by Scott Lynch
“Incentive? Life itself isn’t sufficient? You’ll be well-dressed, you’ll recover your health, and you’ll be in a greatly improved position from which to resume your … career. If you win, our gratitude might easily extend so far as comfortable transportation to the city of your choice.”
“And if we lose?”
“You can’t expect us to reward failure. You’ll still be free to leave, but you’ll do it on foot.”
“I can only speak for myself,” said Locke, and Jean’s heart sank. “I meant what I said. I have no idea what your full powers are. I don’t trust you. I don’t trust this situation, and I have no reasonable chance to catch you if you’re lying. If you’re not sincere, this is a trap, and if you are sincere it’s some kind of bizarre pity-fuck.”
“And all the years you might have had coming? All the things you have yet to do?”
“Spare me. You’re not my mother. If Jean will take the job, you won’t find a better man anywhere. He can do anything I could, and he’s better at keeping himself in one piece. Thanks for coming all this way to entertain me, but leave me alone.”
“Hold on—” Jean began.
“I’m disappointed,” said Patience. “I would have thought you had at least one more thing to live for. Can you honestly say you’ve never hoped for any chance of a reunion with Sabetha, somewhere out there in the—”
“You go fuck yourself,” snarled Locke. “I don’t care what you think you know. That’s one subject you don’t get to presume anything about.”
“As you like.” Patience flexed her right hand and Jean noticed the gleam of silver thread woven between the fingers. “It seems I’ve wasted our time. Shall I expect you in Karthain when your friend is dead, Jean?”
“Hold!” said Jean. “Patience, please, give us time to talk. In private.”
Patience nodded curtly and moved the knuckles of her right hand. Light shifted on the silvery gleam of her cat’s cradle. Jean blinked, and in that instant thread and woman alike vanished into thin air.
“Great,” said Jean. “Fucking magnificent. I think you’ve finally managed to really piss her off.”
“Nice to know I still have the knack,” said Locke.
“Are you really, truly out of your gods-damned mind? She could save your life.”
“She could do a lot of things.”
“Take the chance, Locke.”
“She’s up to something.”
“What a revelation! What an amazing deduction! I’m sorry, remind me again what your other options are?”
“She wants something from me, damn it, more than she’s letting on! But she’s already got everything she can take from you, right? You said it yourself. If she’s out to get you, she’ll get you. But if she does right by you, then you’ll be in a strong position to move on.”
“It works that way for both of us.”
“I won’t be that witch’s toy,” said Locke. “Not for all the money in Karthain. She’s not human. None of them are.”
Jean glared coldly at Locke. He lay under Patience’s cloak, his wild aspect incongruous next to the fine oilcloth. A cornered animal, preparing to die, huddled under delicate material worth several years of a skilled laborer’s life. The whites of his eyes were turning pink.
“Patience was right,” Jean said quietly. “She has wasted our time. You’ll die choking on your own blood. Today, tomorrow. Doesn’t matter. And you’ll be so happy with yourself. Because somehow dying has become an achievement.”
“Jean, wait—”
“Wait, wait, wait.” The resentments and frustrations of the past few weeks seemed to boil up as Jean spoke. The old familiar temper, snapping like a rope frayed down to a single strand, the rage like a hot pressure under his skin, pulsing from his skull to his fingertips. Only it was worse than usual, because there was nothing he could hit. Zodesti, Cortessa—Jean would have snapped their bones like badly fired pottery. Patience, even—he would have gone for her throat, dared her sorcery. But with Locke he was limited to words, so he weighted them with scorn and let fly. “What the hell have I done but wait? Wait on the boat to see if you got sick. Wait here, week after week, watching you get worse. Day and night, chasing any hope this fucking city could offer, while you—”
“Jean, I am telling you, every instinct I have says this is a setup.”
“No shit. And since we know they mean to use us, why can’t we use them as well, for everything we can get out of the deal?”
“Give me up, Jean. Let me go and their fun vanishes. Then they’ll have that much less reason to play you false.”
