by Scott Lynch
Near, came the voice of the Falconer, very near. Stand ready.
Locke heard the capa’s procession before he saw it; the sound of funeral drums came through the open door to the street, muffled and nearly drowned out by the falling water. Steadily, it grew louder; a red glow seemed to kindle beyond the door, and by that light Locke saw that the gray mist had thickened. Torches flickered softly, as though glimpsed from underwater. The red aura rose. The barest outline of the room around him became visible, etched in faint carmine. The beating of the drum ceased, and once again Locke was alone with the sound of the waterfall. He threw back his head, placed one hand behind his back, and stared at the door, his blood pounding in his ears.
Two small red fires appeared in the doorway like the eyes of a dragon from one of Jean’s stories. Black shadows moved behind them, and as Locke’s eyes adjusted to the influx of scarlet light he saw the faces of men, tall men, cloaked and armored. He could see enough of their features and posture to see that they were almost surprised to spot him; they hesitated, then continued forward, one moving to his left and the other to his right. For his part, he did nothing, moving not a muscle.
Two more torches followed, and then two more; Barsavi was sending his men up the stairs in pairs. Soon a loose semicircle of men faced Locke, and their torches cast the interior of the Echo Hole into red-shaded relief. There were carvings on the walls—strange old symbols in the tongue of the Eldren, which men had never deciphered.
A dozen men, two dozen; the crowd of armored shapes grew, and Locke saw faces that he recognized. Throat slitters, leg breakers, maulers. Assassins. A hard lot. Exactly what Barsavi had promised him, when they’d stood looking down at the body of Nazca together.
Moments passed. Still, Locke said nothing. Still, men and women filed in. The Berangias sisters—even in a dimmer light, Locke would have recognized their swagger. They stood at front and center of the gathering crowd, saying nothing, arms folded and eyes gleaming in the torchlight. By some unspoken command, none of Barsavi’s people moved behind Locke. He continued to stand alone, as the great press of Right People continued spreading before him.
At last, the crowd of cutthroats began to part. Locke could hear the echoes of their breathing and murmuring and the creaking of their leathers, bouncing from wall to wall, mingling with the sound of falling water. Some of those on the edges of the crowd extinguished their torches with wet leather pouches; gradually, the smell of smoke seeped into the air, and gradually the light sank, until perhaps one in five of the capa’s folk were still holding lit fires.
There was more than enough light to see Capa Barsavi as he turned the corner and stepped through the door. His gray hair was pulled back in oiled rows; his three beards were freshly brushed. He wore his coat of sharkskin leather, and a black cloak of velvet lined with cloth of gold, thrown back from one shoulder. Anjais was on his right and Pachero on his left as the capa strode forward, and in the reflected fires of their eyes Locke saw nothing but death.
Nothing is as it seems, came the voice of the Falconer. Stand resolute.
At the front of the crowd, Barsavi halted, and for a long moment he stared at the apparition before him, at the cool orange eyes within a shadowed hood, at Locke’s cloak and mantle and coat and gloves of gray.
“King,” he finally said.
“Capa,” Locke replied, willing himself to feel the hauteur, conjuring it forth from nothing. The sort of man who would stand in front of a hundred killers with a smile on his face; the sort of man who would summon Vencarlo Barsavi with a trail of corpses, the last of them his only daughter. That was the man Locke needed to be, not Nazca’s friend but her murderer; not the capa’s mischievous subject, but his equal. His superior.
Locke grinned, wolfishly, then swept his cloak back from his left shoulder. With his left hand he beckoned the capa, a taunting gesture, like a bully in an alley daring his opponent to step forward and take the first swing.
“Oblige him,” said the capa, and a dozen men and women raised crossbows.
Crooked Warden, thought Locke, give me strength. He ground his teeth in expectation. He could hear his jaw muscles creaking.
The snap-hiss of release echoed throughout the hall; a dozen taut strings twanged. The bolts were too fast to follow, dark afterimages that blurred the air, and then—
A dozen narrow black shapes rebounded off nothing right before his face, and fell clattering to the floor, scattered in an arc like dead birds at his feet.
