by Scott Lynch
“You are fools,” said the Falconer between sobs, “if you think to kill me. My brethren will take satisfaction; think on the consequences.”
“I’m not going to kill you,” said Locke. “I’m going to play a little game I like to call ‘scream in pain until you answer my fucking questions.’ ”
“Do what you will” said the Falconer. “The code of my order forbids me to betray my client.”
“Oh, you’re not working for your client anymore, asshole,” said Locke. “You’re not working for your client ever again.”
“It’s ready, Master Lamora,” said Ibelius.
The Bondsmage craned his neck to stare over at Ibelius. He swallowed and licked his lips, his wet, bloodshot eyes darting around the room.
“What’s the matter?” Locke reached out and carefully took the dagger from the dog-leech’s hand; its blade glowed red. “Afraid of fire? Why ever should that be?” Locke grinned, an expression utterly without humor. “Fire’s the only thing that’s going to keep you from bleeding to death.”
Jean rose from the sleeping pallet and knelt on the Falconer’s left arm. He pressed it down at the wrist, and Locke slowly came over to stand beside him, hatchet in one hand and glowing knife in the other.
“I heartily approve, in theory,” said Ibelius, “but in practice I believe I shall … absent myself.”
“By all means, Master Ibelius,” said Locke.
The curtain swished, and the dog-leech was gone.
“Now,” said Locke, “I can accept that it would be a bad idea to kill you. But when I finally let you slink back to Karthain, you’re going as an object lesson. You’re going to remind your pampered, twisted, arrogant fucking brethren about what might happen when they fuck with someone’s friends in Camorr.”
The blade of Jean’s hatchet whistled down, severing the Bondsmage’s little finger of his left hand. The Falconer screamed.
“That’s Nazca,” said Locke. “Remember Nazca?”
He swung down again; the ring finger of the left hand rolled in the dirt, and blood spurted.
“That’s Calo,” said Locke.
Another swing, and the middle finger was gone. The Falconer writhed and pulled at his bonds, whipping his head from side to side in agony.
“Galdo, too. Are these names familiar, Master Bondsmage? These little footnotes to your fucking contract? They were awfully real to me. Now this finger coming up—this one’s Bug. Actually, Bug probably should have been the little finger, but what the hell.” The hatchet fell again; the index finger of the Falconer’s left hand joined its brethren in bloody exile.
“Now the rest,” said Locke, “the rest of your fingers and both of your thumbs, those are for me and Jean.”
3
IT WAS tedious work; they had to reheat the dagger several times to cauterize all the wounds. The Falconer was quivering with pain by the time they’d finished; his eyes were closed and his teeth clenched. The air in the enclosed room stank of burnt flesh and scalded blood.
“Now,” said Locke, sitting on the Falconer’s chest. “Now it’s time to talk.”
“I cannot,” whispered the Bondsmage. “I cannot … betray my client’s secrets.”
“You no longer have a client,” said Locke. “You no longer serve Capa Raza; he hired a Bondsmage, not a fingerless freak with a dead bird for a best friend. When I removed your fingers, I removed your obligations to Raza. At least, that’s the way I see it.”
“Go to hell,” the Falconer spat.
“Oh, good. You’ve decided to do it the hard way.” Locke smiled again and tossed the now-cool dagger to Jean, who set it over the flame and began to heat it once again. “If you were any other man, I’d threaten your balls next. I’d make all sorts of cracks about eunuchs; but I think you could bear that. You’re not most men. I think the only thing I can take from you that would truly pain you to the depths of your soul would be your tongue.”
The Bondsmage stared at him, his lips quivering. “Please,” he croaked hoarsely, “have pity, for the gods’ sakes. Have pity. We had a contract. I was merely carrying it out.”
“When that contract became my friends,” said Locke, “you exceeded your mandate.”
“Please,” whispered the Falconer.
“No,” said Locke. “I will cut it out; I will cauterize it while you lay there writhing. I will make you a mute—I’m guessing you might eventually be able to conjure some magic without fingers, but without a tongue?”
“No! Please!”
“Then speak,” said Locke. “Tell me what I want to know.”
