by Scott Lynch
“Madam d’Aubart and Miss d’Aubart,” said Calo, bowing from the waist, “your servants.”
“Not to mention,” said Galdo, “still very much available.”
“Master Sanza and Master Sanza,” said the elder d’Aubart, “pleased to see you.”
“Although we are,” said Janellaine, “still very much disinclined.”
“Perhaps you’d care to buy something, though?” Jessaline folded her hands on the counter and raised one eyebrow.
“As it happens, a friend of ours needs something special.” Calo fished a coin purse from under his waistcoat and held it in plain view without opening it.
“Special?”
“Or perhaps not so much special as specific. He’s got to get sick. Very sick.”
“Far be it from me to drive away business, my dears,” said the elder d’Aubart, “but three or four bottles of rum would do the trick at a fraction of the price for anything I could give you.”
“Ah, not that sort of sick,” said Galdo. “He’s got to be in a bad way, like to knocking on the Death Goddess’ bedchamber and asking if he can come in. And then he’s got to be able to recover his strength after playing ill for a while. A sort of mummer’s sick, if you will.”
“Hmmm,” said Janellaine. “I don’t know if we have anything that works quite like that, at least not on hand.”
“When,” said Jessaline, “would your friend require a solution by?”
“We were sort of hoping to walk out of here with one,” said Calo.
“We don’t brew miracles, my dears.” Jessaline drummed her fingers on her countertop. “Contrary to all common belief. We do prefer a bit of notice for something like this. Messing about with someone’s inside—fit to ill and then fit again in the span of a few hours … well, that’s delicate.”
“We’re not Bondsmagi,” added Janellaine.
“Praise the gods for that,” said Galdo, “but it’s very pressing.”
“Well,” sighed Jessaline, “perhaps we can bang something together. A bit on the crude, but it might do the trick.”
“Barrow-robber’s blossom,” said her daughter.
“Yes.” Jessaline nodded. “And Somnay pine, after.”
“I believe we’ve both in the shop,” Jannelaine said. “Shall I check?”
“Do, and hand over that alley-piece while you’re back there.”
Janellaine passed the crossbow to her mother, then unlocked the door at the rear of the room and disappeared, closing it behind her once again. Jessaline set the weapon gently down atop the counter, keeping one longfingered hand on the tiller.
“You wound us, madam,” said Calo. “We’re harmless as kittens.”
“More so,” said Galdo. “Kittens have claws and piss on things indiscriminately.”
“It’s not just you, boys. It’s the city. Whole place is like to boil, what with Nazca getting clipped. Old Barsavi’s got to have some retribution in the works. Gods know who this Gray King is or what he wants, but I’m more worried by the day for what might come up my stairs.”
“It is a messy time,” said Calo.
Janellaine returned, with two small pouches in her hands. She locked the door behind her, passed the pouches to her mother, and picked up the crossbow once again.
“Well,” said the elder d’Aubart, “here’s what it is, then. Your friend takes this, the red pouch. It’s barrow-robber’s blossom, a sort of purple powder. In the red pouch, remember. Put it in water. It’s an emetic, if the word means anything to you.”
“Nothing pleasant,” said Galdo.
“Five minutes after he drinks it, he gets an ache in the belly. Ten minutes and he gets wobbly at the knees. Fifteen minutes and he starts vomiting up every meal he’s had for the past week. Won’t be pretty. Have buckets close at hand.”
“And it’ll look absolutely real?” asked Calo.
“Look? Sweetmeat, it’ll be as real as it gets. You ever see anyone feign vomiting?”
“Yes,” said the Sanzas in perfect unison.
“He does this thing with chewed-up oranges,” added Galdo.
“Well, your friend won’t be feigning this. Any physiker in Camorr would swear it was a real and natural distress. You can’t even see the barrow-robber’s blossom once it comes up; it dissolves quickly.”
“And then,” said Calo, “what about the other pouch?”
