The Gentleman Bastard Series Books 1-3

by Scott Lynch

  “Of course.”

  “Then you shouldn’t mind going ashore immediately.”

  She led them to the Sky-Reacher’s larboard waist, where Jean could see four sailors still waiting in the boat. It was an easy trip down the boarding net, just seven or eight feet. Even Locke made it without mishap, and then Patience, who evidently required a hoist only when gravity wasn’t on her side.

  “Some of your people are waiting on the pier,” she said as she settled onto a rowing bench. “They’re all sensible of the urgency of the situation.”

  “Our people?” said Locke.

  “As of now, they’re entirely your people. The arrangement of their affairs is in your hands.”

  “And they’ll just do as we say? To what extent?”

  “To a reasonable extent, Locke. Nobody will fling themselves into the lake at your whim, but you two are now the de facto heads of the Deep Roots party’s election apparatus. Functionaries will take your orders. Candidates will kiss your boots.”

  The sailors pushed them away from the Sky-Reacher and pulled for the lantern-lit waterfront.

  “This is the Ponta Corbessa,” said Patience, gesturing ahead. “The city wharf. I take it neither of you knows much about this place?”

  “Our former plan was to avoid Karthain, uh, forever,” said Jean.

  “Your new associates will acquaint you with everything. Give it a few days and you’ll be very comfortable, I’m sure.”

  “Hrm,” said Locke.

  “Speaking of comfort, there is one last thing I should mention.”

  “And that is?” said Locke.

  “You will of course be free to communicate with Sabetha in whatever fashion she allows, but collusion will not be acceptable. You are opponents. You will oppose and be opposed, without quarter. We’re paying you to see a contest. Disappoint us in that regard and I can assure you, not getting paid will be the least of your worries.”

  “Give the threats a rest,” said Locke. “You’ll get your gods-damned contest.”

  The longboat drew up against a stone quay. Jean clambered out of the boat and heaved Locke up after him, then grudgingly offered his arm to Patience. She took it with a nod.

  They were in the shadow of the lighthouse now, on a stretch of cobbled waterfront backed by warehouses and shuttered shops. A sparse forest of masts rose behind the buildings—probably some sort of lagoon, Jean thought, where ships could rest in safety. The area was strangely deserted, save for a small group of people standing beside a carriage.

  “Patience,” said Jean, “what should we— Ah, hell!”

  Patience had vanished. The sailors in the longboat pushed off without a word and headed back toward the Sky-Reacher.

  “Bitch knows how to make an exit,” said Locke. He popped the last of his meat and cheese into his mouth and wiped his hands on his tunic.

  “Excuse me!” A heavyset young man in a gray brocade coat broke from the group at the carriage. “You must be Masters Callas and Lazari!”

  “We must,” said Jean, flashing a friendly smile. “Pray give us a moment.”

  “Oh,” said the man, who possessed the true Karthani accent, which was something like the speech of a Lashani after a few strong drinks. “Of course.”

  “Now,” said Jean quietly, turning to Locke, “who are we?”

  “A pair of rats about to stick their noses into a big fucking trap.”

  “Characters, you git. Lazari and Callas. We should settle the particulars before we start talking to people.”

  “Ah, right.” Locke scratched his chin. “We’ve got no time to practice Karthani accents, so to hell with hiding that we’re from out of town.”

  “Less work suits me,” said Jean.

  “Good. Then we need to decide who’s the iron fist and who’s the velvet glove.”

  “Sounds like something you should be hiring a couple of strumpets to help you with.”

  “I’d hit you if I thought it would do any good, Jean. You know what I mean.”

  “Right. Let’s be obvious. Me brute, you weasel.”

  “Agreed. You brute, me charming mastermind. But there’s no sense in setting things too taut before we even know who we’re dealing with. Be a brute that plays nice until provoked.”

  “So we’re not actually playing characters at all, then?”

  “Well, hell.” Locke cracked his knuckles and shrugged. “It’s one less detail for us to muck up. Anyway, Patience said these people would eat out of our hands. Let’s put that to the test.”

  “Now, then,” said Jean, turning back to the heavyset young man. “Start talking again.”

