The Lies of Locke Lamora

by Scott Lynch

  Locke sighed with relief. “Thank you, Doña Vorchenza. Now-my elevator?”

  “Your elevator, Master Thorn.” She actually ground her teeth together for a second. “As promised. I’ll have one made ready for you without delay. If the gods should give you Capa Raza before my men find him…may they give you strength.”

  “I’m going to miss you, Doña Vorchenza,” said Locke. “And you as well, my lord and lady Salvara-all apologies for getting most of your fortune buried under shit. I hope we can still be friends.”

  “Set foot in our house again,” said Sofia, “and you’ll become a permanent fixture in my laboratory.”

  7

  BLUE LIGHT flashed from the embarkation platform of Raven’s Reach; even against the shifting glimmer of Falselight, it stood out well enough to be seen at the relay station atop the Palace of Patience. In moments, shutters were falling rapidly open and closed over signal lanterns; the message passed through the air over the heads of thousands of revelers and arrived at its destinations-the Arsenal, the South Needle, the Dregs.

  “Holy mother of shit,” said the watch-sergeant in the tower at the very tip of the South Needle, blinking to clear his eyes, wondering if he’d counted the signal flashes right. He slipped his illicit Day of Changes wineskin beneath his chair with pangs of guilt.

  “Watch-sergeant,” said his younger companion, “that ship’s up to something awful funny.”

  Out on the water of Old Harbor, the Satisfaction was slowly turning to larboard; sailors could just barely be seen atop the yards of the main and foremasts, preparing to unfurl topsails. Dozens of small dark shapes were moving on deck, doubly lit by the glow of yellow lamps and the glare of Falselight.

  “She’s casting, sir. She’s going to make for sea-where’d all those people come from?” said the younger watchman.

  “I don’t know,” said the sergeant, “but the signal’s just gone up. Merciful gods, they’re going to sink that yellow-lit bitch.”

  Pinpoints of bright orange light began to erupt around the periphery of the Dregs; each little engine-tower had emergency oil lamps that served to signal when they were both manned and ready for action. Drums beat within the Arsenal, and whistles sounded from across the city, above the low echoing murmur of the Day of Changes crowds.

  One of the engines on the Dregs’ shore loosed with an echoing crash. The stone was a blurred shadow in the air; it missed by yards and raised a white fountain on the frigate’s starboard side.

  The next engine to let fly hurled an arc of orange-white fire that seemed to hang in the sky, a hypnotic banner of burning light. The South Needle watchmen stared in awe as it crashed down onto the Satisfaction’s deck, spraying hot tendrils in every direction. Men ran frantically about on the deck, some of them obviously on fire. One leapt from the vessel’s side, plunging into the water like a burning cinder thrown into a puddle.

  “Gods, that’s fire-oil,” said the younger watchman. “It won’t stop burning even down there.”

  “Well, even sharks like cooked meat,” said the sergeant with a chuckle. “Poor bastards.”

  A stone crashed against the side of the frigate, shattering wooden rails and sending splinters flying. Men whirled and screamed and fell to the deck; the fire was rising into the sails and rigging, despite the frantic efforts of the Satisfaction’s crew to control it with sand. Another fire-barrel exploded against the quarterdeck; the men and women at the wheel were engulfed in a roaring nimbus of white flame. They didn’t even have time to scream.

  Stones battered the ship and tore through her few fluttering sails; fires burned out of control at her bow, her stern, and amidships. Fingers of orange and red and white capered about the decks and rose into the sky, along with smoke in several colors. Under the arc of a dozen throwing-engines, the unarmed and nearly motionless frigate never had a chance. Five minutes after the signal had flashed forth from Raven’s Reach, the Satisfaction was a pyre-a mountain of red-and-white flame reaching up from the water that rippled like a red mirror beneath the dying ship’s hull.

  Archers took up position on the shore, ready to shoot down any survivors who tried to swim for it, but there were none. Between the fire and the water and the things that lurked in the harbor’s depths, arrows were unnecessary.

