The Gentleman Bastard Series Books 1-3

by Scott Lynch

  “I suppose I should call you Don and Dona Botallio, then?” said the baron.

  “Only if you want to flatter us,” said Locke with a smile.

  “While Grandfather still holds the title,” said Sabetha, “my father, as direct heir, is called Don. But since we’re two steps removed, we are, at present, just a pair of Honorables.”

  Tymon returned, along with the shoe-towelers, and three high-backed chairs were set down next to the billiards table.

  Boulidazi seemed reasonably convinced of their authenticity now, and Locke felt a pang of mingled awe and anxiety. Here was a lord of the city, capable of putting them in prison (or worse) with a word, opening to their false-facing like any common shopkeeper, guard, or functionary. Chains was right. Their training had given them a remarkable freedom of action.

  Still, it seemed wise to seal the affair as tightly as possible.

  “Gods above,” said Locke. “What a boor I’ve been! Lord Boulidazi, forgive me. Is it usual in Espara to give a consideration to house servants—damn!”

  Locke pulled out his purse and made what he thought was an excellent show of stumbling toward the withdrawing Tymon. He fell against the billiards table, and a stream of clinking gold and silver just happened to scatter across the felt surface.

  “Are you all right?” The baron was at Locke’s side in an instant, helping him up, and Locke was satisfied that Boulidazi had a full view of the coins.

  “Fine, thank you. I’m such a clumsy ass. You can see all the grace in the family wound up on Verena’s side.” Locke swept the coins back into the purse. “Sorry about your game.”

  “It was just a solitary diversion,” said Boulidazi, as he helped Sabetha into a chair. “And yes, on holidays, we do give gratuities to the help, but there’s a little ceremony and some temple nonsense. You needn’t worry about it.”

  “Well, we’re obliged to you,” said Locke, relieved that he could escape without surrendering any of the flash bag funds. All Boulidazi had to do was believe that money was no real object to them.

  “Now,” said Sabetha, “I suppose you’d like to find out why we’ve come to you.”

  “Of course,” said Boulidazi. “But first, why not tell me what it would please you to be called, if not Dona Botallio?”

  “That’s easy,” said Sabetha, flashing a smile that hit Locke like a boot to the chest even though he wasn’t positioned to catch its full effect. “You should call me Verena.”

  “Verena,” said the baron. “Then I beg that you’ll call me Gennaro, and let no more ‘Lord Boulidazis’ clutter the air between us.”

  “With pleasure,” said Sabetha.

  “Gennaro,” said Locke, “we’re here to discuss the situation of a man named Jasmer Moncraine.”

  “What?”

  “To put it even more plainly,” said Sabetha, “we’ve come to ask that you decline to state your charges against him.”

  “You want me to forgive him?”

  “Or appear to,” said Sabetha sweetly.

  “That arrogant pissant struck me before witnesses,” said Boulidazi. “With the back of his hand! You can’t expect me to believe that a Camorri would bear such a thing, were either of you in my place!”

  “If I had nothing to win by a display of mercy,” said Locke, “I’d have whipped the stupid bastard’s face into bloody mince. And if none of us stood to gain right now, I’d go to court with you merely for the pleasure of hearing the sentence read.”

  “We’re not strangers to Moncraine,” said Sabetha. “We’ve been to see him at the Weeping Tower—”

  “Why?”

  “Please,” said Sabetha, “just listen. We know what a fool he is. We’re not here to discuss the brighter facets of his character, because we know he doesn’t have any, and we’re not asking for mercy for its own sake. We’d like to propose a mutually profitable arrangement.”

  “How could I possibly profit,” said Boulidazi, “by accepting disgrace in front of the entire city?”

  “First, tell us: Were you serious about wanting to fund Moncraine’s troupe and buy out his debts?” said Locke.

  “I was,” said the baron. “I certainly was, until he decided to thank me by lunging at me like an ape.”

  “Why did you make the offer?”

  “I grew up attending his plays,” said Boulidazi. “Mother loved the theater. Moncraine really used to be something, back before … well, years ago.”

  “And you wanted to be a patron,” said Locke.