  “I’m delighted to see you alive and well, gentlemen!” The stranger came closer, and Jean noted his round, ruddy features, the look of a man eager to please and be pleased. And yet his eyes, behind slender optics, were shrewd and measuring. His hair had failed to retain any sort of hold on the areas forward of his ears, but he had a thick and well-tended plait that hung, black as a raven’s wing, to the small of his back. “When we heard about the wreck, we were distraught. The Amathel is lately so mild, it’s hard to credit—”

  “Wreck,” said Locke. “Ah, yes, the wreck! Yes. The terrible, convenient wreck. What else could compel us to be here without decent clothing or purses? Well, I’m afraid everything happened in such a terrible rush, but I’m told that we survived.”

  “Ha! Splendid. Fear nothing, gentlemen, I’m here to mend your situation in every particular. My name is Nikoros.”

  “Sebastian Lazari.” Locke extended his hand. Nikoros shook it with a look of surprise on his face.

  “Tavrin Callas,” said Jean. Nikoros’ grip was dry and firm.

  “Well, I say, thank you, gentlemen, thank you! What an unexpected mark of confidence. I take it very kindly.”

  “Mark of confidence?” said Locke. “Forgive us, Nikoros. We’re new to Karthain. I’m not sure we understand what we’ve done.”

  “Oh,” said Nikoros. “Damned stupid of me. I apologize. It’s just that … well, you’ll probably think us such a pack of credulous ninnies, but I assure you … it’s tradition. Here in Karthain we’re close, extremely close, with our given names. On account of, you know, the Presence.”

  It was easy enough for Jean to hear the capital “P” as Nikoros pronounced the word.

  “You mean,” he said, “the Bonds—”

  “Yes, the magi of the Isas Scholastica. When we speak of ‘the Presence,’ well—we’re just being polite. We’re quite used to them, really. They’re not the objects of, ah, curiosity they might be elsewhere. In fact, I can assure you they look almost like ordinary people. You’d be amazed!”

  “I don’t doubt it,” said Locke. “Well, this is useful stuff. I take it we should withhold our given names when we’re introduced to Karthani?”

  “Well, yes. It’s the hoariest old superstition, but it’s been our custom since the fall of the old Throne. Most of us use birth-order titles or nicknames. I’m called Nikoros Via Lupa, since my office is on the Avenue of the Wolves. But plain Nikoros suits as well.”

  “We’re obliged to you,” said Jean. “Now, what is it that you do, exactly?”

  “I’m a trade insurer. Ships and caravans. But, ah, more relevantly, I’m on the Deep Roots party standing committee. I’m sort of a shepherd for party business.”

  “You have real authority over party affairs?”

  “Oh, quite. Funds and operations, with some latitude. But, ah, when it comes to that, gentlemen, my most important duty is to carry out your instructions. Once I’ve helped you settle in, of course.”

  “And you understand the nature of our employment,” said Locke. “The real nature of it, that is.”

  “Oh, oh, quite.” Nikoros tapped the side of his nose with a finger several times and smiled. “Those of us at the top understand that half the fight is, well, unconventional. We’re all for it! After all, the Black Iris are out to do the same to us. We think they might even bring in specialists lik
e yourselves.”

  “Be assured they have,” said Locke. “How long have you been involved with all this?”

  “Party business, you mean? Oh, ten years or so. It’s the biggest thing going, socially. More fun than billiards. I worked with our, ah, specialist last election. We pulled off nine seats, and nearly won! We have such hopes, this time around.”

  “Well,” said Jean, “the sooner we’re settled in, the sooner we can nourish those hopes.”

  “Right! To the carriage. We’ll get you two wrapped up in something more suitable.” He beckoned, and a slender blonde woman in a black velvet jacket met them halfway as they moved toward the carriage. “Allow me to present Seconddaughter Morenna, Morenna Clothiers.”

  “Your servant.” She curtsied, and a brass-weighted measuring line appeared in her hands as swiftly as an assassin’s knife. “It seems you have a sartorial emergency.”

  “Yes,” said Locke. “Circumstance has flung us down and danced upon us.”