Locke laughed, a high and genuine sound of pleasure. For one brief moment, he would have kissed the Falconer if the Bondsmage had stood before him.
“Please,” he said, “I thought you’d listened to the stories.”
“Just establishing your bona fides,” said Capa Barsavi, “Your Majesty.” The last word was sneered. Locke had at least expected a certain wariness following the blunting of the crossbow attack, but Barsavi stepped forward without apparent fear.
“I’m pleased that you’ve answered my summons,” Locke replied.
“The blood of my daughter is the only thing that’s summoned me,” said Barsavi.
“Dwell on it if you must,” said Locke, praying silently as he extemporized. Nazca, gods, please forgive me. “Were you any gentler, when you took this city for yourself, twenty-two years ago?”
“Is that what you think you’re doing?” Barsavi stopped and stared at him; they were about forty feet apart. “Taking my city from me?”
“I summoned you to discuss the matter of Camorr,” said Locke. “To settle it to our mutual satisfaction.” The Falconer hadn’t interrupted him yet; he presumed he was doing well.
“The satisfaction,” said Barsavi, “will not be mutual.” He raised his left hand, and one man stepped from the crowd.
Locke peered at this man carefully; he seemed to be an older fellow, slight and balding, and he wasn’t wearing armor. Very curious. He also appeared to be shivering.
“Do as we discussed, Eymon,” said the capa. “I’ll hold true to my bargain, truer than any I’ve ever made.”
The unarmored man began to walk forward, slowly, hesitantly, staring at Locke with obvious fear. But still he kept coming, straight toward Locke, while a hundred armed men and women waited behind him, doing nothing.
“I pray,” said Locke, with a bantering tone, “that man isn’t contemplating what I suspect.”
“We’ll all see what his business is soon enough,” said the capa.
“I cannot be cut or pierced,” said Locke, “and this man will die at my touch.”
“So it’s been said,” replied the capa. Eymon continued to move forward; he was thirty feet from Locke, then twenty.
“Eymon,” said Locke, “you are being ill-used. Stop now.”
Gods, he thought. Don’t do what I think you’re going to do. Don’t make the Falconer kill you.
Eymon continued to shamble forward; his jowls were quivering, and he was breathing in short sharp gasps. His hands were out before him, shaking, like a man about to reach into a fire.
Crooked Warden, Locke thought, please, let him be scared. Please let him stop. Falconer, Falconer, please, put a fright into him, do anything else but kill him. A river of sweat ran down his spine; he bent his head slightly and fixed Eymon with a stare. Ten feet now lay between them.
“Eymon,” he said, striving for a casual tone and not entirely succeeding, “you have been warned. You are in mortal peril.”
“Oh yeah,” said the man, his voice quavering. “Yeah, that I know.” And then he closed the distance between them, and he reached out for Locke’s right arm with both of his hands—
Fuck, thought Locke, and although he knew deep down that it would be the Falconer killing the man and not himself …
He flinched back from Eymon’s touch.
Eymon’s eyes lit up; he gasped, and then, to Locke’s horror, he leapt forward and grabbed Locke’s arm with both of his hands, like a scavenger bird clutching at a long-delayed meal. “Haaaaaaa
aaaaa!” he cried, and for one brief second Locke thought something terrible was happening to him.
But no; Eymon still lived, and he had a very firm grip.
“Double fuck,” Locke mumbled, bringing up his left fist to clout the poor fellow; but he was off balance, and Eymon had him at a disadvantage. The slender man gave Locke a shove backward, screaming once again, “Haaaaaaaaaaaaaa!” A cry of absolute triumph; Locke puzzled over it as he fell flat on his ass.
And then there were booted feet slapping the stones behind Eymon, and dark shapes rushing around him to grab at Locke. In the dancing light cast by two dozen moving torches, Locke found himself hauled back up to his feet, pinned by strong hands that clutched at his arms and his shoulders and his neck.
Capa Barsavi pushed through his eager crowd of men and women, forced Eymon more gently to the side, and stood face to face with Locke, his fat ruddy features alight with anticipation.
“Well, Your Majesty,” he said, “I’ll bet you’re one confused son of a bitch right about now.”
