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

by Scott Lynch

  He and Jean were rowing the dinghy toward the open gate to their private bay; Caldris had been happy to earn his twenty volani, but not happy enough that he was willing to trust them with the sails again.

  “ ’Vast rowing,” said Caldris as they finally drifted near the edge of the stone plaza. Caldris tended to the business of tying them up again while Locke stowed his oar and breathed a deep sigh of relief. Every muscle in his back seemed to slide painfully against those surrounding it, as though someone had thrown grit in between them. He had a headache from the glare of sun on water, and his old wound in his left shoulder was demanding attention above and beyond his other aches.

  Locke and Jean clambered stiffly out of the boat and stretched while Caldris, clearly amused, uncovered the basket and plucked the bedraggled kitten out of it. “There, there,” he said, allowing it to nestle within his crossed arms. “The young masters didn’t mean anything by that soaking they gave you. They got it just as bad.”

  “Mrrrrrrrrreeeeew,” it said.

  “I fancy that means ‘fuck you,’ ” said Caldris, “But at least we’ve got our lives. So what do you think, sirs? An educational day?”

  “I hope we’ve shown some aptitude, at least,” groaned Locke, kneading a knot in the small of his back.

  “Baby steps, Kosta. As far as sailors go, you haven’t even learned to suck milk from a tit yet. But now you know starboard from larboard, and I’m twenty volani richer.”

  “Indeed,” sighed Locke as he fetched his coat, vest, neck-cloths, and shoes from the ground. He tossed a small leather purse to the sailing master, who dangled it at the kitten and cooed as though to a small child.

  Locke happened to glance over at the gate while he was throwing his coat on over his damp tunic, and he saw Merrain’s gig slip into the artificial bay. She was seated at the bow again, looking as though they had parted ten minutes rather than ten hours before.

  “Your ride back to civilization, gents.” Caldris raised Locke’s coin purse in a salute. “See you bright and early tomorrow. Only gets worse from here, so mind yourselves. Enjoy those nice beds while they’re still available.”

  Merrain was completely unwilling to answer questions as the team of ten soldiers rowed them back to the docks beneath the Savrola, which suited Locke’s mood. He and Jean commiserated over their aches and pains while lounging, as best the space allowed, in the rear gallery.

  “I could sleep for about three days, I think,” said Locke.

  “Let’s order a big dinner when we get back, and some baths to take the knots out. After that, I’ll race you to unconsciousness.”

  “Can’t,” Locke sighed. “Can’t. I have to go see Requin tonight. By now, he probably knows Stragos pulled us in again a few nights ago. I need to talk to him before he gets annoyed. And I need to give him the chairs. And I need to somehow tell him about all of this, and convince him not to strangle us with our own intestines if we leave for a few months.”

  “Gods,” said Jean. “I’ve been trying not to think about that. You just barely convinced him that we’ve been assigned to the Sinspire to go after his vault; what can you say that will make this whole out-to-sea thing plausible?”

  “I have no idea.” Locke massaged the aching vicinity of his old shoulder wound. “Hopefully the chairs will put him in a forgiving mood. If not, you’ll get the bill for cleaning my brains off his plaza stones.”

  When the rowers finally pulled the boat up alongside the Savrola docks, where a carriage was waiting with several guards, Merrain left the bow and made her way back to where Locke and Jean were sitting.

  “Seventh hour of the morning tomorrow,” she said, “I’ll have a carriage at the Villa Candessa. We’ll vary your movement for a few mornings for safety’s sake. Stay at your inn this evening.”

  “Out of the question,” said Locke. “I have business on the Golden Steps tonight.”

  “Cancel it.”

  “Go to hell. How do you propose to stop me?”

  “You might be surprised.” Merrain rubbed her temples as though she felt a headache coming on, then sighed. “You’re sure you can’t cancel it?”

  “If I cancel my business tonight, you-know-who at the Sinspire is likely to cancel us,” said Locke.

  “If you’re worried about Requin,” she said, “I could simply arrange for quarters to be found in the Sword Marina. He’d never be able to reach you there; you’d be safe until your training was finished.”

