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

by Scott Lynch

  “I can’t tell you anything meaningful,” she said. “The vault is at the base of the tower, and you’ve just sealed yourselves up here. So frighten me all you like, Kosta, but I have no idea what you think you’re doing.”

  “Oh, you think this is for you?” Locke smiled. “Selendri. I thought we knew each other better than that. As for the vault, who the hell said anything about it?”

  “Your work to find a way in—”

  “I lied, Selendri. I’ve been known to do that. You think I was really experimenting on clockwork locks and keeping notes for Maxilan Stragos? Like hell. I was sipping brandies on your first and second floors, trying to pull myself back together after I nearly got cut to pieces. Your vault’s fucking impenetrable, sweetheart. I never wanted to go anywhere near it.”

  Locke glanced around, pretending to notice the room for the very first time.

  “Requin sure does keep a lot of really expensive paintings on his walls, though, doesn’t he?”

  With a grin that felt even larger than it was, Locke stepped up to the closest one and began, ever so carefully, to cut it out of its surrounding frame.

  7

  LOCKE AND Jean threw themselves backward from Requin’s balcony ten minutes later, demi-silk lines leading from their leather belts to the perfect anchor-noose knots they’d tied on the railing. There hadn’t been enough room in the chairs for belay lines, but sometimes you couldn’t get anywhere in life without taking little risks.

  Locke hollered as they slid rapidly down through the night air, past balcony after balcony, window after window of bored, satisfied, incurious, or jaded gamers. His glee had temporarily wrestled his sorrow down. He and Jean fell for twenty seconds, using their iron descenders to avoid a headlong plummet, and for those twenty seconds all was right with the world, Crooked Warden be praised. Ten of Requin’s prized paintings—lovingly trimmed from their frames, rolled up, and stuffed into oilcloth carrying tubes—were slung over his shoulder. He’d had to leave two on the wall, for lack of carrying cases, but once again space in the chairs had been limited.

  After Locke had conceived the idea of going after Requin’s fairly well-known art collection, he’d nosed around for a potential buyer among the antiquities and diversions merchants of several cities. The price he’d eventually been offered for his hypothetical acquisition of “the art objects” had been gratifying, to say the least.

  Their slide ended on the stones of Requin’s courtyard, where the ends of their lines hung three inches above the ground. Their landing disturbed several drunk couples strolling the perimeter of the yard. No sooner were they shrugging out of their lines and harnesses than they heard the rush of heavily booted feet and the clatter of arms and armor. A squad of eight Eyes ran toward them from the street side of the Sinspire.

  “Stand where you are,” the Eye in the lead bellowed. “As an officer of archon and Council, I place you under arrest for crimes against Tal Verrar. Raise your hands and offer no struggle, or no quarter will be given.”

  8

  THE LONG, shallow-draft boat drew up against the archon’s private landing, and Locke found his heart hammering. Now came the delicate part, the ever-so-delicate part.

  He and Jean were thrust from the boat by the Eyes surrounding them. Their hands were tied behind their backs, and they’d been relieved of their paintings. Those were carried, very carefully, by the last of the arresting Eyes to step off the boat.

  The arresting officer stepped up to the Eye in command of the landing and saluted. “We’re to take the prisoners to see the Protector immediately, Sword-prefect.”

  “I know,” said the landing officer, an unmistakable note of satisfaction in his voice. “Well done, Sergeant.”

  “Thank you, sir. The gardens?”

  “Yes.”

  Locke and Jean were marched through the Mon Magisteria, through empty hallways and past silent ballrooms, through the smells of weapon oil and dusty corners. At last they emerged into the archon’s gardens.

  Their feet crunched on the gravel of the path as they made their way through the deeply scented night, past the faint glow of silver creeper and the stuttering luminescence of lantern beetles.

  Maxilan Stragos sat waiting for them near his boathouse, on a chair brought out for the occasion. With him were Merrain and—oh, how Locke’s heart quickened—the bald alchemist, as well as two more Eyes. The arresting Eyes, led by their sergeant, saluted the archon.