“This is Somnay pine bark. Crumble it and steep it in a tea. It’s the perfect counter for the purple blossom; it’ll cancel it right out. But the blossom will already have done its work; keep that in mind. The bark won’t put food back in his belly, or give back the vigor he loses while he’s retching his guts out. He’s going to be weak and sore for at least an evening or two.”
“Sounds wonderful,” said Calo, “by our own peculiar definition of wonderful. What do we owe you?”
“Three crowns, twenty solons,” said Jessaline. “And that’s only because you were old Chains’ boys. This isn’t much by way of alchemy, just refined and purified, but the powders are hard to get hold of.”
Calo counted out twenty gold tyrins from his purse and set them atop the counter in a vertical stack. “Here’s five crowns, then. With the understanding that this transaction is best forgotten by everyone involved.”
“Sanza,” said Jessaline d’Aubart without humor, “every purchase at my shop is forgotten, as far as the outside world is concerned.”
“Then this one,” said Calo, adding four more tyrins to the pile, “needs to stay extra forgotten.”
“Well, if you really want to reinforce the point …” She pulled a wooden scraper from beneath the counter and used it to pull the coins over the back edge, into what sounded like a leather bag. She was careful not to touch the coins themselves; black alchemists rarely got to be her age if they relaxed their paranoia toward all things touched, tasted, or smelled.
“You have our thanks,” said Galdo. “And that of our friend, as well.”
“Oh, don’t count on that,” Jessaline d’Aubart chuckled. “Give him the red pouch first, then see what a grateful frame of mind it puts him in.”
3
“GET ME a glass of water, Jean.” Locke stared out the canal-side window of the seventh-floor room, as the buildings of southern Camorr grew long black shadows toward the east. “It’s time to take my medicine. I’m guessing it’s close on twenty minutes to nine.”
“Already set,” said Jean, passing over a tin cup with a cloudy lavender residue swirling in it. “That stuff did dissolve in a blink, just like the Sanzas said.”
“Well,” he said, “here’s to deep pockets poorly guarded. Here’s to true alchemists, a strong stomach, a clumsy Gray King, and the luck of the Crooked Warden.”
“Here’s to living out the night,” said Jean, miming the clink of a cup against Locke’s own.
“Mmm.” Locke sipped hesitantly, then tilted the cup back and poured it down his throat in one smooth series of gulps. “Actually not bad at all. Tastes minty, very refreshing.”
“A worthy epitaph,” said Jean, taking the cup.
Locke stared out the window a while longer; the mesh was up, as the Duke’s Wind was still blowing in strongly from the sea and the insects weren’t yet biting. Across the Via Camorrazza the Arsenal District was mostly silent and motionless. With the Iron Sea city-states at relative peace, all the great saw-yards and warehouses and wet docks had little business. In a time of need they could build or service two dozen ships at once; now Locke could see only one skeletal hull rising within the yards.
Beyond that, the sea broke white against the base of the South Needle, an Elderglass-mortared stone breakwater nearly three-quarters of a mile in length. At its southernmost tip, a human-built watchtower stood out against the darkening sea; beyond that, the white blurs of sails could be seen beneath the red tendrils of clouds in the sky.
“Oh,” he said, “I do believe something’s happening.”
“Take a seat,” said Jean. “You’re su
pposed to get wobbly in just a bit.”
“Already happening. In fact … gods, I think I’m going to …”
So it began; a great wave of nausea bubbled up in Locke’s throat, and with it came everything he’d eaten for the past day. For a few long minutes he crouched on his knees, clutching a wooden bucket as devoutly as any man had ever prayed over an altar for intercession from the gods.
“Jean,” he gasped out during a brief lull between spasms of retching, “next time I conceive a plan like this, consider planting a hatchet in my skull.”
“Hardly efficacious.” Jean swapped a full bucket for an empty one and gave Locke a friendly pat on the back. “Dulling my nice sharp blades on a skull as thick as yours …”
One by one, Jean shuttered the windows. Falselight was just rising outside. “Ghastly as it is,” he said, “we need the smell to make an impression when Anjais shows up.”