  “All my family money is sitting safe in vaults, gathering dust and shitting interest. I thought I’d do something meaningful for a change. Pick Moncraine up, run things properly, associate my name with something.” Boulidazi drummed his fingers against one arm of his chair. “What the hell can Moncraine possibly mean to you?”

  “I came here to be part of his troupe for the summer,” said Sabetha. “I, ah, I have a certain inclination. It’s awkward to talk about myself, though. Lucaza, would you?”

  “Of course,” said Locke. “Cousin Verena has always loved the theater, as much of it as she could get in Camorr. Grandfather’s hired players a dozen times for her. But she’s always wanted to be on stage. To act. And that’s just not done.”

  “If I’d taken up alchemy,” said Sabetha, “or gardening, or painting, or investment, that’d be fine. I could even ride off to war, if we had ever had any. But noble heirs don’t go onstage, not in Camorr.”

  “Not if they want to inherit,” said Locke. “And grandfather won’t be with us forever. After him it’s uncle, and after uncle it’s Verena.”

  “Countess Blackspear, eh?” said Boulidazi.

  “Whether or not we keep Blackspear is up to the duke; the Five Towers are his to dispose of. But our lands wouldn’t go anywhere. If Blackspear was rescinded, I’d be countess of the old family estates.”

  “So you’ve come here posing as an actress to avoid a scandal in Camorr.”

  “You understand perfectly,” said Sabetha. “Verena Gallante can have a summer or two onstage in Espara, and then Verena Botallio can go back to being respectable back home. That’s the bargain I struck with Father, also provided Lucaza and a few trusted men came along to keep an eye on me.”

  “And that’s the understanding we had with Moncraine,” said Locke. “We’d furnish several actors, and he’d make use of us in a play. Imagine our surprise when we arrived this afternoon to discover the situation.”

  “Imagine my surprise when Moncraine attacked me!” said Boulidazi. “You’re putting me between two fires, my friends. I can protect my dignity according to the laws and customs of Espara, or I can grant this request, to which I would normally be very happily disposed. I can’t do both.”

  “If you withdrew from chastising Moncraine out of cowardice or indifference,” said Sabetha, “then I agree, your behavior would be improper. But what if your peers could see that you had forgiven him for the sake of a greater design?”

  “Mercy,” said Locke, bringing his hands slowly together as though squeezing his words into one mass as he spoke them, “ambition, artistry, and good old-fashioned financial sense. All at once.”

  “Moncraine wants nothing to do with me,” said Boulidazi, “and I’m pleased to return the sentiment. Let the bastard rot for a year and a day. Maybe he’ll grow some discretion when he loses his hand.”

  “I don’t have a year and a day, Gennaro,” said Sabetha.

  “Then why not see Basanti? He’s the success. Built his own theater, even. I’m sure he’d put you onstage in a heartbeat. You’re certainly, uh …”

  “Yes?”

  “You’d certainly have a great many eyes following you attentively, if you’ll pardon my boldness.”

  “Pardon gladly extended. But if Basanti’s really the thing, why didn’t you approach him about a partnership rather than Moncraine?”

  “Basanti has no need of a bandage on his finances. Besides, there’s nothing to build where he’s concerned. It’s hard to tak
e credit for something already achieved.”

  “Believe it or not, we feel much the same about Moncraine,” said Sabetha. “He’s a means to an end. Forgive him. Let him go free, and I guarantee he’ll accept your patronage.”

  “What makes you assume I’m still willing to offer it?”

  “Come now, Gennaro,” said Sabetha, deepening her voice a little, adopting a slightly teasing tone. “Don’t punish yourself for Moncraine’s stupidity. Your plan was a good one.”

  “If you help us in this,” said Locke, “you’ll have him entirely in your power. Financial debt and moral debt, and you’ll have us to keep him in line.”

  “The Moncraine-Boulidazi Company,” said Sabetha.

  “Or the Boulidazi-Moncraine Company,” said Locke.

  “I’ll look weak,” said the baron, but his voice had the wavering quality of a man nearly ready to go over the edge of the precipice they were nudging him toward.

  “You’ll look clever,” Locke said. “Hells, you’ll look like you might have planned the whole thing all along to stir up notice!”

