by Scott Lynch
“Where’s the money, you little shit?”
“It’s been taken from me.”
“Not fucking likely. Sixteen thousand and five hundred full crowns?”
“Not quite; you’re forgetting the additional cost of meals and entertainment at the Shifting—”
Conté’s boot lashed out again, and Locke went sprawling into the opposite corner of his side of the carriage.
“For fuck’s sake, Conté! I don’t have it! It’s been taken from me! And it’s not important at the moment.”
“Let me tell you something, Master Lukas-fucking-Fehrwight. I was at Godsgate Hill; I was younger then than you are now.”
“Good for you, but I don’t give a sh—,” Locke said, and for that he ate another boot.
“I was at Godsgate Hill,” continued Conté, “too fucking young by far, the single most scared-shitless runt of a pikeman Duke Nicovante had in that mess. I was in it bad; my banneret was up to its neck in shit and Verrari and the Mad Count’s cavalry. Our horse had withdrawn; my position was being overrun. Our peers of Camorr fell back and saw to their own safety—with one fucking exception.”
“This is the single most irrelevant thing I’ve ever—,” said Locke as he moved for the door; Conté brought up his knife and convinced him back into his seat.
“Baron Ilandro Salvara,” said Conté. “He fought until his horse went down beneath him; he fought until he took four wounds and had to be hauled from the field by his legs. All the other peers treated us like garbage; Salvara nearly killed himself trying to save us. When I got out of the duke’s service, I tried the city watch for a few years; when that turned to shit, I begged for an audience with the old Don Salvara, and I told him I’d seen him at Godsgate Hill. I told him he’d saved my fucking life, and that I’d serve him for the rest of his, if he’d have me. He took me in. When he passed away, I decided to stay on and serve Lorenzo. Fucking move for that door again and I will bleed some enthusiasm out of you.
“Now Lorenzo,” said Conté with undisguised pride, “he’s more a man of business than his father was. But he’s made of the same stuff; he went into that alley with a blade in his hand when he didn’t know you, when he thought you were being attacked for real, by real fucking bandits that meant you harm. Are you proud, you fucking pissant? Are you proud of what you’ve done to that man, who tried to save your fucking life?”
“I do what I do, Conté,” said Locke with a bitterness that surprised him. “I do what I do. Is Lorenzo a saint of Perelandro? He’s a peer of Camorr; he profits from the Secret Peace. His great-great-grandfather probably slit someone’s throat to claim a peerage; Lorenzo benefits from that every day. People make tea from ashes and piss in the Cauldron while Lorenzo and Sofia have you to peel their grapes and wipe their chins for them. Don’t talk to me about what I’ve done. I need to get inside Raven’s Reach now.”
“Get serious about telling me where that money is,” said Conté, “or I’ll kick your ass so hard every piece of shit that falls out of it for the rest of your life will have my gods-damned heel print on it.”
“Conté,” said Locke, “everyone in Raven’s Reach is in danger. I need to get back up there.”
“I don’t believe you,” said Conté. “I wouldn’t fucking believe you if you told me my name was Conté. I wouldn’t believe you if you told me fire was hot and water was wet. Whatever you want, you don’t get it.”
“Conté, please, I can’t fucking escape up there. Every gods-damned Midnighter in the city is up there; the Spider is up there; the Nightglass Company is up there. Three hundred peers of Camorr are up there! I’m unarmed; haul me up there yourself. But for the love of the fucking gods, get me up there! If I don’t get up there before Falselight, it’ll be too late.”
“Too late for what?”
“I don’t have the time to explain; listen to me babble to Vorchenza and it’ll all fall together.”
“Why the hell,” said Conté, “do you need to talk to that fading old crone?”
“My mistake,” said Locke. “I seem to have more of the pulse of things than you do. Look, I can’t fuck around anymore. Please, please, I’m begging you. I’m not Lukas Fehrwight; I’m a gods-damned thief. Tie my hands, put your knife to my back; I don’t care what your terms are. Please just take me back up into Raven’s Reach; I don’t care how. You tell me how we do it.”
“What’s your real name?”
“How is that important?”