“Oh, marvelous. Fucking masterful. You’ll be dead and they’ll be inconvenienced. Maybe even mildly disappointed. What a worthy trade! Like slashing your throat just before your opponent can take a piece in Catch-the-Duke.”
“But—”
“Shut it. Just shut it. You know, when you’re healthy, you’ll laugh the gods right in their faces. But when you’re convalescing, sweet hell, you are a miserable bastard.”
“I’ve always admitted—”
“No. You’ve never admitted this. You don’t stand still, Locke. I played along in Tal Verrar when we talked about retiring on our money, but that was bullshit and we both knew it. You don’t retire. You don’t even take holidays. You move from scheme to scheme, jumping around like a spider on a hot skillet. And when you’re forced to stand still, when you don’t have a thousand things going on to keep you distracted from your own thoughts, you actually want to die. I see that now. I’m so gods-damned slow and stupid I see it for the first time!”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You and I, in the boat, after we torched the glass burrow. After we killed Bug’s murderer. Do you remember what we talked about? What you were like? And Vel Virazzo. You tried to finish the Gray King’s work by drowning yourself in wine. Now this. You’re not just cranky when you’re ill, Locke, you have the … look, it’s called Endliktgelaben. It’s a High Vadran word. I learned about it when I was studying as an initiate of Aza Guilla. It means, ah, death-love, death-desire. It’s hard to translate. It means you have moods where you absolutely want to destroy yourself. Not as some self-pitying idle notion, either. As a certainty!”
“For Perelandro’s sake, Jean, I wouldn’t want this if I had a fucking choice!”
“You don’t want it up here,” said Jean, pointing to his own head. “You want it somewhere deeper, so deep you can’t recognize it. You think you’ve got some logical, noble excuse for showing Patience the door. But it’s really that darkness inside, trying to fuck you over once and for all. Something has you so scared you’re seeing everything backwards.”
“What is it, then? If you’re so smart, what is it?”
“I don’t know. Maybe Patience can read thoughts like a book, but I sure as hell can’t. However, I can tell you what the hell I’m scared of—being alone. Being the very last one of us standing, all because you’re a selfish, stubborn coward.”
“Not fair,” wheezed Locke.
“No, it isn’t. A lot of good people have died to bring you this far. You keep this shit up and you’ll be seeing them soon. What are you going to tell Calo and Galdo and Bug? Chains? Nazca?” Jean leaned over and all but whispered his next words down at Locke. “What are you going to tell the woman I loved? The woman who burned so you could have the slightest chance in hell of even being here in the first place?”
All the faint color left in Locke’s face had drained out; he moved his lips but seemed unable to convince any words to get that far past his throat.
“If I can get up and live with that every gods-damned day, then so can you, you son of a bitch.” Jean stepped away from the bed. “I’ll be outside. Make your choice.”
“Jean … call her back.”
“Are you just humoring me?”
“No. Please. Call Patience back.”
“Are you ashamed?”
“Yes! Yes, how couldn’t I be, you ass?”
> “And you’ll do it? Whatever it takes, whatever Patience requires to keep you alive?”
“Get her back in the room. Get her back! By the gods, I need her to fix me so I can punch your guts into soup.”
“That’s the spirit. Patience!” Jean yelled, turning toward the apartment’s door. “Patience! Are you—”
“Of course.”
Jean whirled. She was already in the room, standing behind him. “I didn’t say I was going far,” she said, cutting off his question before it was spoken. “You’ll both do it?”
“Yes, we’ll—”
“There are going to be some conditions,” interrupted Locke.
“Dammit, Locke,” said Jean.
“Trust me.” Locke coughed and shifted his gaze from Jean to Patience. “First, I want it clear that our obligation to you begins and ends with this election. That’s our side of the bargain in full. No hidden surprises. No snake-bite double-dealing Bondsmage bullshit.”
“I beg your pardon?” said Patience.