“Gods,” sobbed the Falconer, “gods forgive me. Ask. Ask your questions.”
“If I catch you in a lie,” said Locke, “it’s balls first, and then the tongue. Don’t presume on my patience. Why did Capa Raza want us dead?”
“Money,” whispered the Falconer. “That vault of yours; I spied it out while I was first making my observations of you. He’d intended just to use you as a distraction for Capa Barsavi; when we discovered how much money you’d already stolen, he wanted to have it—to pay for me. Almost another month of my services. To help him finish his tasks here in the city.”
“You murdered my fucking friends,” said Locke, “and you tried to murder Jean and myself, for the metal in our vault?”
“You seemed the type to hold a grudge,” coughed the Falconer. “Isn’t that funny? We figured we’d be better off with all of you safely dead.”
“You figured right,” said Locke. “Now Capa Raza, the Gray King, whoever the fuck he is.”
“Anatolius.”
“That’s his real name? Luciano Anatolius?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“Fuck you, Falconer, answer my questions. Anatolius. What was his business with Barsavi?”
“The Secret Peace,” said the Bondsmage.
“What about it?”
“The Secret Peace was not achieved without a great deal of bloodshed … and difficulty. There was one rather powerful merchant, with the resources to discover what Barsavi and the duke’s Spider had put together; not being of noble blood, he was rather upset at being excluded.”
“And so … Barsavi killed him?” said Locke.
“Yes. Avram Anatolius, a merchant of Fountain Bend. Barsavi murdered him and his wife, and his three younger children—Lavin, Ariana, and Maurin. But the three older children—they escaped with one of their master’s maids. She protected them, pretending they were her own. She took them to safety in Talisham.”
“Luciano,” said Locke. “Luciano, Cheryn, and Raiza.”
“Yes … the oldest son and the twin sisters. They have been rather consumed with the idea of vengeance, Master Lamora. You’re an amateur by comparison. They spent twenty-two years preparing for the events of the past two months; Cheryn and Raiza returned eight years ago, under an assumed name; they built their reputations as contrarequialla and became Barsavi’s most loyal servants.
“Luciano, on the other hand … Luciano went to sea, to train himself in the arts of command and to amass a fortune. A fortune with which to purchase the services of a Bondsmage.”
“Capa Raza was a freighter captain?”
“No,” said the Falconer. “A buccaneer. Not the ragged sort of idiot you find down on the Sea of Brass; he was quiet, efficient, professional. He struck rarely and he struck well; he took good cargo from the galleons of Emberlain. He sank the ships and left no one alive to speak his name.”
“Gods damn it,” said Jean. “Gods damn it; he’s the captain of the Satisfaction.”
“Yes, the so-called plague ship,” chuckled the Falconer. “Odd how easy it is to keep people away from your ship when you really want to, isn’t it?”
“He’s been sending his fortune out to it as ‘charitable provisions,’ ” said Jean. “It must be all the money he stole from us, and everything he took from Capa Barsavi.”
“Yes,” said the Bondsmage sadly. “Only now it belongs to my order, for services
rendered.”
“We’ll just see about that. So what now? I saw your master Anatolius at Raven’s Reach a few hours ago; what the fuck does he think he’s doing next?”
“Hmmm.” The Bondsmage fell silent for several moments; Locke prodded him in the neck with Jean’s hatchet, and he smiled strangely. “Do you mean to kill him, Lamora?”
“Ila justicca vei cala,” said Locke.
“Your Throne Therin is passable,” said the Bondsmage, “but your pronunciation is excrement. ‘Justice is red,’ indeed. So you want him, more than anything? You want him screaming under your knife?”
“That’d do for a start.”
Unexpectedly, the Falconer threw back his head and began to laugh—a high-pitched noise, tinged with madness. His chest shook with mirth, and fresh tears ran from his eyes.
“What?” Locke prodded him again with the hatchet. “Quit being deliberately freakish and give me my fucking answer.”
“I’ll give you two,” said the Falconer, “and I’ll give you a choice. It’s guaranteed to cause you pain, either way. What hour of the evening is it?”
