by Scott Lynch
“You don’t need to be sorry,” Locke mumbled. “I suppose I really did deserve it.”
“The threat of an empty stomach soon rekindles wisdom.” Chains smirked. “Hardships are arbitrary, Locke. You never know which particular quality in yourself or a fellow is going to get you past them. For example, raise your hands if your surname happens to be Sanza.”
Calo and Galdo did so, a bit hesitantly.
“Anyone with the surname Sanza,” said Chains, “may join our new brother Jean Tannen in dining this evening.”
“I love being used as an example!” said Galdo.
“Anyone with the surname Lamora,” said Chains, “may eat, but first he will serve forth all the courses, and attend on Jean Tannen.”
So Locke scuttled about, embarrassment and relief mingled on his face. The meal was roasted capon stuffed with garlic and onions, with grapes and figs scalded in a hot wine sauce on the side. Father Chains poured all of his usual prayer toasts, dedicating the last to “Jean Tannen, who lost one family but came to another soon enough.”
At that Jean’s eyes watered, and the boy lost whatever good cheer the food had brought to him. Noticing this, Calo and Galdo took action to salvage his mood.
“That was really good, what you did with the box,” said Calo.
“None of us can work it that fast,” said Galdo.
“And we’re good with sums!”
“Or at least,” said Galdo, “we thought we were, until we met you.”
“It was nothing,” said Jean. “I can be even faster. I am … I meant to say …”
He looked nervously at Father Chains before continuing.
“I need optics. Reading optics, for things up close. I can’t see right without them. I, um, I could work a box even faster if I had them. But … I lost mine. One of the boys in Shades’ Hill …”
“You shall have new ones,” said Chains. “Tomorrow or the next day. Don’t wear them in public; it might contravene our air of poverty. But you can certainly wear them in here.”
“You couldn’t even see straight,” asked Locke, “when you beat me?”
“I could see a little bit,” said Jean. “It’s all sort of blurry. That’s why I was leaning back so far.”
“A mathematical terror,” mused Father Chains, “and a capable little brawler. What an interesting combination the Benefactor has given the Gentlemen Bastards in young Master Tannen. And he is a Gentleman Bastard, isn’t he, Locke?”
“Yes,” said Locke. “I suppose he is.”
4
THE NEXT night was clear and dry; all the moons were up, shining like sovereigns in the blackness with the stars for their court. Jean Tannen sat beneath one parapet wall on the temple roof, a book held out before him at arm’s length. Two oil lamps in glass boxes sat beside him, outlining him in warm yellow light.
“I don’t mean to bother you,” said Locke, and Jean looked up, startled.
“Gods! You’re quiet.”
“Not all the time.” Locke stepped to within a few feet of the larger boy. “I can be very loud, when I’m being stupid.”
“I … um …”
“Can I sit?”
Jean nodded, and Locke plopped down beside him. He folded his legs and wrapped his arms around his knees.
“I am sorry,” said Locke. “I guess I really can be a shit sometimes.”
“I’m sorry, too. I didn’t mean … When I hit you, it just … I’m not myself. When I’m angry.”
“You did right. I didn’t know, about your mother and your father. I’m sorry. I should … I shouldn’t have presumed. I’ve had a long time … to get used to it, you know.”
The two boys said nothing for a few moments after that; Jean closed his book and stared up at the sky.
“You know, I might not even be one after all,” Locke said. “A real orphan, I mean.”
“How so?”
“Well, my … my mother’s dead. I saw that. I know that. But my father … he, um. He went away when I was very little. I don’t remember him; never knew him.”
“I’m sorry,” said Jean.
“We’re both sorry a lot, aren’t we? I think he might have been a sailor or something. Maybe a mercenary, you know? Mother never wanted to talk about him. I don’t know. I could be wrong.”
“My father was a good man,” said Jean. “He was … They both had a shop in North Corner. They shipped leathers and silks and some gems. All over the Iron Sea, some trips inland. I helped them. Not shipping, of course, but record-keeping. Counting. And I took care of the cats. We had nine. Mama used to say … she used to say that I was her only child who didn’t go about … on all fours.”