“You heard me.” Locke’s voice was still hoarse, but to Jean it seemed infused with genuine strength. Or anger, which was as good for the time being. “I don’t want one of you people popping out of my ass five years from now and implying that I’m still on the hook for having my life spared. I want to hear it from you, right to our faces. Once this is done, we don’t owe you shit.”
“What a high art you’ve made of insolence,” said Patience. “If that’s the game you feel you have to play, so be it. Service for service and a clean severance, just as I said.”
“Good. I want another privilege, too.”
“Our side of the bargain is already exceptionally generous.”
“Who do you think you’re haggling with, a fucking pie vendor? If you’d rather lose your election—”
“State your request.”
“Answers. I want the answer to any question I ask, when I ask, to the best of your ability. I don’t want you to wave your hands and give me any bullshit about how great and terrible and incomprehensible everything is.”
“What questions?”
“Anything. Magic, Karthain, yourself, Falconer. Anything that comes to mind. I’m tired of the gods-damned shadow dance you people call conversation. If I’m going to work for you, I want you to explain some things.”
Patience considered this for some time.
“I have a private life and a professional life,” she said at last. “I may be prepared to discuss the latter. If you fail to respect the former, you will earn … consequences.”
“Good enough.” Locke wiped his mouth on his tunic sleeve, adding new blood to old stains. “Okay, Jean, do you still want the job?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” said Locke. “I do too. You’ve hired us, Patience. Now do your thing. Get this shit out of me.”
“I can’t work here,” said Patience. “We’ll need to move, and quickly. A ship is waiting at the docks to take us across the Amathel; everything I need is on board.”
“All right,” said Jean. “I’ll go out and call a—”
Patience snapped her fingers, and the outer door fell open. A carriage was waiting on the street outside, its yellow lamps glowing softly in the drizzle, its quartet of horses standing in silent readiness.
“Aren’t you theatrical as hell,” said Locke.
“We’ve lost enough time taming your pride, Locke. We need every moment we can steal back if you’re going to survive what comes next.”
“Hold it,” said Jean. “What do you mean, ‘survive what comes next’?”
“It’s partly my fault. I waited to approach you. I should have done it before you had a chance to start kidnapping physikers. Now Locke’s condition is worse than precarious, and this would be hard enough for someone in perfect health.”
“But you—”
“Stand down, Jean, it’s the same hard sell we use,” said Locke. “Astonishing promises first, important disclaimers second. Just get on with it, Patience. Do your worst. I’m pissed off enough to take any sorcery you can throw at me.”
“Jean must have said something very interesting to shame you into finding your courage again.” Patience clapped her hands, and two tall men strode in through the front door. They wore broad-brimmed hats and long black leather coats, and carried a folding litter between them. “Keep that shame burning if you want to live.”
Patience touched Locke briefly on the forehead, and then she beckoned her coachmen over to roll him onto the litter. Jean watched warily but let them handle the work alone, as they seemed steady and careful enough.
“The only thing I can promise with absolute certainty,” said Patience as she watched this delicate process, “is that what I need to do when we reach the ship will be one of the worst things that’s ever happened to you.”
INTERLUDE: THE BOY WHO CHASED RED DRESSES
1
“YOU’RE STILL ANGRY with me,” said Chains.
It wasn’t a question. Locke’s attitude would have been plain to someone with the empathy of a shithouse brick.
A day had passed since the affair of Sabetha’s “capture,” and while Locke had rapidly shrugged off the effects of his fall into the garden, he’d been snappish and sullen since returning to the Temple of Perelandro. He’d flat-out refused to help prepare dinner or eat it, and after a brief, awkward attempt at a meal Chains had finally dragged him up to the temple roof.
They sat there now, under the dying aura of Falselight, the hour when every visible inch of Elderglass in Camorr threw off enough supernatural radiance to bring on a second sunset. Every bridge and avenue and tower was limned in eerie light, and beneath the steel-blue sky the city was a dark tapestry knit with ten thousand glowing stitches.