“Spit it up,” said Conté, “and maybe I’ll tie your hands, and fetch some guards, and I’ll try to get you up into Raven’s Reach.”
“My name,” said Locke with a sigh of resignation, “is Tavrin Callas.”
Conté looked hard at him for a moment, then grunted.
“Very well, Master Callas. Hold out your hands and don’t move; I’m going to tie you up so tight I guarantee it’ll fucking hurt. Then we’ll take a walk.”
5
THERE WERE Nightglass soldiers near the chain elevator landings who’d been given his description; naturally, they were delighted when Conté hauled him over with his hands tied in front of him. They ascended once again; Locke with Conté at his back and a blackjacket holding him by either arm.
“Please take me to Doña Vorchenza,” said Locke. “If you can’t find her, please find one of the Salvaras. Or even a captain in your company named Reynart.”
“Shut up, you,” said one of the blackjackets. “You go where you go.”
The cage slid home into the locking mechanisms on the embarkation terrace; a milling crowd of nobles and their guests turned their attention to Locke as he was carried forward between the three men. As they passed the threshold into the first gallery within the tower, Captain Reynart happened to be standing nearby with a plate of small confectionary ships in his hands. His eyes grew wide; he took a last bite of marzipan sail, wiped his mouth, and thrust his dish into the arms of a passing waiter, who nearly toppled over in surprise.
“By the gods,” he said, “where did you find him?”
“We didn’t, sir,” said one of the blackjackets. “Man behind us says he’s in the service of Lord and Lady Salvara.”
“I caught him by the carriages,” said Conté.
“Fantastic,” said Reynart. “Take him down a level, to the eastern wing of suites. There’s an empty storeroom with no windows. Search him, strip him down to his breechclout, and throw him in there. Two guards at all times. We’ll pull him out after midnight, when the feast starts to break up.”
“Reynart, you can’t,” cried Locke, struggling uselessly against the men who held him. “I came back on my own. On my own, do you understand? Everyone here is in danger. Are you in on your adopted mother’s business? I need to talk to Vorchenza!”
“I’ve been warned to develop selective hearing when it comes to you.” Reynart gestured at the blackjackets. “Storeroom, now.”
“Reynart, no! The sculptures, Reynart! Look in the fucking sculptures!”
Locke was shouting; guests and nobles were taking an intense interest, so Reynart clapped a hand over his mouth. More blackjackets appeared out of the crowd.
“Keep making a fuss,” said Reynart, “and these lords and ladies might just see blood.” He withdrew his hand.
“I know who she is, Reynart! I know who Vorchenza is. I’ll shout it across all of these galleries; I’ll go kicking and screaming, but before I’m in that room everyone will know! Now, look at the gods-damned sculptures, please.”
“What about the sculptures?”
“There’s something in them, damn it. It’s a plot. They’re from Capa Raza.”
“They were a gift to the duke,” said Reynart. “My superiors cleared them personally.”
“Your superiors,” said Locke, “have been interfered with. Capa Raza hired the services of a Bondsmage. I’ve seen what he can do to someone’s mind.”
“This is ridiculous,” said Reynart. “I can’t believe I’m letting you conjure another fairy tale. Ge
t him downstairs, but first let me gag him.” Reynart plucked a linen napkin from another nearby waiter’s tray and began to wad it up.
“Reynart, please, take me to Vorchenza. Why the hell would I come back if it wasn’t important? Everyone here is going to fucking die if you throw me in that storeroom. I’m tied up and under guard; please take me to Vorchenza.”
Stephen stared coldly at him, then set the napkin down. He put his finger in Locke’s face. “So be it. I’ll take you to see the doña. But if you utter so much as a single word while we’re hauling you over to her, I will gag you, beat you senseless, and put you in the storeroom. Is that clear?”
Locke nodded vigorously.
Reynart gestured for more blackjackets to join his procession; Locke was led across the gallery and down two sets of stairs with six soldiers at his side and Conté scowling just behind him. Reynart led him back to the very same hall and the very same chamber where he’d first met Doña Vorchenza. She was sitting in her chair, knitting discarded at her feet, holding a wet cloth to her lips while Doña Salvara knelt beside her. Don Salvara stood staring out the window with his leg up on the sill; all three of them looked very surprised indeed when Reynart thrust Locke into the room before him.
