"The master artists patronized by the last court of the Therin Throne had a secret means to distinguish their works from those produced by artists serving lesser patrons. A fact not known outside the Emperor's court until years after it fell. In their paintings, Talathri's chosen masters and their associates would deliberately create a very slight visual flaw in one corner of the work, by using brush strokes whose size and direction jarred with those immediately surrounding them. The imperfection that proclaims perfection, as it were. Like the beauty-mark some Vadrans favour for their ladies." "And you can tell this at a glance?"

"I can tell well enough when I find no hint of it anywhere, on any of these ten works." "Damnation," said Locke.

"It suggests to me," said Krell, "that the artist who created these — or their employer — so genuinely admired the original works that they refused to counterfeit their hidden marks of distinction." "Well, that's very heart-warming."

"I can tell you require further proof, Master Fehrwight, and fortunately what remains is even clearer. First, the brightness of these pigments is impossible, given the state of alchemy four hundred years ago. The vibrancy of these hues bespeaks a contemporary origin. Lastly, and most damningly, there is no veneer of age upon these works. No fine cracks in the pigment, no discoloration from mould or sunlight, no intrusion of smoke into the overlying lacquers. The flesh of these works, as it were, is as distinct from the genuine article as my face would be from that of a ten-year-old boy" Krell smiled sadly. "I have aged to a fine old state. These have not." "So what does this mean for our arrangement?"

"I am aware," said Krell, settling into the chair behind his desk and setting the painting down, "that you must have undergone extraordinary hardship in securing even these facsimiles from the… gentleman in Tal Verrar. You have my thanks, and my admiration." Jean snorted and stared at the wall.

"Your thanks," said Locke, "and your admiration, however well meant—"

"Are not legal tender," said Rrell. "I'm not a simpleton, Master Fehrwight. For these ten paintings, I can still offer you two thousand solari."

"Two?" Locke clutched the armrests of his chair and leaned forward. "The sum we originally discussed was fifty thousand, Master Rrell!"

"And for originals," said Rrell, T would gladly have paid that original sum; for genuine artefacts of the Last Flowering, I would have had buyers in distant locations completely unconcerned with the… potential displeasure of the gentleman in Tal Verrar."

"Two," muttered Locke. "Gods, we left more than that sitting at the Sinspire. Two thousand solari for two years, is what you're offering us."

"No." Rrell steepled his spindly fingers. "Two thousand solari for ten paintings. However much I regret what you might have endured to recover these objects, there were no hardship clauses in our agreement. I am paying for goods, not the process required to retrieve them." "Three thousand," said Locke.

"Twenty-five hundred," said Rrell, "and not a centira more. I can find buyers for these; each of them is still a unique object worth hundreds of solari, and well worth possessing or displaying. If pressed, after time passes, I can even attempt to sell them back to the gentleman in Tal Verrar, claiming that I procured them in some distant city. I don't doubt that he would be generous. But if you don't wish to accept my price… you are free to take them to a market square, or a tavern, perhaps." "Twenty-five hundred," said Locke. "Damn it all to hell."

"so I suspect we shall be, Master Fehrwight, in our own good time. But now I'd like a decision. Do you accept the offer?"

2

"Twenty-five hundred," said Locke for the fifteenth time as their carriage rattled toward Vel Virazzo's marina. T don't fucking believe it." "It's more than a lot of people have, I suppose," muttered Jean.

"But it's not what I promised," said Locke. "I'm sorry, Jean. I fucked up again. Tens of thousands, I said. Huge score. Put us back at the top of our games. Lashani noblemen. Gods above." He put his head in his hands. "Crooked Warden, why the hell do you ever listen to me?" "It wasn't your fault," said Jean. "We did pull it off. We did get out with everything we planned. It's just… it was the wrong everything. There was no way we could know." "shit," said Locke.

Their carriage slowed, then creaked to a halt. There was a clatter and a scrape as their footman placed a wooden step, and then the door opened into daylight. The smell of the sea flooded into the compartment, along with the sound of crying gulls.

"Do you still… want to do this?" Locke bit his lip at Jean's lack of reaction. "I know… that she was meant to be here with us. We can just forget about it, leave it where it is, take carriages—"

"It's fine," said Jean. He pointed at the burlap bag on the seat beside Locke. The bag was undulating, as if possessed by a motive force within itself. "Besides, we went to the trouble of bringing a cat this time."

"I suppose we did." Locke poked the bag and smiled thinly at the resulting attack from inside. "But still, you—" Jean was already rising to leave the carriage.

3

"Master Fehrwight! So pleased to finally make your acquaintance. And yours as well, Master—"

"Callas," said Locke. "Tavrin Callas. Forgive my friend, he's had a trying day. I'll conduct our business."

"Of course," said the master of Vel Virazzo's private yacht harbour. Here the pleasure-barges and day-sailing vessels of Vel Virazzo's notable families — who could be counted on two hands without using all the available fingers — were kept under constant guard.

The harbourmaster led them to the end of one of his docks, where a sleek one-masted sailing vessel rocked gently on the swells. Forty feet long, lacquered teak and witchwood, trimmed with brass and silver. Her rigging was the finest new demi-silk, and her furled sails were the white of clean beach sand.

"Everything prepared according to your letters, Master Fehrwight," said the harbourmaster. "I apologize for the fact that it required four days rather than three—"

"No matter," said Locke. He passed over a leather satchel containing solari he'd counted out in the carriage. "Balance of payment, in full, and the promised three-day bonus, for your work party. I" ve no reason to be stingy."

"You are entirely too kind," said the harbourmaster, bowing as he accepted the heavy purse. Nearly eight hundred solari gone already. "And the provisions?" asked Locke.

"Complete as specified," said the harbourmaster. "Rations and water for a week. The wines, the oilcloaks and other emergency gear — all there, and checked by myself." "Our dinner?"

"Coming," said the harbourmaster, "coming. I expected a runner several minutes ago. Wait — here's the boy now."

Locke glanced back toward their carriage. A small boy had just appeared from behind it, jogging with a covered basket larger than his chest cradled in his arms. Locke smiled.

"Our dinner concludes our business," he said as the boy approached and handed the basket up to Jean. "Very good, Mater Fehrwight. Tell me, will you be putting out—"

"Immediately," said Locke. "We have… a great many things to leave behind." "Will you require assistance?"

"We had expected a third," said Locke quietly. "But the two of us will suffice." He stared at their new boat, at the once-alien arrangement of sails, rigging, mast, tiller. "We're always sufficient."

It took them less than five minutes to load the boat with their baggage from the carriage; they had little to speak of. A few spare clothes, work tunics and breeches, weapons and their little kit of thieves" conveniences.