by Scott Lynch
Reynart was the first to reach her side; as usual he wore no oilcloak and he bore the heavy rain with stiff-necked stoicism. The Salvaras were sensibly covered up against the downpour; Lorenzo held up a silk parasol to shield his wife even further.
“Let me guess,” said Reynart. “They’re full of shit.”
“I’m afraid so,” said Doña Vorchenza. “Thank you for your time, Watch-sergeant; you are dismissed. You may call your men out of the barge, as well. I don’t believe we’ll be needing them anymore.”
As the greatly relieved yellowjackets filed away down the dock, wooden poles held very carefully on their shoulders, Doña Vorchenza seemed to shudder and gasp. She put her hands to her face and bent forward.
“Doña Vorchenza,” cried Sofia, rushing forward to grab her by the shoulders. As they all bent close around her, she suddenly straightened up and cackled, gasping in air between bursts of dry-sounding laughter. She shook with it; her tiny fists punched the air before her.
“Oh, gods,” she gasped. “This is too much.”
“What? Doña Vorchenza, what’s the matter?” Reynart grabbed her by the arm and peered at her.
“The money, Stephen.” She chuckled. “The money was never anywhere near this place. The little bastard had us digging through shit-barges purely for his own amusement. The money was on board the Satisfaction.”
“How do you figure that?”
“Isn’t it plain? It’s all striking me from so many directions at once. Capa Raza assisted with the charitable contributions to the plague ship, yes?”
“He did.”
“Not from any sense of charitable duty. But because he needed a means to move his fortune out to the frigate!”
“Out to a plague ship?” said Doña Sofia. “That wouldn’t do him any good.”
“It would if there was no plague,” said Doña Vorchenza. “The plague was a lie.”
“But,” said Don Lorenzo, “why was Lukas so adamant about sinking that ship? Was it simple pique? If he couldn’t have it, no one could?”
“His name was Callas, Lorenzo dear—Tavrin Callas.”
“Whichever, darling,” said Lorenzo. “Forty-five thousand crowns, plus whatever Barsavi’s fortune came to. That’s a great deal of money to put out of everyone’s grasp, forever.”
“Yes,” said Doña Vorchenza. “And he told us why he was doing it while he stood there. Damn me for a fool.”
“I fear,” said Doña Sofia, “I speak for the rest of us when I say we don’t follow.”
“The Thorn said he was a priest of the Thirteenth,” she said. “The heresy of the Nameless Thirteenth, the Crooked Warden, the god of thieves and malefactors. ‘For propriety’s sake,’ he said. ‘For propriety’s sake.’ He said that on purpose.”
She laughed again, biting down on her knuckles to contain herself.
“Oh, gods. Anatolius killed three of his friends. So don’t you see? There was no danger on that ship; he didn’t want it sunk to save Camorr. It was a death-offering, Stephen, a death-offering.”
Reynart slapped one hand against his forehead; water flew.
“Yes,” said Doña Vorchenza. “And I sank it for him, in sixty fathoms of shark-infested water, neat as you please.”
“So …,” said Don Lorenzo, “all of our money is three hundred and sixty feet down on the bottom of Old Harbor?”
“I’m afraid so,” said Doña Vorchenza.
“Ah … what do we do now?”
Doña Vorchenza sighed and meditated for a few moments. “First,” she said when she looked back up at the Salvaras, “all the truths behind this affair will be declared state secrets of the Duchy of Camorr; I bind you all to silence concerning them. The Thorn of Camorr is a myth; the money he allegedly stole never existed; the duke’s Spider never took any formal interest in the matter.”
“But,” said Doña Sofia, “they told Lorenzo that’s how the Thorn guarantees his own secrecy! When they stole into our house dressed as Midnighters!”
“Yes,” said her husband, “one of the false Midnighters specifically told me that the Thorn relied on the embarrassment of his victims to keep his thefts secret from other potential victims, and I don’t think that part was a lie.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t,” said Doña Vorchenza. “But nonetheless, that’s just what we’re going to do. In time, you’ll come to understand that a state like ours cannot afford to offer up a show of weakness for honesty’s sake; Duke Nicovante charges me with vouchsafing his security, not his conscience.”