  8

  LUCIANO ANATOLIUS, the Gray King, the Capa of Camorr, the last living member of his family line, stood alone on the upper deck of the Floating Grave, beneath the silk awnings that fluttered in the Hangman’s Wind, beneath the dark sky that reflected the eerie waver of Falselight, and watched his ship burn.

  He stared into the west with the red fire rippling in his eyes, and he did not blink; he stared north, to the glowing tower of Raven’s Reach, where flashing blue and red lights could be seen, where no cloud of pale white smoke was rising against the sky.

  He stood alone on the deck of the Floating Grave, and he did not cry, though in his heart he desired nothing more at that moment.

  Cheryn and Raiza would not have cried. Mother and Father would not have cried. They had not cried, when Barsavi’s men had kicked in their door in the middle of the night, when his father had died trying to defend them all long enough for Gisella to bundle him and the little twins out the back door.

  The Satisfaction burned before his eyes, but in his mind he was running through the darkness of the gardens once again, thirteen years old, stumbling over familiar paths with branches lashing his face and hot tears streaming down his cheeks. In the villa behind them, knives were rising and falling; a small child was crying for her mother-and then that crying suddenly stopped.

  “We’ll never forget,” Raiza had said, in the dark hold of the ship that had carried them to Talisham. “We’ll never forget, will we, Luciano?”

  Her little hand had curled tight inside his; Cheryn slept uneasily against his other side, murmuring and crying out in her sleep.

  “We’ll never forget,” he’d replied. “And we’ll go back. I promise you, someday we’ll go back.”

  He stood on the deck of Barsavi’s fortress, in Camorr, and he had the power to do exactly nothing as his ship turned the waters of Old Harbor bloodred with its death.

  “Capa Raza?”

  There was a hesitant voice behind him; a man came up through the passage from the galleries below. One of the Rum Hounds, from the extravagant gambling circle that had grown in his throne room. He turned slowly.

  “Capa Raza, this just got brought in…one of the Falselight Cutters, Your Honor. Says a man in Ashfall gave him a tyrin and told him to get this to you right away.”

  The man held out a burlap sack; RAZA was scrawled on it in rough black letters-the ink still seemed to be wet.

  Luciano took the bag and waved the man away; the Rum Hound ran for the passage and vanished down it, not at all pleased with what he’d seen in his master’s eyes.

  The Capa of Camorr opened the bag and found himself staring down at the body of a scorpion hawk-a headless scorpion hawk. He turned the bag upside down and let the contents fall to the deck; the head and the body of Vestris bounced against the wooden planks. A folded, bloodstained piece of parchment fluttered down after them. He grabbed at it and opened it:

  WE’RE COMING.

  Luciano stared down at the note for an unknown interval of time. It might have been five seconds; it might have been five minutes. Then he crumpled it in his hands and let it fall. It hit the deck and rolled to a rest beside Vestris’ glassy, staring eyes.

  If they were coming, they were coming. There would be time enough for escape when this last personal debt was discharged.

  He went down the passage to the gallery below, into the light and the noise of the ongoing party. The smell of smoke and liquor hung in the air; his booted feet made the boards creak as he hurried down the stairs.

  Men and women looked up from their cards and dice as he stalked past. Some waved and shouted greetings or honorifics; none of them received any response. Capa Raza threw open the door to his private
suite of apartments (formerly Barsavi’s) and vanished inside for several minutes.

  When he emerged, he was dressed as the Gray King, in his old fog-gray leather vest and breeches, in his gray sharkskin boots with the tarnished silver buckles, in his gray swordsman’s gloves creased at the knuckles from use, in his gray cloak and mantle with the hood raised. His cloak fluttered behind him as he moved forward; the lights of the Floating Grave gleamed on the naked steel of his drawn rapier.

  The party died in an instant.

  “Get out,” he said. “Get out and stay away. Leave the doors open. No guards. Get out while I’ll still give you the chance.”

  Cards spiraled down to the deck; dice rattled across the wood. Men and women jumped to their feet, dragging drunk comrades with them. Bottles rolled and wine pooled as the general retreat progressed. In less than a minute, the Gray King stood alone at the heart of the Floating Grave.