He sniffled a bit and wiped his eyes. “I seem to have used up all my tears,” he said. “I don’t know what to feel about all this anymore. My parents taught me to be honest, that the laws and the gods abhor thieving. But now I find out thieving has its very own god. And I can either starve on the street or be comfortable here.”
“It’s not so bad,” said Locke. “I’ve never done anything else, as long as I can remember. Thieving is an honest trade, when you look at it like we do. We can work really hard at it, sometimes.” Locke reached inside his tunic and brought out a soft cloth bag. “Here,” he said, handing it over to Jean.
“What … what’s this?”
“You said you needed optics.” Locke smiled. “There’s a lens-grinder over in the Videnza who’s older than the gods. He doesn’t watch his shop window like he ought to. I lifted some pairs for you.”
Jean shook the bag open and found himself looking down at three pairs of optics; there were two circular sets of lenses in gilt wire frames, and a square set with silver rims.
“I … thank you, Locke!” He held each pair up to his eyes and squinted through them in turn, frowning slightly. “I don’t … quite know … um, I’m not ungrateful, not at all, but none of these will work.” He pointed at his eyes and smiled sheepishly. “Lenses need to be made for the wearer’s problem. There’s some for people who can’t see long ways, and I think that’s what these pairs are for. But I’m what they call close-blind, not far-blind.”
“Oh. Damn.” Locke scratched the back of his neck and smiled sheepishly. “I don’t wear them; I didn’t know. I really am an idiot.”
“Not at all. I can keep the rims and do something with them, maybe. Rims break. I can just set proper lenses in them. They’ll be spares. Thank you again.”
The boys sat in silence for a short while after that, but this time it was a companionable silence. Jean leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. Locke stared up at the moons, straining to see the little blue and green specks Chains had once told him were the forests of the gods. Eventually, Jean cleared his throat.
“So you’re really good at … stealing things?”
“I have to be good at something. It’s not fighting and it’s not mathematics, I guess.”
“You, um … Father Chains told me about this thing you can do, if you pray to the Benefactor. He called it a death-offering. Do you know about that?”
“Oh,” said Locke, “I know all about it, truth of all thirteen gods, cross my heart and pray to die.”
“I’d like to do that. For my mother and my father. But I … I’ve never stolen anything. Can you maybe help me?”
“Teach you how to steal so you can do a proper offering?”
“Yes.” Jean sighed. “I guess if this is where the gods have put me I should bend to local custom.”
“Can you teach me how to use a numbers-box so I look less like a half-wit next time?”
“I think so,” said Jean.
“Then it’s settled!” Locke jumped back up to his feet and spread his hands wide. “Tomorrow, Calo and Galdo can plant their asses on the temple steps. You and I will go out and plunder!”
“That sounds dangerous,” said Jean.
“For anyone else, maybe. For Gentlemen Bastards, well, it’s just what we do.”
“We?”
“We.”
CHAPTER SIX
LIMITATIONS
1
THE RED HANDS led Locke up the long gangway to the Floating Grave just as the scarlet sun broke above the dark buildings of the Ashfall district. The whole Wooden Waste turned to blood in that light, and when Locke blinked to clear the brightness from his eyes, even the darkness flashed with red.
Locke struggled to keep his head clear; the combination of nervous excitement and fatigue always made him feel as though he was sliding along an inch or two above the ground, his feet not quite reaching all the way down. There were sentries on the quay, sentries at the doors, sentries in the foyer—more than there had been before. They were all grim-faced and silent as the Red Hands led Locke deeper into the capa’s floating fortress. The inner clockwork doors weren’t locked.
Capa Barsavi stood in the middle of his great audience chamber, facing away from Locke, his head bowed and his hands behind his back. Curtains had been drawn away from the high glass windows on the eastern side of the galleon’s hull. Red fingers of light fell on Barsavi, his sons, a large wooden cask, and a long object that lay covered on a portable wooden bier.
“Father,” said Anjais, “it’s Lamora.”
Capa Barsavi grunted and turned. He stared at Locke for a few seconds, his eyes glassy and dead. He waved his left hand. “Leave us,” he said. “Leave us now.”
Heads down, Anjais and Pachero hurried out of the room, dragging the Red Hands with them. A moment later the hall echoed with the sound of the doors slamming shut and the clockwork locks tumbling into position.