Even once Locke’s stomach was thoroughly emptied, the dry heaving continued. He shuddered and shook and moaned, clutching at his guts. Jean hauled him bodily over to a sleeping pallet, where he looked down in genuine worry. “You’re pale and clammy,” he muttered. “Not bad at all. Very realistic.”
“Pretty, isn’t it? Gods,” whispered Locke, “how much longer?”
“Can’t rightly say,” said Jean. “They should be arriving down there right about now; give them a few minutes to get impatient with waiting around for us and come storming up here.”
During those few minutes, Locke became intimately acquainted with the idea of “a short eternity.” Finally, there came the creak of footsteps on the stairs, and a loud banging on the door.
“Lamora!” Anjais Barsavi’s voice. “Tannen! Open up or I’ll kick the damn door in!”
“Thank the gods,” croaked Locke as Jean rose to unbolt the door.
“We’ve been waiting out front of the Last Mistake! Are you coming or … Gods, what the hell happened in here?”
Anjais threw one arm up over his face as he stepped into the apartment and the smell of sickness. Jean pointed to Locke, writhing on the bed, moaning, half wrapped in a thin blanket despite the moist heat of the evening.
“He took ill just half an hour ago, maybe,” said Jean. “Losing his stomach all over the damn place. I don’t know what’s the matter.”
“Gods, he’s turning green.” Anjais took a few steps closer to Locke, staring in horrified sympathy. He was dressed for a fight, with a boiled leather cuirass, an unbuckled leather collar, and a pair of studded leather bracers tied over his hamlike forearms. Several men had accompanied him up the stairs, but none of them seemed in any hurry to follow him into the rooms.
“I had capon for lunch,” said Jean, “and he had fish rolls. That’s the last thing either of us ate, and I’m fine.”
“Iono’s piss. Fish rolls. Fresher than he bargained for, I’d wager.”
“Anjais,” Locke croaked, reaching out toward him with a shaking hand. “Don’t … don’t leave me. I can still go. I can still fight.”
“Gods, no.” Anjais shook his head emphatically. “You’re in a bad way, Lamora. I think you’d best see a physiker. Have you summoned one, Tannen?”
“I haven’t had a chance. I fetched out the buckets and I’ve been looking after him since it started.”
“Well, keep it up. Both of you stay. No, don’t get angry, Jean; he clearly can’t be left on his own. Stay and tend him. Fetch a physiker when you can.”
Anjais gave Locke two brief pats on his exposed shoulder.
“We’ll get the fucker tonight, Locke. No worries. We’ll do him for good, and I’ll send someone to look in on you when we’re done. I’ll square this with Papa; he’ll understand.”
“Please … please, Jean can help me stand, I can still—”
“End of discussion. You can’t fucking stand up; you’re sick as a fish dropped in a wine bottle.” Anjais backed toward the door and gave Locke a brief, sympathetic wave before he ducked out. “If I get my hands on the bastard personally, I’ll deck him once for you, Locke. Rest easy.”
Then the door slammed, and Locke and Jean were alone once again.
4
LONG MINUTES passed; Jean unshuttered the canal-side window and stared out into the glimmer of Falselight. He watched as Anjais and his men broke loose from the crowds below, then hurried across a Via Camorrazza catbridge and into the Arsenal District. Anjais didn’t look back even once, and soon enough he was swallowed up by shadows and distance.
“Long gone. Can I help you out of …,” Jean said, turning away from the window. Locke had already stumbled out of bed and was splashing water on the alchemical hearthstone, looking ten years older and twenty pounds thinner. That was alarming; Locke didn’t have twenty pounds to spare.
“Lovely. The least complicated, least important job of the night is done. Carry on, Gentlemen Bastards,” said Locke. His face was alight in the reflected glow of the simmering stone as he set a glazed jug of water atop it. Ten years older? More like twenty. “Now for the tea, gods bless it, and it had better be as good as the purple powder.”
Jean grimaced and grabbed the two vomit buckets Locke had used, then moved back to the window. Falselight was dying down now; the Hangman’s Wind was blowing up warm and strong, bringing a low ceiling of dark clouds with it, visible just past the Five Towers. The moons would be swallowed by those clouds tonight, at least for a few hours. Pinpricks of firelight were appearing across the city as though an unseen jeweler were setting his wares out on a field of black cloth.