  He strolled slowly over to a bank of silver cords that hung down from the ceiling on the starboard side of the old galleon. He pulled on one and the white lights of the chandeliers died; he pulled another and the curtains over the room’s tall windows were pulled back, opening the throne room to the night. A tug on a third cord, and red alchemical globes came to life in dark niches on the walls; the heart of the wooden fortress became a cave of carmine light.

  He sat upon his throne with the rapier balanced across his legs, and the red light made fires of his eyes within the shadowed hood.

  He sat upon his throne and waited for the last two Gentlemen Bastards to find him.

  9

  AT HALF past the tenth hour of the evening, Locke Lamora entered that throne room and stood with one hand on his rapier, staring at the Gray King, seated thirty yards away in his silent audience chamber. Locke was breathing hard, and not merely from his journey south; he’d covered most of the distance on a stolen horse.

  The feel of the hilt of Reynart’s blade beneath his hand was at once exhilarating and terrifying. He knew he was probably at a disadvantage in a straightforward fight, but his blood was up. He dared to imagine that anger and speed and hope could sustain him for what was coming. He cleared his throat.

  “Gray King,” he said.

  “Thorn of Camorr.”

  “I’m pleased,” said Locke. “I thought you might have left already. But I’m sorry…you needed that frigate, didn’t you? I had my good friend, the Countess Amberglass, send it to the bottom of the fucking bay.”

  “That deed,” said the Gray King in a weary voice, “will lose its savor in a few minutes, I assure you. Where’s Jean Tannen?”

  “On his way,” said Locke. “On his way.”

  Locke walked forward slowly, cutting the distance between them in half.

  “I warned the Falconer not to toy with Tannen,” said the Gray King. “Apparently, my warning wasn’t heeded. I congratulate you both for your improbable resilience, but now I fear I’ll be doing you a favor by killing you before the Bondsmagi can take their revenge.”

  “You’re assuming the Falconer is dead,” said Locke. “He’s still breathing, but he’ll, ah, never play any musical instruments again.”

  “Interesting. How have you done all this, I wonder? Why does the Death Goddess scorn to snuff you like a candle? I wish I knew.”

  “Fuck your wishes. Why did you do it the way you did, Luciano? Why didn’t you try for an honest accommodation with us? One might have been reached.”

  “Might,” said the Gray King. “There was no room for ‘might,’ Lamora. There were only my needs. You had what I needed, and you were too dangerous to let live once I had it. You’ve made that only too clear.”

  “But you could have settled for simple theft,” said Locke. “I would have given it all to keep Calo and Galdo and Bug alive. I would have given it all, had you put it to me like that!”

  “What thief does not fight to hold what he has?”

  “One that has something better,” said Locke. “The stealing was more the point for us than the keeping; if the keeping had been so fine, we would have found something to fucking do with it all.”

  “Easy to say, in hindsight.” The Gray King sighed. “You would have said something different, when they were still alive.”

  “We stole from the peers, you asshole. We stole from them exclusively. Of all the people to double-cross…You aided the nobility when you tried to wipe us out. You gave the people you hate a gods-damned gift.”

  “So you relieved them of their money, Master Lamora, scrupulously refraining from taking lives in the process… Should I applaud? Name you a brother-in-arms? There’s always more money, Lamora. Theft alone would not teach them the lesson they had coming.”

  “How could you do it, Luciano? How could a man who lost what you lost, who felt what you felt for Barsavi do the same to me?”

  “The same?” The Gray King leapt up; the rapier was in his hand. “The same? Were your parents murdered in their beds to protect a lie, Master Lamora? Were your infant siblings put to the knife so they could never grow old enough to revenge? Thief! You don’t know what crime truly is.”

  “I lost three brothers at your hands,” said Locke. “I almost lost four. You didn’t need to do it. When you thought you were finished with me, you tried to kill hundreds. Children, Luciano, children-born years after Barsavi murdered your parents. It must be nice to be righteous; from where I’m standing it looks like fucking lunacy.”