The Salvaras stared at her, saying nothing.
“Oh, don’t look so glum,” she said. “Your real punishment for getting involved in this mess has not yet begun. Come back to Amberglass with me, and let’s talk about the penalty.”
“Our punishment, Doña Vorchenza?” said Lorenzo hotly. “Our punishment was nearly seventeen thousand crowns! Haven’t we been punished enough?”
“Not nearly,” said Doña Vorchenza. “I’ve decided who’s to inherit the title of Countess Amberglass when it’s my time to pass on.” She paused for just a moment before continuing. “Or, should I say, Count and Countess Amberglass.”
“What?” Sofia squeaked like a girl of eight. A particularly squeaky girl of eight, much accustomed to squeaking, loudly.
“It’s no blessing,” said Doña Vorchenza. “It comes with a job.”
“You can’t be serious,” said Don Lorenzo. “There are two dozen families on the Alcegrante with more rank and honor than ourselves; the duke would never name us to Amberglass before them.”
“I believe I know Nicovante somewhat better than you do, young man,” said Doña Vorchenza. “And I believe the inheritance is mine to dictate.”
“But … the job,” said Doña Salvara. “You can’t mean …”
“Of course I do, Sofia. I can’t live forever. Each time something like this affair lands in my lap, I suddenly recall that I don’t want to live forever. Let someone else play the Spider; we’ve deceived everyone for all these years letting them think the office was held by a man. Now let’s deceive them further by passing it on to two individuals.”
She put her arm through Reynart’s and allowed him to help her back toward the carriage.
“You’ll have Stephen to help you, and to run your operations; he’ll serve as the link between you and the Midnighters. You both have acceptably malleable wits. Given just a few more years, I’m sure I can whip the two of you into something resembling the shape I require.”
“And then?” asked Doña Sofia.
“And then, my dear, all these gods-damned crises will be yours to deal with.” Doña Vorchenza sighed. “Old sins will never be buried so deep that they cannot rise again when least expected. And so you’ll pay for the good of Camorr with the coin of your own conscience, parceled out year after year, until that purse is empty at last.”
3
“MASTER LAMORA,” cried Ibelius, “this is entirely unacceptable!”
The sea at Falselight was a surging field of gray and green; the waves rolled and crashed around the galleon Golden Gain—one of only two vessels that had bothered to put out from Camorr that evening, bound for Talisham and thence to Tal Verrar. The wind wailed in the shrouds and sails of the elderly vessel, and sailors in oilcloaks hurried here and there on the decks, muttering private prayers to Iono, Lord of the Grasping Waters.
Locke Lamora lay on a pile of tarp-covered crates on the galleon’s raised stern deck, bundled in blankets within oilcloths within tarps, like a sausage roll. Nothing of him was visible but his abnormally pale (and heavily bruised) face, poking out of the layers around him. Jean Tannen sat at his side, bundled against the rain, but not to the point of immobility.
“Master Ibelius,” said Locke in a weak voice, made nasal by his broken nose, “each time I have left Camorr, I have done it by land. This is something new.… I wanted to see it, one last time.”
“You are very near death, Master Lamora,” said Ibelius. “It is foolish fo
r you to be larking about on deck in this weather.”
“Ibelius,” said Jean, “if what Locke is doing were larking about, corpses could get jobs as acrobats. Can we have a moment’s peace?”
“From the attentions that have sustained his life this past day? By all means, young masters. Enjoy your sea view, and on your heads be it!”
Ibelius stomped off across the rolling deck, sliding in this direction and that, quite unaccustomed to life at sea.
Camorr was diminishing behind them, fading gradually between shifting curtains of rain. Falselight rose up from the lower city like an aura above the waves; the Five Towers shone ghostly beneath the churning skies. The wake of the galleon seemed to gleam with phosphorescence—a roiling Falselight of its own.