  “On their knees,” said Stragos casually, and Locke and Jean were forced down to the gravel before him. Locke winced, and tried to take in the details of the scene. Merrain wore a long-sleeved tunic and a dark skirt; from his angle Locke could see that her boots weren’t courtly fripperies, but black, flat-soled field boots, good for running and fighting. Interesting. Stragos’ alchemist stood with a large gray satchel, looking nervous. Locke’s pulse quickened once again at the thought of what might be in that bag.

  “Stragos,” said Locke, pretending that he didn’t know exactly what was on the archon’s mind, “another garden party? Your armored jackasses can untie us now; I doubt there are agents of the Priori lurking in the trees.”

  “I have sometimes wondered to myself,” said Stragos, “precisely what it would take to humble you.” He beckoned the Eye at his right side forward. “I have regretfully concluded that it’s probably impossible.”

  The Eye kicked Locke in the chest, knocking him backward. Gravel slid beneath him as he tried to squirm away; the Eye reached down and yanked him back up by his tunic collar.

  “Do you see my alchemist? Here, as you requested?” said Stragos.

  “Yes,” said Locke.

  “That’s what you get. All you will ever get. I have kept my word. Enjoy your useless glimpse.”

  “Stragos, you bastard, we still have work to do for—”

  “I think not,” said the archon. “I think your work is already done. And at long last, I think I can see precisely why you so aggravated the Bondsmagi that they passed you into my care.”

  “Stragos, if we don’t get back to the Poison Orchid—”

  “My spotters have reported a ship answering that description anchored to the north of the city. I’ll be out to fetch her soon enough, with half the galleys in my fleet. And then I’ll have another pirate to parade through the streets, and a crew to drop into the Midden Deep one by one while all of Tal Verrar cheers me on.”

  “But we—”

  “You have given me what I need,” said Stragos, “if not in the manner in which you intended. Sergeant, did you encounter any difficulty in securing these prisoners from the Sinspire?”

  “Requin refused to allow us entry to the structure, Protector.”

  “Requin refused to allow you entry to the structure,” said Stragos, clearly savoring each word. “Thereby treating an informal tradition as though it had any precedence over my legal authority. Thereby giving me cause to send my troops in platoons, and do what the bought-and-paid-for constables won’t—throw that bastard in a box, until we find out just how long he’s willing to stay quiet about the activities of his good friends the Priori. Now I have my fighting chance. There’s no need for you two to cause further violence in my waters.”

  “Stragos, you motherfucker—”

  “In fact,” said the archon, “there’s no need for you two, at all.”

  “We had a deal!”

  “And I would have kept to it, had you not scorned me in the one matter which could brook no disobedience!” Stragos rose from his chair, shaking with anger. “My instructions were to leave the men and women at Windward Rock alive! Alive!”

  “But we—,” began Locke, absolutely mystified. “We used the witfrost, and we did leave them—”

  “With their throats cut,” said Stragos. “Only the two on the roof lived; I presume you were too lazy to climb up and finish them off.”

  “We didn’t—”

  “Who else was raiding my island that night, Kosta? It’s not exactly a shrine
for pilgrims, is it? If you didn’t do it, you allowed the prisoners to do it. Either way, the fault is yours.”

  “Stragos, I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “That won’t bring my four good men and women back, will it?” Stragos put his hands behind his back. “And with that, we’re done. The sound of your voice, the tone of your arrogance, the sheer effrontery contained within that tongue of yours … you are sharkskin on my eardrums, Master Kosta, and you murdered honest soldiers of Tal Verrar. You will have no priest, no ceremony, and no grave. Sergeant, give me your sword.”

  The sergeant of the arresting Eyes stepped forward and drew his blade. He turned it hilt-first toward the archon.

  “Stragos,” said Jean. “One last thing.”

  Locke turned toward him, and saw that he was smiling thinly. “I’m going to remember this moment for the rest of my gods-damned life.”