“Your Honor,” said Locke. “What’s going on?”
“The bastard. The bastard killed her, Locke.”
“What?”
“He killed Nazca. Last night. Left us … the body, just a few hours ago.”
Locke stared at Barsavi, dumbfounded, aware that his mouth was hanging open.
“But … but she was here, wasn’t she?”
“She left.” Barsavi was clenching and unclenching his fists. “She snuck off, near as we can tell, or she was taken. Second or third hour of the morning. She … she was returned at half past the fourth hour of the morning.”
“Returned? By whom?”
“Come. See.”
Vencarlo Barsavi drew back the cloth that covered the bier, and there lay Nazca—her skin waxy, her eyes closed, her hair damp. Two livid purple bruises marred the otherwise smooth skin on the left side of her neck. Locke felt his eyes stinging, and he found himself biting down hard on the first knuckle of his right index finger.
“See what the bastard has done,” Barsavi said softly. “She was the living memory of her mother. My only daughter. I would rather be dead than see this.” Tears began sliding down the old man’s cheeks. “She has been … washed.”
“Washed? What do you mean?”
“She was returned,” said the Capa, “in that.” He gestured to the cask, which stood upright a few feet to the side of the bier.
“In a barrel?”
“Look inside.”
Locke slid the barrel’s cover back and recoiled as the full stench of the barrel’s contents wafted out at him.
It was full of urine. Horse urine, dark and cloudy.
Locke whirled away from the cask and clapped both hands over his mouth, his stomach spasming.
“Not just killed,” said Barsavi, “but drowned. Drowned in horse piss.”
Locke growled, fighting tears. “I can’t believe this. I just can’t believe it. This doesn’t make any fucking sense.”
He moved back beside the bier and took another look at Nazca’s neck. The purple bruises were actually raised bumps; straight red scratches were visible just in front of them. Locke stared at them, thinking back to the feel of talons in his own skin. The injury on his forearm still burned.
“Your Honor,” he said slowly, “maybe she was … returned in that thing, but I’m pretty sure she didn’t drown in it.”
“What can you possibly mean?”
“The marks on her neck, the little scratches beside them?” Locke extemporized, keeping his voice level and his face neutral. What would sound plausible? “I’ve, ah, seen them before, several years ago in Talisham. I saw a man murdered by a scorpion hawk. Have you ever heard of such a thing?”
“Yes,” said the capa, “an unnatural hybrid, some sort of creature dreamed up by the sorcerers of Karthain. Is that … the marks on her neck? Can you be sure?”
“She was stung by a scorpion hawk,” Locke said. “The talon marks beside the wounds are clear. She would have been dead almost instantly.”
“So he merely … pickled her, afterward,” Barsavi whispered. “To increase the insult. To cut me more cruelly.”
“I’m sorry,” said Locke. “I know it … it can’t be much comfort.”
“If you’re right, it was a much quicker death.” Barsavi pulled the cloth back up over her head, running his fingers through her hair one last time before he covered her completely. “If that is the only comfort I can pray that my little girl received, I will pray for it. That gray bastard will receive no such comfort when his time comes. I swear it.”
“Why would he do this?” Locke ran both of his hands through his hair, wide-eyed with agitation. “It doesn’t make any sense. Why her, why now?”
“He can tell you himself,” said Barsavi.
“What? I don’t understand.”
Capa Barsavi reached into his vest and drew out a folded piece of parchment. He passed it over to Locke, who opened the fold and saw that a note was scribed there in a clean, even hand:
BARSAVI
FOR THE NECESSITY OF WHAT WAS DONE, WE APOLOGIZE, THOUGH IT WAS DONE TO FACILITATE YOUR UNDERSTANDING OF OUR POWER, AND THEREFORE YOUR COOPERATION. WE EARNESTLY DESIRE A MEETING WITH YOURSELF, MAN TO MAN IN ALL COURTESY, TO SETTLE ONCE AND FOR ALL BETWEEN US THIS MATTER OF CAMORR. WE SHALL BE IN ATTENDANCE AT THE ECHO HOLE, AT THE ELEVENTH HOUR OF THE EVENING, ON THE DUKE’S DAY THREE NIGHTS HENCE. WE SHALL BE ALONE AND UNARMED, THOUGH YOU FOR YOUR PART MAY BRING AS MANY COUNSELORS AS YOU WISH, AND YOU MAY ARM THEM AS YOU WISH. MAN TO MAN, WE MAY DISCUSS OUR SITUATION—AND WITH THE KIND FAVOR OF THE GODS, PERHAPS ABJURE THE NEED FOR YOU TO LOSE ANY MORE OF YOUR LOYAL SUBJECTS, OR ANY MORE OF YOUR OWN FLESH AND BLOOD.