“What the hell does it matter to you?”
“I’ll tell you everything; please, just tell me what the hour is.”
“I’d wager it’s half past seven,” said Jean. The Bondsmage began chuckling once again. A smile grew on his haggard face, impossibly beatific for a man who’d just lost his fingers and thumbs.
“What the fuck is it? Spit out a real answer or you lose something else.”
“Anatolius,” said the Falconer, “will be at the Floating Grave. He’ll have a boat behind the galleon; he can reach it through one of Barsavi’s escape hatches. At Falselight, the Satisfaction will turn on her anchor chain and put out to sea; she’ll tack first to the east, sweeping past the south end of the Wooden Waste, where it opens to the ocean. His crew in the city has been sneaking out to the ship, one or two at a time, in the provision boat. Like rats leaving a sinking vessel. He’ll stay until the last; it’s his style. Last out of danger. They’ll pick him up south of the Waste.”
“His crew in the city,” said Locke. “You mean his ‘Gray King’s men,’ the ones who’ve been helping him all along?”
“Yes,” said the Bondsmage. “Time your entrance properly … and you should have him to yourself, or very close, before he sets off in the boat.”
“That doesn’t cause me pain,” said Locke. “That thought brings me pleasure.”
“But here’s the second point. The Satisfaction puts out to sea just as the greater part of Anatolius’ plan goes into effect.”
“Greater part?”
“Think, Lamora. You can’t truly be this dense; Barsavi slew Avram Anatolius, but who allowed it to happen? Who was complicit?”
“Vorchenza,” said Locke slowly. “Doña Vorchenza, the duke’s Spider.”
“Yes,” said the Falconer. “And behind her, the man who gave her the authority to make such decisions?”
“Duke Nicovante.”
“Oh yes,” whispered the sorcerer, genuinely warming to his subject. “Oh, yes. But not just him, either. Who stood to benefit from the Secret Peace? Who did the arrangement shield, at the expense of men like Avram Anatolius?”
“The nobility.”
“Yes. The peers of Camorr. And Anatolius wants them.”
“Them? Which ‘them’?”
“Why, all of them, Master Lamora.”
“How the fuck is that possible?”
“Sculptures. Four unusual sculptures delivered as gifts to the duke. Currently placed at various points within Raven’s Reach.”
“Sculptures? I’ve seen them—gold and glass, with shifting alchemical lights. Your work?”
“Not my work,” said the Falconer. “Not my sort of thing at all. The alchemical lights are just a bit of mummery; they are beautiful, I suppose. But there’s a lot of room left inside those things for the real surprise.”
“What?”
“Alchemical fuses,” said the Falconer. “Set for a certain time; small clay pans of fire-oil, intended to be set off by the fuses.”
“But that can’t be all.”
“Oh no, Master Lamora.” Now the sorcerer positively smirked. “Before he hired me, Anatolius spent part of his considerable fortune to secure large amounts of a rare substance.”
“No more games, Falconer—what the hell is it?”
“Wraithstone.”
Locke was silent for a long moment; he shook his head as though to clear it. “You can’t be fucking serious.”
“Hundreds of pounds of it,” said the Falconer, “distributed in the four sculptures. All the peers of Camorr will be crammed into those galleries at Falselight; the duke and his Spider and all their relatives and friends and servants and heirs. Do you know anything about Wraithstone smoke, Master Lamora? It’s slightly lighter than air. It will spread upward until it fills every level of the duke’s feast; it will pass out through the roof vents and it will fill the Sky Garden, where all the children of the nobility are playing as we speak. Anyone standing on the embarkation platform might escape … but I very much doubt it.”
“At Falselight,” said Locke in a small voice.
“Yes,” hissed the sorcerer. “So now you have your choice, Master Lamora. At Falselight, the man you want to kill more than anyone in the world will be briefly alone at the Floating Grave. And at Falselight, six hundred people at the top of Raven’s Reach will suffer a fate worse than death. Your friend Jean looks to be in very poor health; I doubt he can help you with either task. So the decision is yours. I wish you joy of it.”