  “Jerome and I have sunk two years in this bloody city into our plans for Requin,” said Locke. “We intend to finish them. Tonight is critical.”

  “On your head be it, then. I can send a carriage with some of my men. Can it wait two hours?”

  “If that’s what it takes, fine.” Locke smiled. “In fact, send two. One for me, one for cargo.”

  “Don’t push your—”

  “Excuse me,” said Locke, “but is the money coming out of your pocket? You want to protect me, surround me with your agents, fine—I accept. Just send two carriages. I’ll be on my best behavior.”

  “So be it,” she said. “Two hours. No sooner.”

  4

  THE WESTERN horizon had swallowed the sun, and the two moons visible in the cloudless sky were soft red, like silver coins dipped in wine. The driver of the carriage rapped three times on the roof to announce their arrival at the Sinspire, and Locke moved the window curtain back over the corner he’d been peeking out of.

  It had taken time for the pair of carriages to thread their way out of the Savrola, across the Great Gallery, and through the bustling traffic of the Golden Steps. Locke had found himself alternately stifling yawns and cursing the bumpy ride. His companion, a slender swordswoman with a well-used rapier resting across her legs, had steadfastly ignored him from her position on the opposite seat.

  Now, as the carriage jostled to a halt, she preceded him out the door, tucking her weapon under a long blue coat that hung to her calves. After she’d scanned the warm night for trouble, she beckoned wordlessly for Locke to follow.

  As per Locke’s instructions, the carriage driver had turned onto the cobbled drive that led to a courtyard behind the Sinspire. Here, a pair of converted stone houses held the tower’s primary kitchens and food storage areas. By the light of red and gold lanterns bobbing on unseen lines, Sinspire attendants were coming and going in squads—carrying forth elaborate meals and returning with empty platters. The smell of richly seasoned meat filled the air.

  Locke’s bodyguard continued to look around, as did the two soldiers atop the carriage, each dressed in nondescript coachman’s uniforms. The second carriage, the one carrying Locke’s suite of chairs, rattled to a halt behind the first. Its team of gray horses stamped their feet and snorted, as though the scent of the kitchens was not to their taste. A heavyset Sinspire attendant with thinning hair hurried over to Locke and bowed.

  “Master Kosta,” he said, “apologies, sir, but this is the service courtyard. We simply cannot receive you in the accustomed style here; the front doors are far more suited to—”

  “I’m in the right place.” Locke put one hand on the attendant’s shoulder and slipped five silver volani into the man’s vest pocket, letting the coins clink against one another as they slipped from his hand. “Find Selendri, as quickly as you can.”

  “Find … uh … well …”

  “Selendri. She stands out in a crowd. Fetch her now.”

  “Uh … yes, sir. Of course!”

  Locke spent the next five minutes pacing in front of his carriage while the swordswoman tried to look casual and keep him within a few steps at the same time. Surely nobody would be foolish enough to try anything, he thought—not with five people at his beck and call, not here in the very heart of Requin’s domain. Nonetheless, he was relieved to finally see Selendri step out the service door, wearing a flame-colored evening gown that made the brass of her artificial hand look molten where it reflected orange.

  “Kosta,” she said. “To what d
o I owe the distraction?”

  “I need to see Requin.”

  “Ah, but does Requin need to see you?”

  “Very much,” said Locke. “Please. I do need to see him in person. And I’m going to need some of your stronger attendants; I’ve brought gifts that need careful handling.”

  “Gifts?”

  Locke showed her to the second carriage and opened the door. She spared a quick glance at Locke’s bodyguard, then stroked her brass hand with her flesh hand while she pondered the contents of the compartment.

  “Are you entirely sure that such obvious bribery is the solution to your problems, Master Kosta?”

  “It’s not like that, Selendri. It’s rather a long story. In fact, he’d be doing me a favor if he’d accept them. He has a tower to decorate. All I have is a rented suite and a storage room.”

  “Interesting.” She closed the door to the second carriage, turned away, and began walking back toward the tower. “I can’t wait to hear this. You’ll come up with me. Your attendants stay here, of course.”