  “I—”

  Stragos never finished his sentence, since the Eye sergeant suddenly drew back his sword arm and slammed the hilt of the weapon into the archon’s face.

  9

  THEY DID it like this.

  The Eyes removed Locke and Jean from Requin’s courtyard and shoved them into a heavy carriage with iron-barred windows. Three entered the compartment with them, two rode up top to tend the horses, and three stood at the sides and rear, as outriders.

  At the end of the street atop the highest tier of the Golden Steps, where the carriage had to turn left to take the switchback ramp down to the next level, another carriage suddenly blocked its way. The Eyes yelled threats; the driver of the other carriage apologized profusely and shouted that his horses were uncommonly stubborn.

  Then the crossbow strings began to snap, and the drivers and outriders toppled from their places, caught defenseless in a storm of quarrels. Squads of constables in full uniform appeared on the street to either side of the carriage, waving their staves and shields.

  “Move along,” they shouted at the wide-eyed bystanders, the wisest of whom had already ducked for cover. “Nothing to see here. Business of archon and Council.”

  As the bodies hit the cobblestones outside the carriage, the door flew open and the three inside made a futile attempt to aid their fallen comrades. Two more squads of constables, with help from a number of private individuals in plain dress who just happened to get involved at the same signal, charged and overpowered them. One fought back so hard that he was slain by accident; the other two were soon forced down beside the carriage, and their bronze masks removed.

  Lyonis Cordo appeared, wearing the uniform of an Eye, complete in every detail save for the mask. He was followed by seven more men and women in nearly complete costumes. With them was a young woman Locke didn’t recognize. She knelt in front of the two captured Eyes.

  “You I don’t know,” she said to the one on the right. Before the man had time to realize what was happening, a constable had passed a dagger across his throat and shoved him to the ground. Other constables were quickly dragging the rest of the bodies out of sight.

  “You,” said the woman, regarding the sole surviving Eye. “Lucius Caulus. You I know.”

  “Kill me now,” said the man. “I’ll give you nothing.”

  “Of course,” said the woman. “But you have a mother. And a sister, who works in the Blackhands Crescent. And you have a brother-by-bonding on the fishing boats, and two nephews—”

  “Fuck you,” Caulus said. “You wouldn’t—”

  “While you watched. I would. I will. Every single one of them, and you’ll be in the room the whole time, and they’ll know that you could save them with a few words.”

  Caulus looked at the ground and began to sob. “Please,” he said. “Let this stay between us—”

  “Tal Verrar remains, Caulus. The archon isn’t Tal Verrar. But I don’t have time to play games with you. Answer my questions or we will find your family.”

  “Gods forgive me,” said Caulus, nodding.

  “Were you given any special code phrases or procedures to use when reentering the Mon Magisteria?”

  “N-no …”

  “What, exactly, were the orders that you heard given to your sergeant?”

  When the brief interrogation was over, and Caulus carted off—alive, to keep him in fear of consequences should he be leaving anything out—along with the bodies, the false Eyes armed themselves with the weapons and harnesses of the real thing, and drew on the brass masks. Then the carriage was off again, speeding on its way to the boat waiting at the inner docks, lest any of Stragos’ agents should get across the bay in time to warn of what they’d seen.

  “That was about as good as we could hope for,” said Lyonis, sitting inside the carriage with them.

  “How good are those fake uniforms?” asked Locke.

  “Fake? You misunderstand. The uniforms weren’t the hard part; our sympathizers in Stragos’ forces supplied us with these some time ago. It’s the masks that are damned difficult. One per Eye, no spares; they keep them like family heirlooms. And they spend so much time looking at them even a close copy would be noticed.” Cordo held up his mask and grinned. “After tonight, hopefully, we’ll never see the damned things again. Now what the hell is in those oilcloth tubes?”

  “A gift from Requin,” said Locke. “Unrelated personal business.”

  “You know Requin well?”

  “We share a taste for the art of the late Therin Throne period,” said Locke, smiling. “In fact, we’ve even exchanged some pieces of work recently.”