  “Clothes first,” said Nikoros as he hustled Locke and Jean into the enclosed carriage box, “then we’ll see to your funds.” Morenna came last. Nikoros drew the door shut and pounded on the underside of the carriage roof. As it rattled off, Morenna seized the collar of Locke’s slop jacket and pulled him firmly to a hunched-over standing position.

  “I beg your deepest pardon,” she muttered, plying her measuring line around his neck and shoulders. “We usually keep a fellow on hand at the shop to take the measurements of our gentlemen customers, but he’s taken ill. I assure you that I make these intrusions as impersonally as a physiker.”

  “It would never occur to me to be offended,” said Locke in a dazed voice.

  “Marvelous. If you’ll excuse me, sir, we’ll just need to have your jacket off.” She somehow managed to fold, wrench, and twirl Locke within the confined space, removing his jacket at last and causing a small rain of twice-baked ship’s biscuits to patter around the carriage interior. “Oh my, I had no idea—”

  “Not your fault,” said Locke with an embarrassed cough. “I, uh, like to feed birds.”

  Under his arms, around his chest, along the outside of his legs—Morenna took measurements from Locke with the speed of a fencer scoring touches. Soon it was Jean’s turn.

  “Same thing, sir,” she muttered while she fussed with his coat.

  “There’s no need—If you’ll give me a moment—” said Jean, but it was too late.

  “Heavens,” said Morenna as she pulled his hatchets out of their makeshift hiding place at the small of his back. “These have seen some use.”

  “I’ve had to settle the occasional misunderstanding.”

  “Do you prefer to carry them tucked away like this under a coat or jacket?”

  “There’s nowhere better.”

  “Then I can show you several rigs that could be stitched into your coats. We’ve got leather harness, cloth straps, metal rings, all reliable and discreet. Tuck a whole arsenal into your breeches and waistcoats, if you like.”

  “You’re my new favorite tailor,” said Jean, contentedly submitting to the darting play of the measuring line while the carriage rolled along.

  3

  THEIR JOURNEY took about ten minutes, while the sun rose and painted the walls and alleys around them with warm light. Jean took advantage of his window seat to form several impressions of Karthain along the way.

  The first was that it was a city of tiered heights. As they moved inward from the waterfront, past the ship-filled lagoon, he saw that the more northerly sections of the city rose, hills and terraces alike, to a sort of plateau that must have been several hundred feet above the Ponta Corbessa. Nothing so extreme as Tal Verrar’s precipitous drops, but it did seem as though the gods or the Eldren had tilted the city about forty-five degrees toward the water after originally laying it out.

  Furthermore, it seemed to be an unusually well-tended place. Perhaps Nikoros had chosen a route that would best flatter his city? Whatever the case, Jean couldn’t fail to note the swept streets, the clean white stone of the newer houses, the neatly trimmed trees, the smooth bubbling of every fountain and waterfall, or the decorative enamel mosaics on the cable cars sliding between the taller buildings.

  Most striking was the character of the city’s Elderglass. Its bridges over the wide Karvanu (which poured down five separate white-foaming falls before it reached the heart of the city) were not solid arches, but rather suspension bridges made of thousands of panels of milky black Elderglass, connected by countless finger-thick lengths of glass cable to supporting towers like spindly caricatures of human temple spires.

  The first bridge they crossed had a disconcerting amount of sway and bounce—just a few inches of give, to be sure, but any bounce at all was of immediate interest to someone high over water in a carriage.

  “Never fear,” said Nikoros, noticing the matching expressions on Locke’s and Jean’s faces. “You’ll be used to this in no time. It’s Elderglass! Nothing we do could so much as fray a cable.”

  Jean stared at the other huge bridges spanning the Karvanu. They looked like the work of mad giant spiders, or harps designed for hands the size of palaces. He also noticed, for the first time, a strangely tuneful humming and creaking that he assumed was the music of the cables.

  “Welcome to the Isas Salvierro,” said Nikoros when the carriage halted a few minutes later, blessedly back on unyielding stone. “A business district, one of the pumping hearts of the city. My office is just north of here.”