  “They were sheltered by the Secret Peace,” said the Gray King. “They were parasites, guilty by birth. Save your arguments, Priest. Don’t you think I’ve had them with myself on too many nights to count over the past twenty-two fucking years?”

  The Gray King took a step forward, the tip of his blade rising in Locke’s direction.

  “If it were in my power,” he said, “I would knock this city to the ground and write the names of my family in its ashes.”

  “Ila justicca vei cala,” Locke whispered. He stepped forward once again, until they were separated by barely two yards. He slid Reynart’s rapier out of its scabbard and stood at guard.

  “Justice is red.” The Gray King faced Locke with his knees bent, the true edge of his rapier facing the ground, in the position Camorri fencers called the waiting wolf. “It is indeed.”

  Locke struck out before the Gray King had finished speaking; for an eyeblink darting steel cut an afterimage in the air between the two men. The Gray King parried Locke’s thrust, forte to foible, and riposted with speed more than equal to Locke’s own. Lamora avoided a skewering only by an undignified backward lunge; he landed in a crouch with his left hand splayed out to keep himself from going ass-over-elbows on the hard wood of the deck.

  Warily, Locke circled in the direction the lunge had knocked him, barely rising from his crouch. A dagger appeared in his left hand as though by legerdemain; this he twirled several times.

  “Hmm,” said the Gray King. “Tell me you don’t mean to fight Verrari-style. I find the school insipid.”

  “Please yourself.” Locke wiggled his dagger suggestively. “I’ll try not to get too much blood on your cloak.”

  Sighing theatrically, the Gray King plucked one of two narrow-hilted daggers from his own belt, and held it out so that his blades opened in the air before him like jaws. He then took two exaggerated hops forward.

  Locke flicked his gaze down to the Gray King’s feet for a fraction of a second, realizing almost too late that he was intended to do just that. He whipped himself to his right and barely managed a parry with his dagger; the Gray King’s thrust slid off and cut the air just an inch from his left shoulder. His own riposte met the Gray King’s dagger as though intended for it. Again, Anatolius was too fast by half.

  For a few desperate seconds, the two men were fully engaged. Their blades wove silver ghosts in the air-crossing and uncrossing, feint and false feint, thrust and parry. Locke remained just out of reach of the Gray King’s longer, more muscular cuts while the Gray King caught and turned Locke’s every
lunge with easy precision. At last they flew apart and stood panting, staring at one another with the resigned, implacable hatred of fighting dogs.

  “Hmmm,” said the Gray King, “an illuminating passage.”

  He flicked out almost casually with his rapier; Locke darted back once again and parried feebly, tip to tip, like a boy in his first week of training. The Gray King’s eyes glittered.

  “Most illuminating.” Again, a casual flick; again, Locke jumped back.

  “You’re not actually very good at this, are you?”

  “It would be to my advantage if you thought so, wouldn’t it?”

  At this the Gray King actually laughed. “Oh, no. No, no, no.” With one decisive gesture, he flung his cloak and mantle to the ground. A wild grin had etched deep furrows of anticipation into his lean face. “No more bluffs. No more games.”

  And then he fell on Locke, his footwork a blur, his brutality unmatched by anything in Locke’s memory. Behind his blade, there were twenty years of experience and twenty years of blackest hatred. Some tiny, detached part of Locke’s mind cooly registered his own inadequacy as he desperately flailed parry after parry, chasing phantom thrusts with his eyes and hands even while the Gray King’s steel was punching through cloth and flesh.

  Once, twice, three times-in between breaths, the Gray King’s blade sang out and bit Locke’s left wrist, forearm, and biceps.

  Cold surprise hit Locke harder than the pain of the thrusts; then the warm blood began to flow across his sweat-slick skin, tickling devilishly, and a wave of nausea rose up from the pit of his stomach. The dagger dropped from his left hand, red with the wrong man’s blood.

  “At last we come to something you cannot pretend your way out of, Master Lamora.” The Gray King flicked Locke’s blood from the tip of his rapier and watched it splash against the wooden deck in an arc. “Goodbye.”