“This room is closed,” said Reynart to his guards. “Sorry, you, too,” he said when Conté tried to pass.
“Let the Salvaras’ man come in, Stephen,” said Doña Vorchenza. “He already knows most of it; he might as well know the rest.”
Conté stepped in, bowed to Vorchenza, and grabbed Locke by the right arm while Reynart locked the door behind them. The Salvaras gave Locke a matching pair of scowls.
“Hello, Sofia. Hey, Lorenzo. Nice to see you two again,” said Locke, in his natural voice.
Doña Vorchenza rose from her chair, closed the distance between herself and Locke with two steps, and punched him in his own mouth, a straight-arm blow with the flat of her palm. His head whirled to the right, and spikes of pain shot through his neck.
“Ow,” he said. “What the fuck is it with you, anyway?”
“A debt to be repaid, Master Thorn.”
“You stuck a gods-damned poisoned needle in my neck!”
“You most certainly deserved it,” said Doña Vorchenza.
“Well, I for one would dis—”
Reynart grabbed him by his left shoulder, spun him around, and slammed his own fist into Locke’s jaw. Vorchenza was rather impressive for someone of her age and build, but Reynart could really hit. The room seemed to go away for a few seconds; when it returned, Locke was sprawled in a corner, lying on his side. Small blacksmiths seemed to be pounding on anvils inconveniently located just above his eyes; Locke wondered how they’d gotten in there.
“I told you Doña Vorchenza was my adoptive mother,” said Reynart.
“Oh my,” said Conté, chuckling. “Now this is my sort of private party.”
“Has it occurred to any of you,” said Locke, crawling back to his feet, “to ask why the fuck I came all the way back to Raven’s Reach when I’d already made it clean away?”
“You jumped from one of the outside ledges,” said Doña Vorchenza, “and you grabbed one of the elevator cages as it went past, didn’t you?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, all the other ways to the ground were too unhealthy to consider.”
“You see? I told you, Stephen.”
“Perhaps I thought it was possible,” said the Vadran, “but I just didn’t want to think it had actually been done.”
“Stephen is not fond of heights,” said Vorchenza.
“He’s a very wise man,” said Locke, “but please, please listen to me. I came back to warn you—those sculptures. Capa Raza gave you four of them. Everyone in this tower is in awful fucking danger from them.”
“Sculptures?” Doña Vorchenza stared down at him curiously. “A gentleman left four gold-and-glass sculptures as a gift for the duke.” She looked over at Stephen. “I’m sure the duke’s security men have looked into them, and approved them. I wouldn’t know; I’m just consulting in this affair as a favor to some of my peers.”
“So I’ve been told by my superiors,” said Reynart.
“Oh, quit that,” said Locke. “You’re the Spider. I’m the Thorn of Camorr. Did you meet with Capa Raza? Did you meet a Bondsmage, styling himself the Falconer? Did they speak to you about the sculptures?”
Don and Doña Salvara were staring at Doña Vorchenza; the old woman stuttered and coughed.
“Whoops,” said Locke. “You hadn’t told Sofia and Lorenzo, had you? Playing the old friend-of-a-friend angle? Sorry. But I need to talk to you as the Spider. When Falselight comes, everyone in Raven’s Reach is fucked.”
“I knew it,” said Sofia. “I knew it!” She grabbed her husband by the arm and squeezed hard enough to make him wince. “Didn’t I tell you?”
“I’m still not so sure,” said Lorenzo.
“No,” said Doña Vorchenza, sighing. “Sofia has the truth of the matter. I am the duke’s Spider. Having said that, if it gets beyond this room, throats will be cut.”
Conté looked at her with surprise and a strange sort of approval in his eyes; Locke stumbled back to his feet.
“As for the matter of the sculptures,” said Doña Vorchenza, “I did clear them personally. They are a gift to the duke.”
“They’re a plot,” said Locke. “They’re a trap. Just open one up and you’ll see! Capa Raza means to ruin every man, woman, and child in this tower; it’ll be worse than murder.”