“Jessaline’s little potion seems to have brought up every meal I’ve had in the past five years,” said Locke. “Nothing left to spit up but my naked soul. Make sure it isn’t floating around in one of those before you toss them, right?” His hands shook as he crumbled the dry Somnay pine bark right into the jug of water; he didn’t feel like messing about with proper tea-brewing.
“I think I see it,” Jean said. “Nasty, crooked little thing it is, too; you’re better off with it floating out to sea.”
Jean took a quick glance out the window to ensure that there were no canal boats drifting below in the path of a truly foul surprise, then simply flung the buckets, one after the other. They hit the gray water seventy-odd feet below with loud splashes, but Jean was certain nobody noticed or cared. Camorri were always throwing disgusting things into the Via Camorrazza.
Satisfied with his aim, Jean then slid the hidden closet open and pulled out their disguises—cheap traveler’s cloaks and a pair of broad-brimmed Tal Verrar caps fashioned from some ignoble leather with the greasy texture of sausage casings. He flung one brownish gray cloak over Locke’s shoulders; Locke clutched at it gratefully and shivered.
“You’ve got that motherly concern in your eyes, Jean. I must look like hammered shit.”
“Actually, you look like you were executed last week. I hate to ask, but are you sure you’re going to be up for this?”
“Whatever I am, it has to be sufficient.” Locke wrapped one end of his cloak around his right hand and picked up the jug of half-boiled tea. He sipped and swallowed, bark and all, reasoning that the best place for the stuff would be his empty stomach. “Ugh. It tastes like a kick in the gut feels. Have I pissed Jessaline off recently, too?”
His expression was picturesque, as though the skin of his face were trying to peel itself back and leap off his bones, but he continued to choke the near tea down anyway. Jean steadied him by placing both hands on his shoulders, privately afraid that another bout of vomiting might be more than Locke could handle.
After a few minutes, Locke set the empty jug down and sighed deeply.
“I can’t wait to have words with the Gray King when this shit is all finished,” Locke whispered. “There’s a few things I want to ask him. Philosophical questions. Like, ‘How does it feel to be dangled out a window by a rope tied around your balls, motherfucker?’ ”
“Sounds more like physik than philosophy. But as you said, we have to wait for the Falconer
to leave first.” Jean’s voice was steady and totally empty of emotion; the voice he always used when discussing a plan only loosely tethered to prudence and sanity. “Pity we can’t just blindside the bastard from an alley.”
“Couldn’t give him so much as a second to think, or we’d lose.”
“Anything less than twenty yards,” mused Jean. “One good throw with a Wicked Sister. Wouldn’t take but half a second.”
“But you and I both know,” Locke replied slowly, “that we can’t kill a Bondsmage. We wouldn’t live out the week. Karthain would make examples of us, plus Calo, Galdo, and Bug as well. Not very clever at all, that way out. A drawn-out suicide.”
Locke stared down at the fading glow of the hearthstone and rubbed his hands together.
“I wonder, Jean. I really wonder. Is this what other people feel like when we’re through with them? After we get the goods and pull the vanish and there’s nothing they can do about it?”
The light from the hearthstone sank several stages further before Jean answered.
“I thought we’d agreed long ago that they get what they deserve, Locke. Nothing more. This is a fantastically silly moment to start giving a shit.”
“Giving a shit?” Locke started, blinking as though he had just woken up. “No, don’t get me wrong. It’s just this sewn-up feeling. ‘No way out’ is for other people, not for the Gentlemen Bastards. I don’t like being trapped.”
At a sudden gesture from Locke, Jean pulled him to his feet. Jean wasn’t sure if the tea was any more responsible than the cloak, but Locke was no longer shivering.
“Too right,” Locke continued, his voice gaining strength. “Too right I don’t like it. Let’s get this shit job over with. We can have a good ponder on the subject of our favorite gray rat-fucker and his pet mage after I’ve danced to their little tune.”