And then Barsavi’s people were laughing, cheering. And then the capa’s ham-hock fist planted itself in Locke’s stomach, and the air rushed out of his lungs, and black pain exploded in his chest. And then he knew just how deeply in the shit he truly was.
4
“YES, I’LL bet you’re pretty gods-damned curious at this point,” said Barsavi, strutting back and forth in front of Locke, who remained pinioned by half a dozen men, any one of them half again his size. “And so am I. Let’s throw that hood back, boys.”
Rough hands yanked at Locke’s hood and mantle, and the capa stared coldly at him, running one hand up and down his beards. “Gray, gray, gray. You look like you belong on a stage,” he laughed. “And such a skinny fellow, too. What a weak little man we’ve caught ourselves tonight—the Gray King, sovereign of fog and shadows and precious little else.”
The capa backhanded him, grinning; the stinging pain had just registered when he did it again, from the other direction. Locke’s head lolled. He was grabbed from behind by his hair and made to look the capa right in the face. Locke’s thoughts whirled. Had the capa’s men somehow located the Falconer? Had they distracted him? Was the capa mad enough to actually kill a Bondsmage, if he had the chance?
“Oh, we know you can’t be cut,” continued Barsavi, “and we know you can’t be pierced, more’s the pity. But bruised? It’s a curious thing about the spells of a Bondsmage. They’re so damn specific, aren’t they?”
And then he punched Locke in the stomach again, to a murmur of widespread amusement. Locke’s knees buckled beneath him, and his attendants hoisted him again, holding him upright, as bolts of pain radiated from his abdomen.
“One of your men,” said Barsavi, “strolled into my Floating Grave this very morning.”
A little chill crept down Locke’s spine.
“Seems I’m not the only one you pissed off when you sent my Nazca back to me the way you did,” said Barsavi, leering. “Seems that some of your men didn’t sign on with your merry little crew for that sort of gods-damned desecration. So your man and I, we had ourselves a talk. And we fixed a price. And then he told me all sorts of fascinating things about that spell of yours. And that story about you being able to kill men with a touch? Oh, he told me it was bullshit.”
Sewn up, said a little voice at the back of Locke’s head that most certainly was not the Falconer. Sewn up, sewn up. Of course the Falconer hadn’t been distracted, or taken by any of Barsavi’s men. Neat as a gods-damned hanging.
“But I was only willing to trust the fellow so far,” Barsavi said. “So I made a deal with Eymon, whom I’m sure you don’t recognize. Eymon is dying. He has the cold consumption, the tumors in his stomach and his back. The sort no physiker can cure. He’s got maybe two months, maybe less.” The capa clapped Eymon on the back as proudly as if the skinny man were his own flesh and blood.
“So I said, ‘Why don’t you step up and grab the filthy little bastard, Eymon? If he really can kill with a touch, well, you’ll go quick and easy. And if he can’t …’ ” Barsavi grinned, his red cheeks wrinkling grotesquely. “Well, then.”
“A thousand full crowns,” said Eymon, giggling.
“For starters,” added Barsavi. “A promise I intend to keep. A promise I intend to expand. I told Eymon he’d die in his own villa, with gems and silks and half a dozen ladies of his choice from the Guilded Lilies to keep him company. I will invent pleasures for him. He’ll die like a fucking duke, because tonight I name him the bravest man in Camorr.”
There was a general roar of approval; men and women applauded, and fists banged on armor and shields.
“Quite the opposite,” Barsavi whispered, “of a sneaking, cowardly piece of shit who would murder my only daughter. Who wouldn’t even do it with his own hands. Who’d let some fucking hireling work a twisted magic on her. A poisoner.” Barsavi spat in Locke’s face; the warm spittle trickled down his cheek. “Your man told me, of course, that your Bondsmage had set his spell and left your service last night; that you were so very confident, you didn’t want to keep paying him. Well, I for one applaud your sense of economy.”
Barsavi gestured to Anjais and Pachero; grim-faced, the two men stepped forward. They slipped their optics off and put them in vest pockets; an ominous gesture conducted in unconscious unison. Locke opened his mouth to say something—and then the realization of exactly how sewn up he was struck him cold.
