The Gentleman Bastard Series 3-Book Bundle: The Lies of Locke Lamora, Red Seas Under Red Skies, The Republic of Thieves

by Scott Lynch

  Through the entrance hall, wide and grand enough to host several balls at once, they passed at speed. The hall had no windows open to the outside, but rather, artificial panoramas of stained glass, lit from behind. Each window seemed to be a stylized view of what would be seen through a real hole cut in the stone—white buildings and mansions, dark skies, the tiers of islands across the harbor, dozens of sails in the main anchorage.

  Locke and Jean were escorted down a side hall, up a flight of steps, and down another hall, past blue-coated guards standing stiffly at attention. Was it Locke’s imagination, or did something more than ordinary respect creep into their faces when the bronze masks of the Eyes swept past them? There was no more time to ponder, for they were suddenly halted before their evident destination. In a corridor full of wooden doorways, they stood before one made of metal.

  An Eye stepped forward, unlocked the door, and pushed it open. The room beyond was small and dark. Soldiers rapidly undid the bonds on Locke and Jean’s hands, and then the two of them were shoved forward into the little room.

  “Hey, wait just a damn—,” said Locke, but the door slammed shut behind them and the sudden blackness was absolute.

  “Perelandro,” said Jean. He and Locke spent a few seconds stumbling into each other before they managed to regain some balance and dignity. “How on earth did we attract the attention of these bloody assholes?”

  “I don’t know, Jerome.” Locke emphasized the pseudonym very slightly. “But maybe the walls have ears. Hey! Bloody assholes! No need to be coy! We’re perfectly well behaved when civilly incarcerated.”

  Locke stumbled toward the remembered location of the nearest wall to pound his fists against it. He discovered for the first time that it was rough brick. “Damnation,” he muttered, and sucked at a scraped knuckle.

  “Odd,” said Jean.

  “What?”

  “I can’t be sure.”

  “What?”

  “Is it just me, or does it seem to be getting warmer in here?”

  3

  TIME WENT by with all the speed of a sleepless night.

  Locke was seeing colors flashing and wobbling in the darkness, and while part of him knew they weren’t real, that part of him was getting less and less assertive with every passing minute. The heat was like a weight pressing in on every inch of his skin. His tunic was wide open, and he’d slipped his neck-cloths off so he could wrap them around his hands to steady himself as he leaned back against Jean.

  When the door clicked open, it took him a few seconds to realize that he wasn’t imagining things. The crack of white light grew into a square, and he flinched back with his hands over his eyes. The air from the corridor fell across him like a cool autumn breeze.

  “Gentlemen,” said a voice from beyond the square of light, “there has been a terrible misunderstanding.”

  “Ungh gah ah,” was all the response Locke could muster as he tried to remember just how his knees worked. His mouth felt dryer than if it had been packed with cornmeal.

  Strong, cool hands reached out to help him to his feet; the room swam around him as he and Jean were helped back out into the bliss of the corridor. They were surrounded once again by blue doublets and bronze masks, but Locke squinted against the light and felt more ashamed than afraid. He knew he was confused, almost as though he were drunk, and he was powerless to do anything more than grasp at the vague realization. He was carried along corridors and up stairs (Stairs! Gods! How many sets could there be in one bloody palace?), with his legs only sometimes bearing their fair share of his weight. He felt like a puppet in a cruel comedy with an unusually large stage set.

  “Water,” he managed to gasp out.

  “Soon,” said one of the soldiers carrying him. “Very soon.”

  At last he and Jean were ushered through tall black doors into a softly lit office that seemed to have walls made up of thousands upon thousands of tiny glass cells filled with little flickering shadows. Locke blinked and cursed his condition; he’d heard sailors talk of “dry drunk”—the stupidity, weakness, and irritability that seized a man in great want of water—but he’d never imagined he’d experience it firsthand. It was making everything very strange indeed; no doubt it was embellishing the details of a perfectly ordinary room.

  The office held a small table and three plain wooden chairs. Locke steered himself toward one of them gratefully, but was firmly restrained and held upright by the soldiers at his arms.