“I don’t believe it,” said Locke. “Meet in good faith, after this?”
“He cannot be Camorri,” said Barsavi. “I have become Camorri, in my years here. I am more of this place than many who were born here. But this man?” Barsavi shook his head vigorously. “He cannot understand what an infamy he has done to ‘get my attention’; what an insult my sons and I must bear if I negotiate with him. He wastes his time with his letter—and look, the royal ‘we.’ What an affectation!”
“Your Honor … what if he does understand what he’s done?”
“The possibility is very remote, Locke.” The capa chuckled sadly. “Or else he would not have done it.”
“Not if you presume that the meeting at the Echo Hole is an ambush. That he wants to get you off the Floating Grave and into a place where he has prepared some real harm for you.”
“Your prudence again.” Barsavi smiled without humor. “The thought has occurred to me, Locke. But if he wanted me dead, why not strike from surprise months ago, before he started killing my garristas? No, I believe he genuinely thinks that if he frightens me enough, I will negotiate in good faith. I am indeed going to the Echo Hole. We shall have our meeting. And for my counselors, I will bring my sons, my Berangias sisters, and a hundred of my best and my cruelest. And I will bring you and your friend Jean.”
Locke’s heart beat against the inside of his chest like a trapped bird. He wanted to scream.
“Of course,” he said. “Of course! Jean and I will do anything you ask. I’m grateful for the opportunity.”
“Good. Because the only negotiation we’ll be doing is with bolt, blade, and fist. I’ve got a surprise for that gray piece of shit, if
he thinks to dictate terms to me over the body of my only daughter!”
Locke ground his teeth together. I know what can bring him out from that soggy fortress of his, the Gray King had said.
“Capa Barsavi,” said Locke, “have you considered … well, the things they say about the Gray King? He can kill men with a touch, he can walk through walls; he can’t be harmed by blades or by arrows.…”
“Stories told in wine. He does as I did, when I first took this city; he hides himself well and he chooses his targets wisely.” The capa sighed. “I admit that he is good at it, perhaps as good as I was. But he’s not a ghost.”
“There is another possibility,” said Locke, licking his lips. How much of what was said here might reach the Gray King’s ears? He’d unraveled the secrets of the Gentlemen Bastards thoroughly enough. To hell with him. “The possibility of a … Bondsmage.”
“Aiding the Gray King?”
“Yes.”
“He’s been vexing my city for months, Locke. It might explain some things, yes, but the price … Even I could not pay a Bondsmage for that length of time.”
“Scorpion hawks,” said Locke, “aren’t just created by the Bondsmagi. As far as I know, only Bondsmagi themselves keep them. Could an ordinary … falconer train a bird that could kill him with one accidental sting?” Bullshit well, he thought. Bullshit very well. “The Gray King wouldn’t need to have kept one this whole time. What if the Bondsmage is newly arrived? What if the Bondsmage has only been hired for the next few days, the critical point of whatever the Gray King’s scheme is? The rumors about the Gray King’s powers … could have been spread to prepare for all of this.”
“Fantastical,” said Barsavi, “and yet it would explain much.”
“It would explain why the Gray King is willing to meet you alone and unarmed. With a Bondsmage to shield him, he could appear both yet be neither.”
“Then my response is unchanged.” Barsavi squeezed one fist inside the other. “If one Bondsmage can best a hundred knives—including you and I, my sons, my Berangias sisters, your friend Jean and his hatchets—then the Gray King has chosen his weapons better than I. But for my part, I do not imagine that he has.”