They sat on the stern deck and watched the dark horizon swallow the city behind them.
“I’m sorry, Locke,” said Jean. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more useful to you, at the end.”
“What the hell are you talking about? You killed Cheryn and Raiza; I could never have done that. You pulled me out of the Floating Grave. You hauled me back to Ibelius and got another lovely fucking poultice smeared all over me. What do you have to apologize for—besides the poultice?”
“I’m a liability,” he said. “My name. I’ve been using my real name all my life, and I never thought it’d come to anything bad.”
“What, the bondsmage? Oh, gods, Jean. Take a false name wherever we end up. Tavrin Callas is good. Let the bastard pop up all over the place; the order of Aza Guilla will have a surfeit of miracles to cherish.”
“I tried to kill you, Locke. I’m sorry.… I couldn’t do anything about it.”
“You didn’t try to kill me, Jean. The Falconer did. You couldn’t do anything about it. Gods, I’m the one with his arm slashed open and his shoulder punched in, and you’re over there moping. Enough!”
Thunder rumbled in the clouds overhead, and there was the sound of shouted orders from the forward deck of the ship.
“Jean,” said Locke, “you are a greater friend than I ever could have imagined before I met you; I owe you my life too many times over to count. I would rather be dead myself than lose you. Not just because you’re all I have left.”
Jean said nothing for several minutes; they stared north across the Iron Sea as the whitecaps lashed one another with an increasing tempo.
“Sorry,” said Jean. “Mouth sort of ran away with me. Thanks, Locke.”
“Well, cheer up. At least you’ve got more mobility than a fucking tadpole on dry land. Look at my little oilcloth castle.” Locke sighed. “So this is winning,” he said.
“It is,” replied Jean.
“It can go fuck itself,” said Locke.
They passed another few minutes in silence and rain.
“Locke,” said Jean at last, hesitantly.
“Yes?”
“If you don’t mind my asking … what is your real name?”
“Oh, gods.” Locke smiled weakly. “Can’t I have any secrets?”
“You know mine.”
“Yeah, but you’ve only got the one anyway.”
“Not a fair point.”
“Oh, fine,” said Locke. “Get over here.”
Jean stumbled over to the pile of crates on which Locke was lying, and bent down to put his ear near Locke’s mouth. Locke whispered five syllables, and Jean’s eyes widened.
“You know,” he said, “I’d have gone with Locke in preference to that, myself.”
“Tell me about it.”
The galleon rode south before the winds of the storm, and the last few glimmers of Falselight faded behind them. The lights drew down into the darkness, and then they were gone for good, and the rain swept in like a wall above the surface of the sea.
AFTERWORD
A chunk of incredible good fortune fell right out of the sky and landed on my head when this novel was picked up for publication. I owe many thanks to Simon Spanton, Gillian Redfearn, Krystyna Kujawinska, Hannah Whitaker, and Susan Howe at Orion Books, not to mention Anne Groell at Bantam.
It takes a village to keep a first-time author’s ego stoked (or in check, as necessary). I couldn’t have asked for more patient or generous supporters than my parents, Jill and Tom Lynch—nor would anything have been the same without a certain energetic crew of online miscreant-savants: Gabe Chouinard, Matthew Woodring Stover, Kage Baker, Bob Urell, Summer Brooks, M. Lynn Booker, Chris Billett, Gabriel Mesa, Alex Berman, Clucky, Mastadge, Shevchyk, Ariel, and all the rest—including the readers and players of the role-playing game Deeds Not Words.
Thanks also to friends near and far—Jason McCray, Darren Wieland, Cleo McAdams, Jayson Stevens, Peg Kerr, Philip Shill, Bradford Walker, J. H. Frank, Jason Sartin, Abra Staffin-Wiebe, Sammi and Lewis, Mike and Becky, Bridget and Joe, Annie and Josiah, Erik and Aman, Mike and Laura, Paul, Adrian, Ben and Jenny Rose, Aaron, Jesse, Chris and Ren, Andy Nelson, and last but not least Rose Miller, who’s not tall enough to ride the ride just yet, but we let her on anyway.