  “You must wait,” said one of them.

  Though not for long; a scant few heartbeats later, another door opened into the office. A man in long fur-trimmed robes of deepwater blue strode in, clearly agitated.

  “Gods defend the archon of Tal Verrar,” said the four soldiers in unison.

  Maxilan Stragos, came Locke’s dazed realization, the gods-damned supreme warlord of Tal Verrar.

  “For pity’s sake, let these men have their chairs,” said the archon. “We have already done them a grievous wrong, Sword Prefect. We shall now extend them every possible courtesy. After all … we are not Camorri.”

  “Of course, Archon.”

  Locke and Jean were quickly helped into their seats. When the soldiers were reasonably certain that they wouldn’t topple over immediately, they stepped back and stood at attention behind them. The archon waved his hand irritably.

  “Dismissed, Sword Prefect.”

  “But … Your Honor …”

  “Out of my sight. You have already conjured a serious embarrassment from my very clear instructions for these men. As a result, they are in no shape to be any threat to me.”

  “But … yes, Archon.”

  The sword prefect gave a stiff bow, which the other three soldiers repeated. The four of them hurriedly left the office, closing the door behind them with the elaborate click-clack of a clockwork mechanism.

  “Gentlemen,” said the archon, “you must accept my deepest apologies. My instructions were misconstrued. You were to be given every courtesy. Instead, you were shown to the sweltering chamber, which is reserved for criminals of the lowest sort. I would trust my Eyes to be the equal of ten times their number in any fight, yet in this simple matter they have dishonored me. I must take responsibility. You must forgive this misunderstanding, and allow me the honor of showing you a better sort of hospitality.”

  Locke mustered his will to attempt a suitable response, and whispered a silent prayer of thanks to the Crooked Warden when Jean spoke first.

  “The honor is ours, Protector.” His voice was hoarse, but his wits seemed to be returning faster than Locke’s. “The chamber was a small price to pay for the pleasure of such an, an unexpected audience. There is nothing to forgive.”

  “You are an uncommonly gracious man,” said Stragos. “Please, dispense with the superfluities. It will do to call me ‘Archon.’ ”

  There was a soft knock at the door through which the archon had entered the office.

  “Come,” he said, and in bustled a short, bald man in elaborate blue-and-silver livery. He carried a silver tray on which there were three crystal goblets and a large bottle of some pale amber liquid. Locke and Jean fixed their gazes on this bottle with the intensity of hunters about to fling their last javelins at some charging beast.

  When the servant set the tray down and reached for the bottle, the archon gestured for him to withdraw and took up the bottle himself.

  “Go,” he said, “I am perfectly capable of serving these poor gentlemen myself.”

  The attendant bowed and vanished back through the door. Stragos withdrew the already loosened cork from the bottle and filled two goblets to their brims with its contents. That wet gurgle and splash brought an expectant ache to the insides of Locke’s cheeks.

  “It is customary,” said Stragos, “for the host to drink first when serving in this city … to establish a basis for trust in what he happens to be serving.” He dashed two fingers of liquid into the third goblet, lifted it to his lips, and swallowed it at a gulp.


  “Ahh,” he said as he passed the full goblets over to Locke and Jean without further hesitation. “There now. Drink up. No need to be delicate. I’m an old campaigner.”

  Locke and Jean were anything but delicate; they gulped down the offered drinks with grateful abandon. Locke wouldn’t have cared if the offering had been squeezed earthworm juice, but it was in fact some sort of pear cider, with just the slightest bite. A child’s liquor, barely capable of intoxicating a sparrow, and an astute choice, given their condition. The tart, cold cider coated the inside of Locke’s tortured throat, and he shuddered with pleasure.

  He and Jean thrust out their empty goblets without thinking, but Stragos was already waiting with the bottle in hand. He refilled their cups, smiling benevolently. Locke inhaled half of his new goblet, then forced himself to make the second half last. Already a new strength seemed to be radiating outward from his stomach, and he sighed with relief.