The parapets of the temple’s untended rooftop garden shielded Locke and Chains from prying eyes. They sat a few paces apart amidst the shards of broken pottery, staring at one another. Chains was taking unusually frequent drags on his sheaf of rolled tobacco, the red embers flaring with each indrawn breath.
“Look at me,” he muttered. “You’ve got me smoking the Anacasti Black. My holiday blend. Of course you’re still angry with me. You’re about seven years old and your view of the world is this wide.” Chains held up the thumb and the forefinger of his left hand, and the distance between them was not generous. This, at last, drew Locke out of his silence.
“What happened wasn’t fair!”
“Fair? You mean to claim with a straight face that you buy into that heresy, my boy?” Chains took a last long puff on his dying cigar and flicked the remnants into the darkness. “Everyone in Catchfire dropped dead except for you and your fellow wolf cubs. In Shades’ Hill, you avoided death for at least two grandiose mistakes that would have gotten a grown man’s balls peeled like grapes, and you still want to talk about—”
“No,” said Locke, his look of self-righteous annoyance instantly changing to one of startled embarrassment, as though he’d been accused of wetting his breeches. “No, no, I didn’t say those things were fair. I know life’s not fair. But I thought … I thought … you were.”
“Ah,” said Chains, “well, now. I’ve always thought of myself as fair to a fault. Look, what are you more upset about, the fact that I lied about what had to happen to Sabetha or the fact that the contest I rigged wasn’t, ah, as open to improvisation as you might have wished?”
“I don’t know. Both! All of it!”
“Locke, you may be too young for formal rhetoric, but you’ve got to at least try to pick your problems apart and explain them piece by piece. Now, here’s another important question. Are you comfortable at this temple?”
“Yes!”
“You eat well and sleep soundly. Your clothes are clean, you have many diversions, and you even get to bathe every week.”
“Yes. Yes, I like it a lot, it’s all worth having to bathe, even!”
“Hmmm,” said Chains. “You live long enough for your stones to drop, then tell me if bathing is
really such a hardship when the young women around you have bosoms that are more than theoretical.”
“What? When my what?”
“Never mind. That subject will be sufficiently confusing in its own good time. So, you like it here. You’re comfortable, you’re protected. Have I behaved badly? Treated you as you were treated in Shades’ Hill?”
“Well, no … no, not like that at all.”
“Yet none of that buys me any consideration in the matter of last night? Not one speck of trust? One tiny instant of the benefit of the doubt?”
“I, uh, well, it’s not … uh, crap.” Locke made a desperate grab for eloquence and came up with empty hands as usual. “I don’t mean … it’s not that I don’t appreciate—”
“Easy, Locke, easy. Just because you’ve been uncouth doesn’t mean you might not have a point. But hear me now—this is a small home we live in. The temple might seem marvelous compared to living and sleeping in heaps of dozens, but believe me—walls squeeze the people who live inside them, sooner or later.”
“They don’t bother me,” said Locke quickly.
“It’s not so much the walls, though, Locke, it’s the people. This will be your home for many years to come, gods willing, and you and Sabetha and the Sanzas are going to be as close as family. You’ll strike sparks off one another. I can’t have you shoving your thumb up your ass and doing your best impression of a brick wall every time you get annoyed. Crooked Warden help us, we’ve got to be ready and willing to talk, or we’re all going to wake up with cut throats sooner or later.”
“I’m … I’m sorry.”
“Don’t hang your head like a kicked puppy. Just keep it in mind. If you’re going to live here, staying civil is as much a duty as sitting the steps or washing dishes. Now, while I bask in the glow of another moral sermon delivered with the precision of a master fencer, hold your applause and let’s get back to last night. You’re upset because the situation was contrived to give you only one real means of resolving it, short of curling up into a little ball and crying yourself into a stupor.”
“Yes! It wasn’t like it would have been, if they’d been real guards. If they weren’t, you know, watching for me.”