New Richmond, Wisconsin
September 16, 2005
RED SEAS UNDER RED SKIES
A Bantam Spectra Book / August 2007
Published by Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2007 by Scott Lynch
Maps by Robert Bull
Bantam Books, the rooster colophon, Spectra, and the portrayal of a boxed “s” are trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Lynch, Scott, 1978–
Red seas under red skies / Scott Lynch.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-553-80468-3 (hardcover)
eISBN: 978-0-553-90358-4
1. Swindlers and swindling—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3612.Y5427R43 2007
813’.6—dc22 2007018597
www.bantamdell.com
v3.1_r2
For Matthew Woodring Stover,
a friendly sail on the horizon.
Non destiti, nunquam desistam.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Map
Prologue: A Strained Conversation
I: Cards in the Hand
Chapter One: Little Games
Reminiscence: The Capa of Vel Virazzo
Chapter Two: Requin
Reminiscence: Best-Laid Plans
Chapter Three: Warm Hospitality
Reminiscence: The Lady of the Glass Pylon
Chapter Four: Blind Alliances
Reminiscence: The Amusement War
Chapter Five: On a Clockwork River
Last Reminiscence: By Their Own Rope
Chapter Six: Balance of Trades
Chapter Seven: Casting Loose
II: Cards up the Sleeve
Chapter Eight: Summer’s End
Chapter Nine: The Poison Orchid
Chapter Ten: All Souls in Peril
Chapter Eleven: All Else, Truth
Chapter Twelve: Port Prodigal
Chapter Thirteen: Points of Decision
III: Cards on the Table
Chapter Fourteen: Scourging the Sea of Brass
Chapter Fifteen: Between Brethren
Chapter Sixteen: Settling Accounts
Epilogue: Red Seas Under Red Skies
Afterword
Acknowledgments
PROLOGUE
A Strained Conversation
1
Locke Lamora stood on the pier in Tal Verrar with the hot wind of a burning ship at his back and the cold bite of a loaded crossbow’s bolt at his neck.
He grinned
and concentrated on holding his own crossbow level with the left eye of his opponent; they were close enough that they would catch most of each other’s blood, should they both twitch their fingers at the same time.
“Be reasonable,” said the man facing him. Beads of sweat left visible trails as they slid down his grime-covered cheeks and forehead. “Consider the disadvantages of your situation.”
Locke snorted. “Unless your eyeballs are made of iron, the disadvantage is mutual. Wouldn’t you say so, Jean?”
They were standing two-by-two on the pier, Locke beside Jean, their assailants beside one another. Jean and his foe were toe-to-toe with their crossbows similarly poised; four cold metal bolts were cranked and ready scant inches away from the heads of four understandably nervous men. Not one of them could miss at this range, not if all the gods above or below the heavens willed it otherwise.
“All four of us would seem to be up to our balls in quicksand,” said Jean.
On the water behind them, the old galleon groaned and creaked as the roaring flames consumed it from the inside out. Night was made day for hundreds of yards around; the hull was crisscrossed with the white-orange lines of seams coming apart. Smoke boiled out of those hellish cracks in little black eruptions, the last shuddering breaths of a vast wooden beast dying in agony. The four men stood at the very end of their pier, strangely alone in the midst of light and noise that was drawing the attention of the entire city.
“Lower your piece, for the love of the gods,” said Locke’s opponent. “We’ve been instructed not to kill you, if we don’t have to.”
“And I’m sure you’d be honest if it were otherwise, of course,” said Locke. His smile grew. “I make it a point never to trust men with weapons at my windpipe. Sorry.”
“Your hand will start to shake long before mine does.”
“I’ll rest the tip of my quarrel against your nose when I get tired. Who sent you after us? What are they paying you? We’re not without funds; a happy arrangement could be reached.”