  10

  AS LYONIS knocked the archon to the ground, the other false Eyes tore their masks off and took action. Locke and Jean slid out of the purely decorative knots at their wrists in less than a second.

  One of Lyonis’ men underestimated the skills of the real Eye he faced; he fell to his knees with most of his left side sliced open. Two more Priori pretenders closed in and harried the Eye until his guard slipped; they knocked him down and stabbed him several times. The other tried to run and fetch aid, but was slain before he could take five steps.

  Merrain and the alchemist looked around, the alchemist far more nervously than Merrain, but two of Lyonis’ people put them at swordpoint.

  “Well, Stragos,” said Lyonis, hauling the archon back to his knees, “warmest regards from the House of Cordo.” He raised his arm, sword reversed to strike, and grinned.

  Jean grabbed him from behind, threw him to the ground, and stood over him, seething. “The deal, Cordo!”

  “Yeah,” said Lyonis, still smiling where he lay on the ground. “Well, it’s like this. You’ve done us quite a service, but we don’t feel comfortable having loose ends running around. And there are now seven of us, and two of—”

  “You amateur double-crossers,” said Locke. “You make us professionals cringe. You think you’re so fucking clever. I saw this coming about a hundred miles away, so I had a mutual friend offer an opinion on the subject.”

  Locke reached into his boot and pulled out a slightly crumpled, moderately sweaty half-sheet of parchment, folded into quarters. Locke passed this to Lyonis and smiled, knowing as the Priori unfolded it that he would read:

  I WOULD TAKE IT AS A PERSONAL AFFRONT IF THE BEARERS OF THIS NOTE WERE TO BE HARMED OR HINDERED IN ANY WAY, ENGAGED AS THEY ARE UPON AN ERRAND OF MUTUAL BENEFIT. THE EXTENSION OF EVERY COURTESY TO THEM WILL BE NOTED AND RETURNED AS THOUGH A COURTESY TO MYSELF. THEY BEAR MY FULL AND ABSOLUTE TRUST.

  R

  All, of course, above Requin’s personal seal.

  “I know that you yourself are not fond of his chance house,” said Locke. “But you must admit that the same is not generally true among the Priori, and many of your peers keep a great deal of money in his vault—”

  “Enough. I take your point.” Cordo rose to his feet and all but threw the letter back at Locke. “What do you ask?”

  “I only want two things,” said Locke. “The archon and his alchemist. What you do with this gods-damned city is e
ntirely your business.”

  “The archon must—”

  “You were about to gut him like a fish. He’s my business now. Just know that whatever happens to him won’t be an inconvenience for you.”

  The sound of shouting arose from the other side of the gardens. No, Locke corrected himself—the other side of the fortress.

  “What the hell is that?” he asked.

  “We have sympathizers at the Mon Magisteria’s gate,” said Cordo. “We’re bringing people in to prevent anyone from leaving. They must be making their presence known.”

  “If you try to storm—”

  “We’re not storming the Mon Magisteria. Just sealing it off. Once the troops inside comprehend the new situation, we’re confident they’ll accept the authority of the councils.”

  “You’d better hope that’s the case across Tal Verrar,” said Locke. “But enough of this shit. Hey, Stragos, let’s go have a chat with your pet alchemist.”

  Jean hoisted the archon—still clearly in shock—to his feet, and began to haul him over to where Merrain and the alchemist were standing under guard.

  “You,” said Locke, pointing at the bald man, “are about to start explaining a hell of a lot of things, if you know what’s good for you.”

  The alchemist shook his head. “Oh, but I … I …”

  “Pay close attention,” said Locke. “This is the end of the archonate, understand? The whole institution is getting sunk in the harbor once and for all tonight. After this, Maxilan Stragos won’t have the power to buy a cup of warm piss for all the gold in Tal Verrar. That will leave you with nobody to go crawling to as you spend the rest of your short, miserable life answering to the two men you fucking poisoned. Do you have a permanent antidote?”

  “I … I carry an antidote for every poison I use in the archon’s service, yes. Just in case.”