  “Many thanks, Archon,” he said. “May I, ah, presume to ask how Jerome and I have offended you?”

  “Offended me? Not at all.” Stragos, still smiling, set down the bottle and seated himself behind the little table. He reached toward the wall and pulled a silk cord; a shaft of pale amber light fell from the ceiling, illuminating the center of the table. “What you’ve done, young fellows, is catch my interest.”

  Stragos sat framed by the shaft of light, and Locke studied him for the first time. A man of very late middle years, surely nearing sixty if not already past it. A strangely precise man, with squared-off features. His skin was pink and weathered, his hair a flat gray roof. In Locke’s experience, most powerful men were either ascetics or gluttons; Stragos seemed neither—a man of balance. And his eyes were shrewd, shrewd as a usurer with a client in need. Locke sipped at his pear cider and prayed for wit.

  The golden light was caught and reflected by the glass cells that walled the room, and when Locke let his eyes wander for a moment he was startled to see their contents moving. The little fluttering shadows were butterflies, moths, beetles—hundreds of them, perhaps thousands. Each one in its own little glass prison.… The archons study was walled in with the largest insect collection Locke had ever heard of, let alone seen with his own eyes. Beside him, Jean gasped, evidently having noticed the same thing. The archon chuckled indulgently.

  “My collection. Is it not striking?”

  He reached toward the wall again and pulled another silken cord; soft white light grew behind the glass walls, until the full details of each specimen became plainly visible. There were butterflies with scarlet wings, blue wings, green wings … some with multicolored patterns more intricate than tattoos. There were gray, black, and gold moths, with curled antennae. There were beetles with burnished carapaces that gleamed like precious metals, and wasps with translucent wings flickering above their sinister tapered bodies.

  “It’s incredible,” said Locke. “How can it be possible?”

  “Oh, it isn’t. They’re all artificial, the best artistry and artisanry can provide. A clockwork mechanism several floors below works a set of bellows, sending gusts of air up shafts behind the walls of this office. Each cell has a tiny aperture at the rear. The fluttering of the wings seems quite random and realistic.… In semidarkness, one might never realize the truth.”

  “It’s no less incredible,” said Jean.

  “Well, this is the City of Artifice,” said the archon. “Living creatures can require such tedious care. You might think of my Mon Magisteria as a repository of artificial things. Here, drink up, and let me pour you the last of the bottle.”

  Locke and Jean obliged, and Stragos was able to give them each a few fingers more before the bottle was drained. He settled himself back down behind his table and pulled something off the silver tray—a slim file of some sort, wrapped in a brown cover with broken wax seals on three sides.

  “Artificial things. Just as you are artificial things, Master Kosta and Master de Ferra. Or should I say, Master Lamora and Master Tannen?”

  If Locke had possessed the strength to crush heavy Verrari crystal with his bare hands, the archon would have lost a goblet.

  “I beg your pardon,” said Locke, adopting a helpful, slightly confused smile, “but I don’t know anyone by those names. Jerome?”

  “There must be some mistake,” said Jean, picking up Locke’s exact tone of polite bewilderment.

  “No mistake, gentlemen,” said the archon. He slipped the file open and briefly examined the contents, about a dozen pages of parchment covered in neat black script. “I received a very curious letter several days ago, through secure channels within my intelligence apparatus. A letter rich with the most singular collection of stories. From a personal acquaintance—a source within the hierarchy of the Bondsmagi of Karthain.”

  Not even Jean’s hands could squeeze a Verrari crystal goblet to fragments, Locke thought, or that moment might have seen the archon’s office decorated with an exploding cloud of shards and blood.

  Locke gamely raised an eyebrow, refusing to give in just yet. “The Bondsmagi? Gods, that sounds ominous. But, ah, what would Bondsmagi have to do with Jerome and myself?”

