Red Seas Under Red Skies gb-2

by Scott Lynch 2007

  The aspirants were marched into the arena by two dozen of Saljesca’s guards, who were armed with curved shields and lacquered wooden sticks. They were robust men and women who moved with the easy assurance of hard experience; even a general uprising of the aspirants would stand no chance against them. The guards lined the aspirants up in their starting positions on the board, forty white “pieces” and forty black “pieces”, with sixteen rows of squares separating each double-ranked army.

  At opposite ends of the stadium were two special gallery boxes, one draped with black silk curtains and the other with white. These boxes were reserved far in advance by a waiting list, much as patrons of a chance-house would lay claim to billiard tables or private rooms at certain hours. Whoever reserved a box gained the right to absolute command of that colour for the duration of a War.

  That morning’s White Warmistress was a young Lashani viscountess whose retinue looked as nervous with the affair as she was enthusiastic; they appeared to be scribbling notes and consulting charts. The Black Warmaster was a middle-aged Iridani with the well-fed, calculating look of a prosperous merchant. He had a young son and daughter with him in his gallery.

  Although the living pieces could be hung (by the agreement of both players) with special tabards that gave them unusual privileges or movement allowances, the rules of this particular Amusement War appeared to be plain Catch-the-Duke with no variations. The controllers began calling orders and the game slowly developed, with white and black pieces trudging nervously toward one another, very gradually closing the distance between the opposing forces. Locke found himself puzzled by the reaction of the stadium crowd.

  There were easily sixty or seventy spectators in the boxes, with twice as many servants, bodyguards, assistants and messengers on hand, not to mention caterers in Saljesca’s livery hurrying to and fro to serve their wants. Their buzz of eager anticipation seemed totally incongruous given the plodding nature of the contest shaping up on the squares.

  “What,” Locke muttered to himself in Vadran, “is so damn fascinating?”

  Then the first piece was taken, and the Demons came out to the arena floor.

  The White Warmistress deliberately placed one of her “pieces”, a middle-aged man, in harm’s way. More of her army lurked behind him in an obvious trap, but the Black Warmaster apparently decided it was a worthwhile exchange. Under the shouted orders of the Black Adjutant, a teenaged girl in black stepped from a diagonal square and touched the middle-aged man on the shoulder. He hung his head, and the appreciative clapping of the crowd was drowned out a moment later by a wild shrieking that arose from the far left side of Locke’s view of the stadium.

  Six men ran onto the arena floor from a side portal, dressed in elaborate leather costumes with black and orange fluting; their faces were covered with grotesque flame-orange masks trailing wild manes of black hair. They threw their arms in the air, screaming and hollering meaninglessly, and the crowd cheered back as they ran across the arena toward the cringing man in white. The Demons seized him by the arms and by the hair; he was thrust, sobbing, to the side of the game board and exhibited to the crowd like a sacrificial animal. One of the Demons, a man with a booming voice, pointed to the Black Warmaster and shouted: “Cry the default!” “I want to cry it,” said the little boy in the merchant’s gallery.

  “We agreed that your sister would go first. Theodora, name the default.” The little girl peered down to the arena floor in concentration, then whispered up to her father. He cleared his throat and shouted, “She wants the guards to beat him with their clubs. On his legs!”

  And so it was: the Demons held the writhing, screaming man with his limbs spread while two guards obligingly laid into him. The fall of their sticks echoed across the arena; they thoroughly bruised his thighs, shins and calves until the chief Demon waved his hands to clear them off. The audience applauded politely (though not with particular enthusiasm, noted Locke), and the Demons hauled the quivering, bleeding man off the stadium floor.

  They came back soon enough; one of the Whites removed a Black on the next move. “Cry the default!” echoed once again across the arena.

  “I’ll sell the right for five solari,” shouted the Lashani viscountess. “First taker.”

  “I’ll pay it,” cried an old man in the stands, dressed in layers of velvet and cloth-of-gold. The chief Demon pointed up at him and he beckoned to a frock-coated attendant standing just behind him. The attendant threw a purse down to one of Saljesca’s guards, who carried it over to the White Warmistress’s side of the field and threw it into her gallery. The Demons then hauled the young woman in black over for the old man’s examination. After a moment of exaggerated contemplation, he shouted: “Get rid of her dress!”