“Capa Raza,” said Doña Vorchenza, “was a perfect gentleman; he was almost too demure to accept my invitation to briefly join us this evening. This is another one of your fabulations, intended to bring you some advantage.”
“Oh, shit yes,” said Locke. “I marched back here after escaping and had myself cleverly tied up and hauled in here by the whole gods-damned Nightglass Company, on purpose. Now I’ve got you right where I fucking want you. Those sculptures are full of Wraithstone, Vorchenza! Wraithstone.”
“Wraithstone?” said Doña Sofia, aghast. “How can you know?”
“He doesn’t,” said Doña Vorchenza. “He’s lying. The sculptures are harmless.”
“Open one up,” said Locke. “There’s an easy remedy for this argument. Please, open one up. They catch fire at Falselight.”
“Those sculptures,” said Vorchenza, “are ducal property worth thousands of crowns. They will not be damaged on some mad whim of a known criminal.”
“Thousands of crowns,” said Locke, “versus hundreds of lives. Every peer in Camorr is going to be a drooling moron, do you understand? Can you imagine those children in that garden with white eyes like a Gentled horse? That’s what we’ll all be,” he shouted. “Gentled. That shit will eat our fucking souls.”
“Can it really hurt to check?” asked Reynart.
Locke looked up at Reynart with gratitude on his face. “No, it can’t, Reynart. Please do.”
Doña Vorchenza massaged her temples. “This is quite out of hand,” she said. “Stephen, throw this man somewhere secure until after the feast. A room without windows, please.”
“Doña Vorchenza,” said Locke, “what does the name Avram Anatolius mean to you?”
Her eyes were cold. “I couldn’t begin to say,” she said. “What do you imagine it means to you?”
“Capa Barsavi murdered Avram Anatolius twenty-two years ago,” said Locke. “And you knew about it. You knew he was a threat to the Secret Peace.”
“I can’t see what relevance this has to anything,” said Doña Vorchenza. “You will be silent now, or I’ll have you silenced.”
“Anatolius had a son,” said Locke with desperate haste, as Stephen took a step toward him. “A surviving son, Doña Vorchenza. Luciano Anatolius. Luciano is Capa Raza. Luciano took revenge on Barsavi for the murder of his parents and his siblings—now he means to have revenge on you as well! You and all your peers.”
“No,” said Doña Vorchenza, touching her he
ad again. “No, that’s not right. I enjoyed the time I spent with Capa Raza. I can’t imagine he would do anything like this.”
“The Falconer,” said Locke. “Do you recall the Falconer?”
“Raza’s associate,” said Vorchenza distantly. “I … I enjoyed my time with him, as well. A quiet and polite young man.”
“He did something to you, Doña Vorchenza,” said Locke. “I’ve seen him do it, right before my eyes. Did he speak your true name? Did he write something on a piece of parchment?”
“I … I … cannot … this is …” Doña Vorchenza cringed; the wrinkles of her face bent inward, as though she were in pain. “I must invite Capa Raza … It would be impolite not to invite him to the … to the feast.…” She slumped against her chair and screamed.
Lorenzo and Sofia rushed to her aid; Reynart picked Locke up by the front of his vest and slammed him against the north wall, hard. Locke’s feet dangled a foot off the ground.
“What did you do to her?” bellowed Reynart.
“Nothing,” gasped Locke. “A Bondsmage cast a spell over her! Think, man—is she being rational about the sculptures? The bastard did something to her mind.”
“Stephen,” said Doña Vorchenza in a hoarse voice, “put the Thorn down. He’s right. He’s right.… Raza and the Falconer … It’s like I’d forgotten, somehow. I wasn’t going to accept Raza’s request.… Then the Falconer did something at the desk, and I …”
She stood up once more, assisted by Sofia. “Luciano Anatolius, you said. Capa Raza is Avram Anatolius’ son? How could you possibly know that?”
“Because I tied that Bondsmage to the floor just an hour or two ago,” said Locke as Reynart let him slide back down the wall. “I cut off his fingers to get him to talk, and when he’d confessed everything I wanted to hear, I had his fucking tongue cut out, and the stump cauterized.”
Everyone in the room stared at him.
“I called him an asshole, too,” said Locke. “He didn’t like that.”