  Stragos stroked his chin while he skimmed the documents in the file. “Apparently, you’re both thieves from some sort of secret enclave formerly operating out of the House of Perelandro in Camorr’s Temple District—cheeky, that. You operated without the permission of Capa Vencarlo Barsavi, no longer among the breathing. You stole tens of thousands of crowns from several dons of Camorr. You are jointly responsible for the death of one Luciano Anatolius, a buccaneer captain who hired a Bondsmage to aid his plans. Perhaps most importantly, you foiled those plans and crippled that Bondsmage. Overcame him, at close quarters. Extraordinary. You shipped him back to Karthain half-dead and quite mad. No fingers, no tongue.”

  “Actually, Leocanto and I are from Talisham, and we’re—”

  “You’re both from Camorr. Jean Estevan Tannen, which is your real name, and Locke Lamora—which isn’t yours. That’s emphasized for some reason. You’re in my city as part of a scheme against that scrub Requin—supposedly, you’ve been making preparations to break into his vault. Best of luck there. Need we continue with your charade? I have many more details. It seems that the Bondsmagi have it in for you.”

  “Those assholes,” muttered Locke.

  “I see you are personally acquainted with them,” said Stragos. “I’ve hired a few of them in the past. They’re a touchy bunch. So you’ll admit to the truth of this report? Come, Requin is no friend of mine. He’s in with the Priori; might as well be on their damn councils.”

  Locke and Jean looked at each other, and Jean shrugged. “Very well,” said Locke. “You seem to have us at quite a disadvantage, Archon.”

  “To be precise, I have you at three. I have this report extensively documenting your activities. I have you here at the center of all my power. And now, for the sake of my own comfort, I have you on a leash.”

  “Meaning what?” said Locke.

  “Perhaps my Eyes did not embarrass me, gentlemen. Perhaps you two were intended to spend a few hours in the sweltering chamber, to help you work up a thirst that needed quenching.” He gestured at Locke and Jean’s goblets, which now held only dregs.

  “You put something else in the cider,” said Jean.

  “Of course,” said Stragos. “An excellent little poison.”

  4

  FOR A moment, the room was utterly silent, save for the soft fluttering of artificial insect wings. Then Locke and Jean stumbled up from their chairs in unison, but Stragos didn’t so much as twitch. “Sit down. Unless you’d prefer not to hear exactly what’s going on.”

  “You drank from the same bottle,” said Locke, still standing.

  “Of course I did. It wasn’t actually in the cider. It was in your goblets, painted into the bottoms. Colorless and tasteless. A proprietary alchemical substance, quite expensive. You should be flattered. I’ve increased your net personal worth, heh.”


  “I know a thing or two about poisons. What is it?”

  “What would be the sense in telling you anything more? You might attempt to have someone assemble an antidote. As it stands, your only possible source for your antidote is me.” He smiled, every pretense of contrite gentility shed from his features like a molted insect’s husk. A very different Stragos was with them now, and there was a lash in his voice. “Sit down. You’re at my disposal now, obviously. You’re not what I might have wanted, by the gods, but perhaps just what I can best put to use.”

  Locke and Jean settled back into their chairs uneasily. Locke threw his goblet down onto the carpet, where it bounced and rolled to a halt beside Stragos’ table.

  “You might as well know,” said Locke, “that I’ve been poisoned for coercive purposes before.”

  “Have you? How convenient. Then surely you’ll agree it’s better than being poisoned for murderous ones.”

  “What would you have us do?”

  “Something useful,” said Stragos. “Something grand. According to this report, you’re the Thorn of Camorr. My agents brought me stories of you … the most ridiculous rumors, which now turn out to have been true. I thought you were a myth.”

  “The Thorn of Camorr is a myth,” said Locke. “And it was never just me. We’ve always worked as a group, as a team.”

  “Of course. No need to stress Master Tannen’s importance to me. It’s all here, in this file. I shall keep you both alive while I prepare for the task I have in mind for you. I’m not ready to discuss it yet, so let us say that I’m keeping you on retainer in the meantime. Go about your business. When I call, you will come.”

  “Will we?” spat Locke.

  “Oh, it’s well within your power to leave the city—and if you do, you will both die rather slow and miserable deaths before another season passes. And that would disappoint us all.”