  “That’s marvelous!” said Sabetha. “At the end of the summer, after we’ve whipped satisfaction out of Moncraine, you let slip that the whole affair was just a ploy for attention. That’s the payoff for a little bit of pain in court tomorrow! Basanti will be forgotten in a moment, and all the city’s admiration will settle on what you’ve done.”

  “You’ll look like a bloody genius,” said Locke, immensely pleased with himself.

  “The Boulidazi-Moncraine company,” said the baron. “It does have a certain … weight. A certain noble ring to it.”

  “Help me have a season or two in the lights,” said Sabetha. “Then bring the company touring to Camorr. We’ll introduce you to Grandfather, all the counts and countesses, the duke …”

  “They could play all the Five Towers in turn,” said Locke. “The rooftop gardens. Verena and I would have to disappear as actors, of course, but we’d be delighted to attend the shows as your hosts.”

  “Isn’t that worth temporary inconvenience?” said Sabetha with a smile that could have coaxed steam out of ice.

  “I will require … a moment to reflect,” said Boulidazi.

  “Shall we leave you alone?” said Sabetha, rising partway from her chair.

  “Yes, for but a moment. Tymon will fetch you anything you desire in the reception hall.”

  Locke rose as well, but Boulidazi held up a hand.

  “Not you, Lucaza, if you please. I’d appreciate a word.”

  Locke sank back into his chair, stole a brief glance at Sabetha, and caught the slightest hint of a nod from her. She withdrew the way she and Locke had come.

  “Lucaza,” said the baron, leaning forward and lowering his voice, “I hope that I might be forgiven this liberty; I know that Camorri are not to be trifled with in matters touching family honor, and I mean no offense.”

  “Truly, Gennaro, we’ve asked for a favor tomorrow in exchange for promises that will take months or years to fully play out. I doubt you could find two people in Espara more difficult to offend than Verena or myself at this moment.”

  “You’re both so well spoken,” said Boulidazi. “I can see why you’d want to dabble on the stage. But now let me have your confidence. Your cousin … has an aspect that blossoms upon consideration. When she entered this room she was merely pretty, but after watching her, listening to her … I feel as though the air has been taken straight out of my lungs.”

  Locke felt as though the air had been taken straight out of his lungs.

  “Tell me, please,” said Boulidazi, clearly noticing the change in Locke’s demeanor as Locke fought for self-control. “Does she really love the theater? And bladework?”

  “She, uh, lives for them,” said Locke.

  “Are you betrothed to her?”

  Locke was overwhelmed by a flurry of immediate reactions; the urge to stand up, say yes, slap Boulidazi across the face, grab him by his hair, and dig wide furrows in the felt of his billiards table using his teeth … Then came the secondary calculations like a bucket of cold water: Boulidazi would kill him, Sabetha would gladly help, the intrusion of his personal jealousy into his professional character would doom the Gentlemen Bastards to utter failure.

  “No,” he said, almost calmly, “no, I’ve been meant for someone else … since I was barely old enough to walk. We’ll wed when she comes of age.”

  “And Verena?” said Boulidazi.

  (Another less than helpful flash from Locke’s imagination, protesting what his higher reasoning knew to be unavoidable. Jean Tannen smashing in through a back door, hoisting Boulidazi over his head, slamming him down across the billiards table … Why were all his fantasies so calamitous for that table, which had done him no injury? And gods damn it anyway, it was never going to happen!)

  “Unattached,” said Locke, hating the word even as he brought it forth. “Father and Grandfather have always felt that Verena … is a fruit best left hanging, uh, until they know how she might be most advantageously … plucked.”

  “Thank you,” said the baron. “Thank you! That’s … welcome news. I hope you won’t think of me as, as grasping beyond my station, Lucaza. I come from a long and honorable line. I hold several estates with secure incomes. I’ve much to offer by way of … of a match.”

  “I’m sure you do,” said Locke slowly. “Were she pleased, and with Count Blackspear’s consent.”

  “Yes, yes. With the family’s blessing … and were she pleased.” Boulidazi ran a hand through his hair and made nervous, meaningless adjustments to his white silk neck-cloth. “I’ll do it, Lucaza. I’ll forgive Moncraine, and trust you to keep him under my thumb. I’ll provide whatever you need to settle his debts and tame his troupe. All I ask …”

  “Yes?”