  The small group bustled out of the carriage and into Morenna Clothiers, where they found a wide shop floor surrounded by a raised second-floor gallery. Seconddaughter Morenna locked the door behind them.

  “These aren’t our usual hours,” she said. “You’re an emergency case.”

  There was a strong smell of coffee wafting throughout the shop, and Jean’s mouth watered. The walls of the lower room were layered with bolts of cloth in a hundred different colors and textures, while several wooden racks of coats and jackets had been brought out into the middle of the floor.

  “Allow me to introduce Firstdaughter Morenna,” said Seconddaughter, pointing to a taller, heavier blonde woman on the upper level, who was pulling a gleaming metallic thread from a rattling clockwork spindle. “And of course our darling Thirddaughter.”

  The youngest of the tailoring sisters was as petite as Seconddaughter, though her hair was a shade darker and she alone of the three wore optics. She was absorbed in trimming some unknown velvet bundle with a pair of blackened-iron shears, and she gave the merest nod in greeting.

  “Thimbles on, girls, it’s time for battle,” said Seconddaughter.

  “My,” said Firstdaughter, who stepped away from her machine and descended to the first floor. “Shipwreck, was it? You gentlemen look like you’ve been in the wars. Is Lashain having some sort of difficulty?”

  “Lashain is its old charming self, madam,” said Locke. “Our misfortune was personal.”

  “You’ve come to the right place. We adore a challenge. And we adorn the challenged! Second, have you taken their measurements?”

  “Everything I could in decency.” Seconddaughter snatched up a slate, and with a squeaky piece of chalk scribed two columns of numbers on it. She threw the slate to Firstdaughter. “Save for breeches inseams. Could you be a dear?”

  Firstdaughter conjured a measuring line in her free hand and advanced on Locke and Jean without hesitation. “Now, gentlemen, our male apprentice is out sick, so you’ll need to bear my scrutiny a moment. Take heart, there’s many a wife that won’t give her husband this sort of attention for love or money.” Chuckling, she took rapid and mostly professional measurements from crotch to ankles on both men, then added some squiggles to the bottom of the slate.

  “I assume that we’re replacing an entire wardrobe?” said Thirddaughter, setting her velvet down.

  “Yes,” said Locke. “These fine dishrags represent the sum of our current wardrobe.”

 
“You’ve the sound of an easterner,” said Thirddaughter. “Will you want the style to which you’re accustomed, or something more—”

  “Local,” said Jean. “Absolutely local. Fit us out like natives.”

  “It will take several days,” said Seconddaughter, holding a swatch of something brown up to Jean’s neck and frowning, “to deliver all the bespoke work, you understand, and that’s with us chugging along like water-engines. But while we’re arranging that, we can set you up with something respectable enough.”

  “We don’t do boots, though,” said Firstdaughter, stripping Jean’s jacket and sending his hatchets clattering to the floor. “Oh, dear. Will you be wanting somewhere to tuck those?”

  “Absolutely,” said Jean.

  “We’ve got a thousand ways,” said First. She picked up the Wicked Sisters and set them respectfully on a table. “But as I was saying, Nikoros, we haven’t turned cobblers in the last few hours. Have you kept that in mind?”

  “Of course,” said Nikoros. “This is but the first stop. I’ll have them set up like royalty before lunch.”

  The next half hour was a furious storm of fittings, removals, tests, measurements, remeasurements, suggestions, countersuggestions, and sisterly arguments as Locke and Jean were gradually peeled out of their slops and reskinned as fair approximations of gentlemen. The creamy silk shirts were a little too big, the vests and breeches taken in or let out with some haste. Locke’s long coat hung loose and Jean’s was tight across the chest. Still, it was a drastic improvement, at least from the ankles up. Now they could set foot in a countinghouse without provoking the guards into raising weapons.

  Once the immediate transmutation was accomplished, the three women took notes for a more expansive wardrobe—evening coats, morning jackets, formal and informal waistcoats, breeches in half a dozen styles, velvet doublets, fitted silk shirts, and all the trimmings.

  “Now, you said you’d be doing more, ah, entertaining, as it were,” said Thirddaughter to Locke. “So I gather you’ll need a slightly wider selection of coats than your friend Master Callas.”