Tal Verrar was supposedly ruled by the Priori, but in reality a significant degree of power rested in the man who resided in that palace, the city's master of arms. The office of the Archon had been created following Tal Varrar's early disgraces in the Thousand-Day War against Camorr, to take command of the army and navy out of the hands of the bickering merchant councils. But the trouble with creating military dictators, Locke reflected, was getting rid of them after the immediate crisis was past. The first Archon had "declined" retirement, and his successor was, if anything, even more interested in interfering with civic affairs. Outside guarded bastions of frivolity like the Golden Steps and expatriate havens like the Savrola, the disagreements between Archon and Priori kept the city on edge.

"Gentlemen!" came a voice from their left, breaking into Locke's chain of thought. "Honoured sirs. A walk across the Great Gallery cannot possibly be complete without refreshment." Locke and Jean had reached the fringes of the Night Market; there were no other customers in sight, and the faces of at least a dozen merchants stared keenly out at them from within their little circles of fire— or lamplight.

The first Verrari to throw his pitch against the gates of their good judgment was a one-armed man getting on in years, with long white hair braided down to his waist. He waved a wooden ladle at them, indicating four small casks set atop a portable counter not unlike a flat-topped wheelbarrow. "What's your fare?" Locke asked.

"Delicacies from the table of Iono himself, the sweetest taste the sea has to offer. Sharks" eyes in brine, all fresh-plucked. Crisp the shells, soft the humours, sweet the juices."

"Sharks" eyes? Gods, no." Locke grimaced. "Have you more common flesh? Liver? Gills? A gill-pie would be welcome."

"Gills? Sir, gills have none of the virtues of the eyes; it is the eyes that tone the muscles, prevent cholera and firm up a man's mechanisms for certain, ah, marital duties."

"I have no need of any mechanism-firming in that respect," said Locke. "And I'm afraid my stomach is too unsettled for the splendour of sharks" eyes just at the moment."

"A pity, sir. For your sake, I wish I had some bit of gill to offer you, but it's the eyes that I get, and little else. Yet I do have several types — scythe sharks, wolf sharks, blue widower—" "We must pass, friend," said Jean, as he and Locke walked on.

"Fruit, worthy masters?" The next merchant along was a slender young woman comfortably ensconced in a cream-coloured frock coat several sizes too large for her; she also wore a four-cornered hat with a small alchemical globe dangling from it on a chain, hanging down just above her left shoulder. She stood watch over a number of woven baskets. "Alchemical fruit, fresh hybrids. Have you ever seen the Sofia Orange of Camorr? It makes its own liquor, very sweet and powerful."

"We are… acquainted," said Locke. "And more liquor is not what I had in mind. Anything to recommend for an unsettled stomach?"

"Pears, sir. The world would have no unsettled stomachs if only we were all wise enough to eat several every day."

She took up one basket, about half-full, and held it up before him. Locke sifted through the pears, which felt firm and fresh enough, and drew out three. "Five centira," said the fruit-seller. "A full volani?" Locke feigned outrage. "Not if the Archon's favourite f whore held them between her legs and wiggled for me. One centira is too much for the lot."

"One centira wouldn't buy you the stems. At least I won't lose money for four."

"It would be an act of supreme pity," said Locke, "for me to give you two. Fortunately for you I'm brimming with largesse; the bounty is yours."

"Two would be an insult to the men and women who grew those in the hot-glass gardens of the Blackhands Crescent. But surely we can meet at three?"

"Three," said Locke with a smile. T have never been robbed in Tal Verrar before, but I'm just hungry enough to allow you the honour." He passed two of the pears to Jean without looking, while fumbling in one of his coat pockets for copper. When he tossed three coins to the fruit-seller, she nodded. › "A good evening to you, Master Lamora." Locke froze and fixed his eyes on her. "I beg your pardon?" "A good evening to you is all I said, worthy master." "You didn't…" "Didn't what?"

"Ah, nothing." Locke sighed nervously. T had a bit too much to drink, is all. A fair evening to you, as well."

He and Jean strolled away, and Locke took a tentative bite of his pear. It was in a fine state, neither too firm and dry nor too ripe and sticky. "Jean," he said between bites, "did you hear what she said to me, just now?"

"I'm afraid I heard nothing but the death-cry of this unfortunate pear. Listen closely: "Noooo, don't eat me, please, nooo…" Jean had already reduced his first pear to its core; as Locke watched, he popped this into his mouth, crunched it loudly and swallowed it all but for the stem, which he flicked away. "Thirteen Gods," said Locke, "must you do that?" T like the cores," said Jean sulkily. "All the little crunchy bits." "Goats eat the gods-damned crunchy bits." "You're not my mother."

"Well, true. Your mother would be ugly. Oh, don't give me that look. Go on, eat your other core; it's got a nice juicy pear wrapped around it." "What did the woman say?" "She said… oh, gods, she said nothing. I'm tipsy, is all."

"Alchemical lanterns, sirs?" A bearded man held his arm out toward them; at least half a dozen little lanterns in ornamental gilt frames hung from it. "A pair of well-dressed gentlemen should not be without light; only scrubs scuttle about in darkness with no way to see! You'll find no better lanterns in all the Gallery, not by night or day."

Jean waved the man off while he and Locke finished their pears. Locke carelessly tossed his core over his shoulder, while Jean popped his into his mouth, taking pains to ensure that Locke was watching when he did.

"Mmmmmm," he muttered with a half-full mouth, "ambrosial. But you'll never know, you and all your fellow culinary cowards." "Gentlemen. Scorpions?"

That brought Locke and Jean up short. The speaker was a cloaked, bald-headed man with the coffee-coloured skin of an Okanti islander; the man was several thousand miles from home. His well-kept white teeth stood out as he smiled and bowed slightly over his wares. He stood over a dozen small wooden cages; dark shapes could be seen moving about in several of them.

"Scorpions? Real scorpions? Live ones?" Locke bent down to get a better look at the cages, but kept his distance. "What on earth for?"

"Why, you must be fresh visitors here." The man's Therin had a slight accent. "Many on the Sea of Brass are only too familiar with the grey rock scorpion. Can you be Karthani? Camorri?" "Talishani," said Jean. "These are grey rock scorpions, from here?"

"From the mainland," said the merchant. "And their use is primarily, ahh, recreational." "Recreational? Are they pets?"

"Oh no, not really. The sting, you see — the sting of the grey rock scorpion is a complex thing. First there is pain, sharp and hot, as you might expect. But after a few minutes, there is a pleasant numbness, a dreamy sort of fever. It is not unlike some of the powders smoked by Jeremites. After a few stings, a body grows more used to it. The pain lessens and the dreams deepen." "Astonishing!"

"Commonplace," said the merchant. "Quite a few men and women in Tal Verrar keep one close at hand, even if they don't speak of it in public. The effect is as pleasing as liquor, yet ultimately far less costly" "Hmmm." Locke scratched his chin. "Never had to stab myself with f a bottle of wine, though. And this isn't just some ruse, some amusement for visitors who wouldn't know any better?"

The merchant's smile broadened. He extended his right arm and pulled back the sleeve of his cloak; the dark skin of his slender forearm was dotted with little circular scars. "I would never offer a product for which I was not prepared to vouch myself."