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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. “I have never been robbed in Tal Verrar before, but I’m just hungry enough to allow you the honor.” 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. “I had a bit 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?”
    “I 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, baldheaded man with the coffee-colored 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 gray rock scorpion. Can you be Karthani? Camorri?”
    “Talishani,” said Jean. “These are gray 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 gray rock scorpion is a complex thing. First there is pain, sharp and hot, as you might expect. But after a few minutes, there is