He could proclaim his true identity, have the capa tear off his false moustache and rub away the wrinkles, spill the entire story—but what would it gain him? He would never be believed. He’d already displayed a Bondsmage’s protection. If he confessed to being Locke Lamora, the hundred men and women here would be after Jean and Bug and the Sanzas next.
If he was going to save them, he had to play the Gray King until the capa was finished with him, and then he would pray for a quick and easy death. Let Locke Lamora just vanish one night; let his friends slip away to whatever better fate awaited them. Blinking back hot tears, he summoned up a grin, looked at the two Barsavi sons, and said, “By all means, you fucking curs, let’s see if you can do any better than your father.”
Anjais and Pachero knew how to strike a man with the intent to kill, but just now they had no such intent. They bruised his ribs, knuckle-punched his arms, kicked his thighs, slapped his head from side to side, and punched him in the neck until every breath was a chore. At last, Anjais had him hoisted back up, and took hold of his chin so that the two of them were looking eye to eye.
“By the way,” said Anjais, “this is from Locke Lamora.”
Anjais balanced Locke’s chin on one finger and walloped him with his other hand. White-hot pain shot through Locke’s neck, and in the red-tinted darkness around him he saw stars. He spat blood, coughed, and licked his sore, swollen lips.
“Now,” said Barsavi, “I’ll have a father’s justice for Nazca’s death.”
He clapped his hands three times.
Behind him, there was an audible noise of men cursing, and heavy footfalls banging against the stone steps. Through the door came eight more men, carrying a large wooden cask—a cask the size of the one Nazca Barsavi had been returned to her father in. The funeral cask. The crowd around Barsavi and his sons parted eagerly to let the cask haulers through. They set it on the ground beside the capa, and inside it Locke heard the slosh of liquid.
Oh, thirteen gods, he thought.
“Can’t be cut, can’t be pierced,” said the capa, as though he were musing out loud. “But you can certainly be bruised. And you certainly need to breathe.”
Two of the capa’s men popped the lid on the cask open, and Locke was dragged over to it. The eye-watering stench of horse urine spilled out into the air, and he gagged, sobbing.
“Look at the Gray King cry,” whispered Barsavi. “Look at the Gray King sob. A sight I will treasure to the last hour of my dying day!” His voice rose. “Did Nazca sob? Did my daughter cry, as you
gave her her death? Somehow I don’t think so.”
The capa was shouting now. “Take a last look! He gets what Nazca got; he dies as she died, but by my hand!”
Barsavi seized Locke by the hair and tilted his face toward the barrel; for one brief irrational moment, Locke was grateful that there was nothing in his stomach to throw up. The dry retching still brought spasms of pain to his much-abused stomach muscles.
“With one small touch,” said the capa, actually gulping back sobs of exhilaration. “With one small touch, you son of a bitch. No poison for you. No quick way out before I put you in. You get to taste it, the whole time. All the while as you drown in it.”
And then he hefted Locke by the mantle, grunting. His men joined in, and together they hoisted him up over the rim, and then down he plunged face-first, down into thick, lukewarm filth that blotted out the noise of the world around him, down into darkness that burned his eyes and his cuts and swallowed him whole.
5
BARSAVI’S MEN slammed the lid back onto the barrel; several of them hammered it down with mallets and axe-butts until it was cinched tight. The capa gave the top of the barrel a thump with his fist and smiled broadly. Tears were still running down his cheeks.
“Somehow I don’t think the poor fucker did as well as he hoped with our negotiations!”
The men and women around him whooped and hollered, arms in the air, torches waving and casting wild shadows on the walls.
“Take this bastard and send him out to sea,” said the capa, gesturing toward the waterfall.
A dozen pairs of eager hands grabbed at the barrel. Laughing and joking, a crowd of the capa’s people hoisted it and carried it over to the northwestern corner of the Echo Hole, where water poured in from the ceiling and vanished into blackness through a fissure about eight feet wide. “One,” said the leader, “two …” And on the cusp of “three,” they flung the barrel down into darkness. It struck water somewhere beneath them with a splash; then they threw up their arms and began cheering once again.