use.”

“Naturally. I assure you, Master Baumondain, you won’t be held liable for anything that happens to these chairs after they leave your workshop.”

“Oh, I would never do less than vouch for our work, but I cannot make a soft wood hard, Master Fehrwight. Well, then, I do have some books with excellent illustrations of this style. Your artist has done well to start with, but I’d like to give you more variety to choose from.…”

“By all means,” said Locke, and he sipped his coffee contentedly as the carpenter rose and returned to the workshop door. “Lauris,” Baumondain cried, “my three volumes of Velonetta.… Yes, those.”

He returned a moment later cradling three heavy, leather-bound tomes that smelled of age and some spicy alchemical preservative. “Velonetta,” he said as he settled the books on his lap. “You are familiar with her? No? She was the foremost scholar of the Last Flowering. There are only six sets of her work in all the world, as far as I know. Most of these pages are on sculpture, painting, music, alchemy … but there are fine passages on furniture, gems worth mining. If you please …”

They spent half an hour poring over the sketches Locke had provided and the pages Baumondain wished to show him. Together, they hammered out an agreeable compromise on the design of the chairs that “Master Fehrwight” would receive. Baumondain fetched a stylus of his own and scrawled notes in an illegible chicken scratch. Locke had never before considered how many details might go into something as straightforward as a chair; by the time they had finished their discussion of legs, bracings, cushion filling, leathers, scrollwork, and joinery, Locke’s brain was in full revolt.

“Excellent, Master Baumondain, excellent,” is nonetheless what he said. “The very thing, in shear-crescent, lacquered black, with gold leaf to gild the incised decorations and the rivets. They must look as though they had been plucked from Emperor Talathri’s court just yesterday, new and unburnt.”

“Ah,” said the carpenter, “a delicate subject arises, then. Without meaning to give the slightest offense, I must make it clear that these will never pass for originals. They will be exact reconstructions of the style, perfect facsimiles, of a quality to match
any
furnishings in the world—but an expert could tell. They are few, and far between, but such a one would never confuse a brilliant reconstruction for even a modest original. They have had centuries to weather; these will be plainly new.”

“I take your meaning, Master Baumondain. Never fear; I am ordering these for eccentric purposes, not for deceptive ones. These chairs will never be alleged to be originals, on my word. And the man who will receive them
is
such an expert, in fact.”

“Very good, then, very good. Is there anything else?”

“Yes,” said Locke, who had withheld two sketch-covered sheets of parchment and passed them over. “Now that we’ve settled on a design for the suite of chairs, this—or something very much like it, subject to your more expert adjustments—
must
be included in the plans.”

As Baumondain absorbed the implications of the sketches, his eyebrows rose steadily, until it seemed that they were being drawn up to the fullest possible extent of his forehead’s suppleness, and must be flung back down to the floor like crossbow bolts when they reached their zenith.

“This is a prodigious curiosity,” he said at last. “A very strange thing to incorporate.… I’m not at all sure—”

“It is essential,” said Locke. “That, or something very much like it, within the bounds of your own discretion. It is absolutely necessary. My master simply will not place an order for the chairs unless these features are built into them. Cost is no object.”

“It’s possible,” said the carpenter after a few seconds of further contemplation. “Possible, with some adjustments to these designs. I believe I see your intention, but I can improve upon this scheme … must, if the chairs are to function as chairs. May I ask why this is necessary?”

“My master is a dear old fellow, but as you must have gathered, quite eccentric, and morbidly afraid of fire. He fears to be trapped in his study or his library tower by flames. Surely you can see how these mechanisms might help set his mind at ease?”

“I suppose I can,” muttered Baumondain, his puzzled reluctance turning to interest in a professional challenge as he spoke.

After that, it was merely a matter of haggling, however politely, over finer and finer details, until Locke was finally able to coax a suggested price out of Baumondain.

“What coin would you wish to settle in, Master Fehrwight?”

“I presumed solari would be convenient.”

“Shall we say … six solari per chair?” Baumondain spoke with feigned nonchalance; that was a cheeky initial offer, even for luxury craftsmanship. Locke would be expected to haggle it down. Instead, he smiled and nodded.

“If six per chair is what you require, then six you will have.”

“Oh,” said Baumondain, almost too surprised to be pleased. “Oh. Well then! I should be only too happy to accept your note.”

“While that would be fine in ordinary circumstances, let’s do something more convenient for both of us.” Locke reached inside the satchel and drew out a coin purse, from which he counted twenty-four gold solari onto
the little coffee table while Baumondain watched with growing excitement. “There you are, in advance. I prefer to carry hard coinage when I come to Salon Corbeau. This little city needs a moneylender.”

“Well, thank you, Master Fehrwight, thank you! I didn’t expect … well, let me get a work order and some papers for you to take with you, and we’ll be set.”

“Now, let me ask—do you have all the materials you need for my master’s order?”

“Oh yes! I know that off the top of my head.”

“Warehoused here, at your shop?”

“Yes indeed, Master Fehrwight.”

“About how long might I expect the construction to take?”

“Hmmm … given my other duties, and your requirements … six weeks, possibly seven. Will you be returning for them yourself, or will we need to arrange shipping?”

“In that, too, I was hoping for something a little more convenient.”

“Ah, well … you having been so very civil, I’m sure I could shift my schedule. Five weeks, perhaps?”

“Master Baumondain, if you and your daughters were to work on my master’s order more or less exclusively, starting this afternoon, at your best possible speed … how long then would you say it might take?”

“Oh, Master Fehrwight, Master Fehrwight, you must understand, I have other orders pending, for clients of some standing.
Significant
people, if you take my meaning.”