  The swordswoman looked as though she might utter a protest, so Locke shook his head firmly and pointed sternly at the first carriage. The glare she returned made him glad that she was bound by orders to protect him.

  Once inside the Sinspire, Selendri gave whispered orders to the heavyset attendant, then led Locke through the usual busy crowds, up to the service area on the third floor. Soon enough they were locked away inside the darkness of the climbing closet, slowly rising to the ninth floor. Locke was surprised to feel her actually turn toward him.

  “Interesting bodyguard you’ve found for yourself, Master Kosta. I didn’t know you rated an Eye of the Archon.”

  “Er, neither did I. I suspected, but I didn’t know. What makes you so sure?”

  “Tattoo on the back of her left hand. A lidless eye in the center of a rose. She’s probably not used to going about in common clothes; she should have worn gloves.”

  “You must have sharp eyes. Eye. Sorry. You know what I mean. I saw it, but I didn’t give it much thought.”

  “Most people aren’t familiar with the sigil.” She turned away from him once again. “I used to have one just like it on my own left hand.”

  “I … well. That’s … I had no idea.”

  “The things you don’t know, Master Kosta. The things you simply do not know …”

  Gods damn it, Locke thought. She was trying to unnerve him, returning her own strat péti for his effort to engage her sympathy the last time they’d been this close. Did everyone in this damn city have a little game?

  “Selendri,” he said, trying to sound earnest and a bit hurt, “I have never desired anything more than to be a friend to you.”

  “As you’re a friend to Jerome de Ferra?”

  “If you knew what he’d done to me, you’d understand. But as you seem to want to flaunt your secrets, I think I’ll just keep a few of my own.”

  “Please yourself. But you might remember that my opinion of you will ultimately be a great deal more final than your opinion of me.”

  Then the climbing closet creaked to a halt, and she squeezed past him into the light of Requin’s office. The master of the Sinspire looked up from his desk as Selendri led Locke across the floor; Requin’s optics were tucked into the collar of his black tunic, and he was poring over a large pile of parchment.

  “Kosta,” he said. “This is timely. I need some explanation from you.”

  “And you’re certainly going to get it,” said Locke. Shit, he thought, I hope he hasn’t found out about the assassins on the docks. I have too damn much to explain as is. “May I sit?”

  “Grab your own chair.”

  Locke selected one from against the wall and set it down before Requin’s desk. He surreptitiously rubbed the sweat of his palms away on his breeches as he sat down. Selendri bent over beside Requin and whispered in his ear at length. He nodded, then stared at Locke.

  “You’ve had some sun,” he said.

  “Today,” said Locke. “Jerome and I were sailing in the harbor.”

  “Pleasant exercise?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “A pity. But it seems you were on the harbor several nights ago. You were spotted returning from the Mon Magisteria. Why have you waited to bring the events of that visit to my attention?”

  “Ah.” Locke felt a rush of relief. Perhaps Requin simply didn’t know there was any relevant link between Jean, himself, and the two dead assassins. A reminder that Requin wasn’t all-knowing was exactly what Locke needed at that moment, and he smiled. “I presumed that if you wanted to know sooner, one of your gangs would have hauled us here for a conversation.”

  “You should make a little list, Kosta, titled People It’s Safe for Me to Antagonize. My name will not appear on it.”

  “Sorry. It wasn’t exactly by design; Jerome and I have had a need over the past few days to go from sleeping with the sunrise to rising with it. And the reason for that does have something to do with Stragos’ plans.”

  At that moment, a Sinspire attendant appeared at the head of the stairs leading up from the eighth floor. She bowed deeply and cleared her throat.

  “Begging your pardon, master and mistress. Mistress ordered Master Kosta’s chairs brought up from the courtyard.”

  “Do so,” said Requin. “Selendri mentioned these. What’s this, then?”

  “I know it’s going to look more crass than it really is,” said Locke, “but you’d be doing me a favor, quite honestly, by agreeing to take them off my hands.”

  “Take them off your … oh my.”