  The young woman’s black tabard and dirty cotton dress were ripped apart by the grasping hands of the Demons; in seconds, she was naked. She seemed determined to give less of a demonstration than the man who’d gone before; she glared stonily up at the old man, be he minor lord or merchant prince, and said nothing. “Is that all?” cried the chief Demon. “Oh no,” said the old man. “Get rid of her hair, too!” The crowd burst into applause and cheers at that, and the woman betrayed real fear for the first time. She had a thick mane of glossy black hair down to the small of her back, something to be proud of even among the penniless — perhaps all she had to be proud of in the world. The chief Demon played to the crowd, hoisting a gleaming, crooked dagger over his head and howling with glee. The woman attempted to struggle against the five pairs of arms that held her, to no avail. Swiftly, painfully, the chief Demon slashed at her long black locks — they fluttered down until the ground was thick with them and the woman’s scalp was covered with nothing but a chopped, irregular stubble. Trickles of blood ran down her face and neck as she was dragged, too numb for further struggle, out of the arena.

  So it went, as Locke watched in growing unease, as the pitiless sun crept across the sky and the shadows shortened. The living pieces moved on the gleaming-hot squares, without water and without relief, until they were taken from the board and subjected to a default of the opposing Warmaster’s choosing. It soon became apparent to Locke that the default could be virtually anything, short of death. The Demons would follow orders with frenzied enthusiasm, playing up each new injury or humiliation for the appreciative crowd.

  Gods, Locke realized, barely any of them are here for the game at all. They” ve only come to see the defaults.

  The rows of armoured guards would dissuade all possibility of refusal or rebellion. Those “pieces” that refused to hurry along to their appointed places, or dared to step off their squares without instructions, were simply beaten until they obeyed. Obey they did, and the cruelty of the defaults did not wane as the game went on.

  “Rotten fruit,” the little boy in the Black Warmaster’s box yelled, and so it was: an elderly woman with a white tabard was thrown against the stadium wall and pelted with apples, pears and tomatoes by four of the Demons. They knocked her off her feet and continued the barrage until the woman was a shuddering heap, curled up beneath her frail arms for protection, and great spatters of sour pulp and juice were dripping from the wall behind her.

  The white player’s retaliation was swift. She took a stocky young man in black colours and for once reserved the choice of default for herself. “We must keep our hostess’s stadium clean. Take him to the wall with the fruit stains,” she shouted, “and let him clean it with his tongue!” The crowd broke into wild applause at that; the man on the arena floor was pushed up to the wall by the chief Demon. “Start licking, scum!”

  His first efforts were half-hearted. Another Demon produced a whip that ended in seven knotted cords and lashed the man across the shoulders, knocking him into the wall hard enough to bloody his nose. “Earn your fucking pay, worm,” screamed the Demon, whipping him once again. “Haven’t you ever had a lady tell you to get down and use your tongue before?”

  The man ran his tongue desperately up and d
own the wall, gagging every few seconds, which would bring another crack of the Demon’s whip. The man was a bleeding, retching nervous wreck by the time he was finally hauled from the arena floor. So it went, all morning long.

  “Gods, why do they bear it? Why do they take this?” Locke stood in the free gallery, alone, staring out at the wealthy and powerful, at their guards and servants, and at the thinning ranks of the living pieces in the game beneath them. He brooded, sweating in his heavy black garments.

  Here were the richest and freest people in the Therin world, those with positions and money but no political duties to constrict them, gathered together to do what law and custom forbade beyond Saljesca’s private fiefdom — to humiliate and brutalize their lessers however they saw fit, for their own gleeful amusement. The arena and the Amusement War itself were obviously just frames. Means to an end.

  There was no order to it, no justice. Gladiators and prisoners fighting before a crowd were there for a reason, risking their fives for glory or paying the price for having been caught. Men and women hung from a gibbets because the Crooked Warden had only so much help to give to the foolish, the slow and the unlucky. But this was wanton. Locke felt his anger growing like a chancre in his guts.