Locke arose and tossed Jean his hatchet. “It’s no decision at all,” he said. “Gods damn you, Falconer, it’s no decision at all.”
“You’re going to Raven’s Reach,” said Jean.
“Of course I am.”
“Have a pleasant time,” said the Falconer, “convincing the guards and the nobility of your sincerity; Doña Vorchenza herself is rather convinced that the sculptures are completely harmless.”
“Well,” said Locke, grinning wryly and scratching the back of his head. “I’m kind of popular at Raven’s Reach at the moment; they might be glad to see me.”
“How do you expect to get back out?” asked Jean.
“I don’t know,” said Locke. “I don’t have the first fucking clue; but it’s a state of affairs that’s served me well in the past. I need to run. Jean, for the love of the gods, hide near the Floating Grave if you must, but don’t you dare go in there; you’re in no condition to fight.” Locke turned to the Bondsmage. “Capa Raza—how is he with a blade?”
“Deadly,” said the Falconer with a smile.
“Well, look, Jean. I’ll do what I can at Raven’s Reach; I’ll try to get to the Floating Grave somehow. If I’m late, I’m late; we’ll follow Raza and we’ll find him somewhere else. But if I’m not late, if he’s still there …”
“Locke, you can’t be serious. At least let me come with you. If Raza has any skill with a blade at all, he’ll kick the shit out of you.”
“No more arguments, Jean; you’re hurt too badly to be of much use. I’m fit, and I’m obviously crazy. Anything could happen. But I have to go, now.” Locke embraced Jean, stepped to the doorway, and turned back. “Cut this bastard’s fucking tongue out.”
“You promised!” yelled the Falconer. “You promised!”
“I didn’t promise you shit. My dead friends, on the other hand—I made them certain promises I intend to keep.”
Locke whirled and went out through the curtain; behind him, Jean was setting the knife over the oil flame once again. The Falconer’s screams followed him down the debris-strewn street, and then faded into the distance as he turned north and began to jog for the Hill of Whispers.
4
IT WAS well past the eighth hour of the evening before Locke set foot on the flagstones beneath the Five Towers of Camorr once again. The journey north had been problematic. Between bands of drunken rev
elers with obliterated senses (and sensibilities) and the guards at the Alcegrante watch stations (Locke finally managed to convince them that he was a lawscribe heading north to meet an acquaintance leaving the duke’s feast; he also slipped them a “Midsummer-mark gift” of gold tyrins from a little supply concealed up his sleeve), he felt himself fortunate to make it at all. Falselight would rise within the next hour and a quarter; the sky was already turning red in the west and dark blue in the east.
He made his way past the rows and rows of carriages in close array. Horses stamped and whinnied; a great many of them had relieved themselves onto the lovely stones of the largest courtyard in Camorr. Locke snorted; horses were not Verrari water-engines, to be left standing decorating the place until needed. Footmen and guards and attendants mingled in groups, sharing food and staring up at the Five Towers, where the glory of the coming sunset painted strange, fresh colors on their Elderglass walls.
Locke was so busy considering what to say to the men at the elevator hoists that he didn’t even see Conté until the taller, stronger man had one hand around the back of Locke’s neck and one of his long knives jammed into Locke’s back.
“Well, well,” he said, “Master Fehrwight. The gods are kind. Don’t say a fucking thing, just come with me.”
Conté half led and half hauled him to a nearby carriage; Locke recognized the one he’d ridden to the feast in with Sofia and Lorenzo. It was an enclosed, black-lacquered box with a window on the side opposite the door; that window’s curtains and shutters were drawn tightly shut.
Locke was thrown onto one of the padded benches within the carriage; Conté bolted the door behind him and sat down on the opposite bench, with his knife held at the ready.
“Conté, please,” said Locke, not even bothering with his Fehrwight accent, “I need to get back into Raven’s Reach; everyone inside is in terrible danger.”
Locke hadn’t known that someone could kick so hard from a sitting position; Conté braced himself against the seat with his free hand and showed him that it was possible. The bodyguard’s heavy boot knocked him back into his corner of the carriage; Locke bit down hard on his tongue and tasted blood. His head rattled against the wooden walls.