  A burly Sinspire attendant came up the stairs, carrying one of Locke’s chairs before him with obvious caution. Requin rose from his desk and stared.

  “Talathri Baroque,” he said. “Surely, it’s Talathri Baroque … you, there. Put those in the center of the floor. Yes, good. Dismissed.”

  Four attendants deposited four chairs in the middle of Requin’s floor, and then retreated back down the stairwell, bowing before they left. Requin paid them no heed; he stepped around the desk and was soon examining a chair closely, running a gloved finger over its lacquered surface.

  “Reproduction …” he said slowly. “Beyond any doubt … but absolutely beautiful.” He returned his attention to Locke. “I wasn’t aware that you were familiar with the styles I collect.”

  “I’m not,” said Locke. “Never heard of the Talathri Whatever before now. A few months ago, I played cards with a drunk Lashani. His credit was … strained, so I agreed to accept my winnings in goods. I got four expensive chairs. They’ve been in storage ever since because, honestly, what the hell am I going to do with them? I saw the things you keep up here in your office, and I thought perhaps you might want them. I’m glad they suit. Like I said, you’re the one doing me a favor if you take them.”

  “Astonishing,” said Requin. “I’ve always thought about having a suite of furniture crafted in this style. I love the Last Flowering. This is quite a thing to part with.”

  “They’re wasted on me, Requin. A fancy chair is a fancy chair, as far as I know. Just be careful with them. For some reason, they’re shear-crescent wood. Safe enough to sit in, but don’t abuse them.”

  “This is … most unexpected, Master Kosta. I accept. Thank you.” Requin returned, with obvious reluctance, to his chair behind his desk. “This doesn’t slip you out of your need to deliver on your end of our agreement. Or to continue your explanation.” The smile on his face diminished, no longer reaching his eyes.

  “Of course not. But, concerning that … look, Stragos has a jar of fire oil up his ass about something. He’s sending Jerome and I away for a bit, on business.”

  “Away?” The guarded courtesy of a moment earlier was gone; the single word was delivered in a flat, dangerous whisper.

  Here goes. Crooked Warden, throw your dog a scrap.

  “To sea,” said Locke. “To the Ghostwinds. Port Prodigal. On an errand.”

  �
��Strange. I don’t recall moving my vault to Port Prodigal.”

  “It relates to that.” But how? “We’re … after something.” Shit. Not nearly good enough. “Someone, actually. Have you ever … ah, ever …”

  “Ever what?”

  “Ever heard of … a man named … Calo … Callas?”

  “No. Why?”

  “He’s, ah … well, the thing is, I feel foolish about this. I thought maybe you’d have heard about him. I don’t know if he even exists. He might be nothing more than a tall tale. You’re sure you don’t recall hearing the name before?”

  “Certain. Selendri?”

  “The name means nothing,” she said.

  “Who is he supposed to be, then?” Requin folded his gloved hands tightly together.

  “He’s …” What would do it? What would sensibly draw us away from this place if we’re here to break the vault? Oh … Crooked Warden, of course! “… a lockbreaker. Stragos’ spies have a file on him. Supposedly, he’s the best, or he was, back in his day. An artist with a pick, some sort of mechanical prodigy. Jerome and I are expected to entice him out of retirement so he can apply himself to the problem of your vault.”

  “What’s a man like that doing in Port Prodigal?”

  “Hiding, I imagine.” Locke felt the corners of his mouth drawing upward and suppressed an old familiar glee; once a Big Lie was let out in the world, it seemed to grow on its own and needed little tending or worry to bend to the situation. “Stragos says that the Artificers have tried to kill him several times. He’s their antithesis. If he’s real, he’s the gods-damned anti-artificer.”

  “Strange that I’ve never heard of him,” said Requin, “or been asked to find and remove him.”

  “If you were the Artificers,” said Locke, “would you want to spread knowledge of his capabilities to someone in a position to make the best possible use of them?”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Hell.” Locke scratched his chin and feigned distracted consideration. “Maybe someone did ask you to find him and remove him. Just not by that name, and not with that description of his skills, you know?”