  They had no idea who he was or what he was really capable of. No idea what the Thorn ofCamorr could do to them, unleashed on Salon Corbeau, with Jean to aid him! Given months to plan and observe, the Gentlemen Bastards could take the place apart, find ways to cheat the Amusement War, surely — rob the participants, rob the Lady Saljesca, embarrass and humiliate the bastards, blacken the demi-city’s reputation so thoroughly that nobody would ever want to visit again. But…

  “Crooked Warden,” Locke whispered, “why now? Why show me this now}”

  Jean was waiting for him back in Tal Verrar, and they were already neck-deep in a game that had taken a year to put together. Jean didn’t know anything about what really went on at Salon Corbeau. He would be expecting Locke to return in short order with a set of chairs, so the two of them could carry on with the plan thed’r agreed to, a plan that was already desperately delicate. “Gods damn it,” said Locke. “Gods damn it all to hell.”

  5

  Camorr, years before. The wet, seeping mists enclosed Locke and Father Chains in curtains of midnight grey as the old man led the boy back home from his first meeting with Capa Vencarlo Barsavi. Locke, drunk and sweat-soaked, clung to the back of his Gentled goat for dear life.

  “… You don’t belong to Barsavi,” Chains said. “He’s good enough for what he is, a good ally to have on your side and a man that you must appear to obey at all times. But he certainly doesn’t own you. In the end, neither do I.” “So I don’t have to—”

  “Obey the Secret Peace? Be a good little pezon? Only for pretend, Locke. Only to keep the wolves from the door. Unless your eyes and ears have been stitched shut with rawhide these past two days, by now you must have realized that I intend you and Calo and Galdo and Sabetha to be nothing less,” Chains confided through a feral grin, “than a fucking ballista bolt right through the heart of Vencarlo’s precious Secret Peace.” “Uh…” Locke collected his thoughts for several moments. “Why?”

  “Heh. It’s… complicated. It has to do with what I am, and what I hope you’ll someday be. A priest in the sworn service of the Crooked Warden.” “Is the capa doing something wrong?”

  “Well,” said Chains, “well, lad, now there’s a question. Is he doing right by the Right People? Gods, yes — the Secret Peace tames the city watch, calms everyone down, gets less of us hanged. Still, every priesthood has what we call mandates — laws handed down by the gods themselves to those who serve them. In most temples, these are complex, messy, annoying things. In the priesthood of the Benefactor, things are easy. We only have two. The first one is, thieves prosper. Simple as that. We’re ordered to aid one another, hide one another, make peace whenever possible and see to it that our kind flourishes, by hook or by crook. Barsavi’s got that mandate covered, never doubt that.

  “But the second mandate,” said Chains, lowering his voice and glancing around into the fog to make doubly sure that they were not overheard, “is this — the rich remember? “Remember what?”

  “That they’re not invincible. That locks can be picked and treasures can be stolen. Nara, Mistress of Ubiquitous Maladies, may Her hand be stayed, sends disease among men so that men will never forget that they are not gods. We’re sort of like that, for the rich and powerful. We’re the stone in their shoe, the thorn in their flesh, a little bit of reciprocity this side of divine judgement. That’s our second mandate, and it’s as important as the first.”

  “And… the Secret Peace protects the nobles, and so you don’t like it?”

  “It’s not that I don’t like it.” Chains mulled his next few words over before he let them out. “Barsavi” s not a priest of the Thirteenth. He’s not sworn to the mandates like I am; he’s got to be practical. And while I can accept that, I can’t just let it go. It’s my divine duty to see that the bluebloods with their pretty titles get a little bit of what fife hands the rest of us as a matter of routine — a nice, sharp jab in the arse every now and again.” “And Barsavi… doesn’t need to know about this?”

  “Bleeding shits, no. As I see it, if Barsavi takes care of thieves prosper and I look after the rich remember, this”11 be one holy, holy city in the eyes of the Crooked Warden.”

  6

  “Why do they bear it? I know they get paid, but the defaults! Gods… er, Holy Marrows, why do they come here and put up with it? Humiliated, beaten, stoned, befouled… to what end?”