  “Help me,” said Boulidazi. “Help me show Verena my quality. My honorable intentions. Teach me how I might better please her. Advise her favorably on my behalf.”

  “If Moncraine goes free …”

  “He will,” said Boulidazi. “He won’t be at the Weeping Tower a moment longer than he has to be.”

  “Then I am your man,” said Locke softly, fighting back further visions of Gennaro Boulidazi spitting up fragments of his billiards table. “I am for you, my friend.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE FIVE-YEAR GAME: COUNTERMOVE

  1

  “WHAT THE HELL’S the matter with us, Jean?” Locke rubbed his eyes and noticed certain discomforts in his gut and around his ankles, in that order. “She’s rolled us up like a couple of old tents. And what the fuck are these things on my legs?”

  Just above his feet, his thin, pale ankles were encircled by bands of iron. The manacles were loose enough to let blood flow, but weighed about five pounds apiece.

  “I imagine they’re to discourage us from swimming,” said Jean. “Aren’t they thoughtful? They match your eyes.”

  “The bars across the windows aren’t enough, eh? Gods above, my stomach feels like it’s trying to eat the rest of me.”

  Locke made a more thorough examination of their surroundings. Cushions, shelves, silks, and lanterns—the cabin was fit for the duke of Camorr. There was even a little rack of books and scrolls next to Jean.

  “Look what she left sitting out for us,” said Jean. He tossed Locke the leather-bound book he’d been reading. It was an aged quarto with gold leaf alchemically embossed into three lines on the cover:

  THE REPUBLIC OF THIEVES

  A TRUE AND TRAGIC HISTORY

  CAELLIUS LUCARNO

  “Ohhh,” said Locke softly, setting the book aside. “That beauty has a bitch streak as wide as ten rivers.”

  “How’d she drug you?” said Jean.

  “Quite embarrassingly.”

  There was a knock at the cabin door. It opened a moment later, and down the steps came a spry, long-legged fellow with the tan of many active years sunk into his lean features.

  “Hello, boys,” s
aid the stranger. He had a faint Verrari accent. “Welcome aboard the Volantyne’s Resolve. Solus Volantyne, at your service. And I do mean that! You boys are our first and only business on this trip.”

  “Whatever you’re being paid,” said Locke, “we can double it if you turn this ship around right now.”

  “Our mutual friend told me that was probably the first thing you’d say, Master Lazari.”

  Locke cracked his knuckles and glared. He had to give Sabetha credit for at least preserving their false identities, but he didn’t want to have any kind thoughts toward her at the moment.

  “I’m inclined to agree with her suggestion,” continued Volantyne, “that I’m rather more likely to enjoy success and fair compensation in partnership with the woman who’s still at liberty, rather than the two men she brought to me in chains.”

  “We can triple her payment,” said Locke.

  “A man who’d trade a sure fortune for the promises of an angry prisoner is far too stupid to be the captain of his own ship,” said Volantyne.

  “Well, hells,” said Locke. “If you won’t turn coat, can you at least get me some ship’s biscuit or something?”

  “Our mutual friend said that food would be the second thing on your mind.” Volantyne folded his arms and smiled. “But we’re not eating ship’s biscuit on this leg of the trip. We’re eating fresh-baked pepper bread, and goose stuffed with honey-glazed olives, and boiled lake frogs in brandy and cream.”

  “I got hit on the head somehow,” said Locke. “This is the stupidest dream I’ve had in years, isn’t it?”

  “No dream, my friend. We’ve been set up with a cook so good I’d fuck him six days a week just to keep him aboard, if only I liked men. But he’s another gift paid for by our mutual friend. Come on deck and let me explain the conditions of your passage. You lucky, lucky sons of bitches!”

  On deck, Locke could see that the Volantyne’s Resolve was a two-masted brig with her rigging in good order; her sails were neither straight from the yard nor frayed to threads. About two dozen men and women had been formed up to watch Locke and Jean emerge from the great cabin. Most of them had the tan, rangy look of sailors, but a few of the heavier ones, big-boned land animals for sure, looked like freshly hired muscle.