  Locke paced agitatedly around the Baumondain family’s workshop, clenching and unclenching his fists. It was the afternoon of his fourth day in Salon Corbeau. “As you said, they get paid, Master Fehrwight.” Lauris Baumondain rested one hand gently on the back of the half-finished chair Locke had come in to see. With the other she stroked poor motionless Lively, tucked away inside a pocket of her apron. “If you’re selected for a game, you get a copper centira. If you’re given a default, you get a silver volani. There’s also a random drawing: one person per War, one in eighty, gets a gold solari.” “They must be desperate,” said Locke.

  “Farms fail. Businesses fail. Tenant lands get repossessed. Plagues knock all the money and health out of cities. When they” ve got nowhere else to go, they come here. There’s a roof to sleep under, meals, hope of gold or silver. All you have to do is go out there often enough and… amuse them.” “It’s perverse. It’s infamous.”

  “You have a soft heart, for what you’re spending on just four chairs, Master Fehrwight.” Lauris looked down and wrung her hands together. “Forgive me. I spoke well out of turn.”

  “Speak as you will. I’m not a rich man, Lauris. I’m just my master’s servant. But even he… we’re frugal people, damn it. Frugal and fair. Some might call us eccentric, but we’re not cruel.”

  “I” ve seen nobles from the Marrows at the Amusement War many times, Master Fehrwight.”

  “We’re not nobles. We’re merchants… merchants of Emberlain. I can’t speak for our nobles, and often don’t want to. Look, I” ve seen many cities. I know how people live. I” ve seen gladiatorial fights, executions, misery and poverty and desperation. But I” ve never seen anything like that — the faces of those spectators. The way they watched and cheered. Like jackals, like crows, like something… something so very wrong.”

  “There are no laws here but Lady Saljesca’s laws,” said Lauris. “Here they can behave however they choose. At the Amusement War they can do exactly what they want to do to the poor folk and the simple folk. Things forbidden elsewhere. All you’re seeing is what they look like when they stop pretending they give a damn about anything. Where do you think Lively came from? My sister saw a noblewoman having kittens Gentled so her sons could torture them with knives. Because they were bored at tea. So welcome to Salon Corbeau, Master Fehrwight. I’m sorry it’s not the paradise it looks like fro
m a distance. Does our work on the chairs meet with your approval?” “Yes,” said Locke slowly. “Yes, I suppose it does.”

  “If I were to presume to give you advice,” said Lauris, “I’d suggest that you avoid the Amusement War for the rest of your stay. Do what the rest of us here do: ignore it. Paint a great cloud of fog over it in your mind’s eye and pretend that it’s not there.”

  “As you say, Madam Baumondain.” Locke sighed. “I might just do so.”

  7

  But Locke could not stay away. Morning, afternoon and evening, he found himself in the public gallery, standing alone, eating and drinking nothing. He saw crowd after crowd, War after War, humiliation after humiliation. The Demons made gruesome mistakes on several occasions; beatings and stranglings got out of control. Those aspirants that were accidentally roughed up beyond hope of recovery had their skulls crushed on the spot, to the polite applause of the crowd. It would not do to be unmerciful.

  “Crooked Warden,” Locke muttered to himself the first time it happened. “They don’t even have a priest… not a single one…”

  He realized, dimly, what he was doing to himself. He felt the stirring within, as though his conscience were a deep, still lake with a beast struggling to rise to its surface. Each brutal humiliation, each painful default excitedly decreed by some spoiled noble child while their parents laughed in appreciation, gave strength to that beast as it beat itself against his better judgment, his cold calculation, his willingness to stick to the plan. He was trying to make himself angry enough to give in.

  The Thorn of Camorr had been a mask he’d half-heartedly worn as a game. Now it was almost a separate entity, a hungry thing, an increasingly insistent ghost prying at his resolve to stand up for the mandate of his faith.

  Let me out, it whispered. Let me out. The rich must remember. By the gods, I can make damn sure they never forget.

  “I hope you’ll pardon my intrusion if I observe that you don’t appear to be enjoying yourself!”