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

by Scott Lynch

  “Hello, Lamora,” she whispered. “I need to stand next to an ugly little boy to make myself look better.”

  She certainly did not, thought Locke. An inch taller than him, Nazca was much like Sabetha these days, closer to woman than girl. For some reason, she also had a soft spot for the Gentlemen Bastards. Locke had begun to suspect that the “little favors” Father Chains had once done for Capa Barsavi were not as little as he’d let on, and that Nazca was privy to at least some of the story. Not that she ever spoke of it.

  “Good to see you here in the cheap seats with us, Nazca,” said Sabetha as she gracefully nudged Jean out of his position behind Locke. Locke’s spine tingled.

  “No such thing on a night like this,” said Nazca. “Just thieves among thieves.”

  “Women among boys,” said Sabetha with an exaggerated sigh.

  “Pearls among swine,” said Nazca, and the two of them giggled. Locke’s cheeks burned.

  It was early winter in the seventy-seventh Year of Aza Guilla, the month of Marinel, the time of the empty sky. It was the night called the Orphan’s Moon, when Locke and all of his kind became, by ancient Therin custom, one year older.

  It was the one night per year on which young thieves were fully initiated into the mysteries of the Crooked Warden, somewhere in the dark and crumbling depths of old Camorr.

  It was, by Chains’ best guess, the night of Locke’s thirteenth birthday.

  2

  THE DAY’S activities had started with the procurement of an appropriate offering.

  “Let’s toss the cake on that fellow right there,” said Jean. It was high afternoon, and he and Locke lay in wait in an alley just off the Avenue of Five Saints in the upper-class Fountain Bend district.

  “He seems the type,” agreed Locke. He hefted the all-important package into his arms—a cube of flax-paper wrapped around a wooden frame, with a sturdy wooden base, the whole thing about two and a half feet on a side. “Where you coming from?”

  “His right.”

  “Let’s make his acquaintance.”

  They went in opposite directions—Jean directly east onto the avenue, and Locke to the western end of the alley, so he could head north on the parallel Avenue of the Laurels and swing around the long way to intercept the chosen target.

  The Fountain Bend was a nest of the quality; one could tell merely by counting the number of servants on the streets, and noting the character of the yellowjackets taking relaxed strolls around the gardens and avenues. Their harnesses were perfectly oiled, their boots shined, their coats and hats unweathered. Postings to an area like this came only to watch-folk with connections, and once they had the posting they took pains to make themselves decorative as well as functional, lest they be reassigned somewhere much livelier.

  Winter in Camorr could be pleasant when the sky wasn’t pissing like an old man who’d lost command of his bladder. Today warm sun and cool breeze hit the skin at the same time, and it was easy to forget the thousand and one ways the city had of choking, stifling, reeking, and sweating. Locke hurried north for two blocks, then veered right, onto the Boulevard of the Emerald Footfall. Dressed as he was, in servant’s clothing, it was perfectly acceptable for him to scamper along with his awkward cargo at an undignified pace.

  When the boulevard met the Avenue of Five Saints, Locke turned right again and immediately spotted his quarry. Locke had beaten him to the intersection by fifty yards, and so had plenty of time to slow down and get his act sorted. No more rushing about—on this street, he became the picture of caution, a dutiful young servant minding a delicate package at a sensible speed. Forty yards … thirty yards … and there was Jean, coming up behind the target.

  At twenty yards, Locke veered slightly, making it clear that there could be no possible collision if he and the stranger continued on their present courses. Ten yards … Jean was nearly at the man’s elbow.

  At five yards, Jean bumped into the target from behind, sending him sprawling in just the right direction, with just enough momentum, to smack squarely into Locke’s flax-paper package. Locke ensured that the fragile cube was snapped and crushed instantly, along with the fifteen pounds of spice cake and icing it contained. Much of it hit the cobbles with a sound like meat hitting a butcher’s counter, and the rest of it hit Locke, who artfully fell directly onto his ass.

  “Oh gods,” he cried. “You’ve ruined me!”

  “Why, I, I’ve—I don’t … damn!” sputtered the target, jumping back from the splattered cake and checking his clothing. He was a well-fed, round-shouldered sort in respectable dress, with a smooth leather ink-guard on his right jacket cuff that told of life lived behind a desk. “I was struck from behind!”

  “Indeed you were,” said Jean, who was as well-dressed as the target, and as wide despite a threefold difference in age. Jean was carrying a half-dozen scroll-cases. “I stumbled into you entirely by accident, sir, and I apologize. But the two of us together have smashed this poor servant’s cake.”

  “Well, the fault is hardly mine.” The target carefully brushed a few stray pieces of icing off his breeches. “I was merely caught in the middle. Come now, boy, come now. It’s nothing to cry about.”

  “Oh, but it is, sir,” said Locke, sniffling as artfully as he ever had in his Shades’ Hill days. “My master will have my skin for bookbindings!”

  “Chin up, boy. Everyone takes a few lashes now and again. Are your hands clean?” The target held a hand out, grudgingly, and helped Locke back to his feet. “It’s only the merest cake.”

  “It’s not just any cake,” sobbed Locke. “It’s my master’s birthday confection, ordered a month in advance. It’s a crown-cake from Zakasta’s. All kinds of alchemy and spices.”

  “Zakasta’s,” said Jean with an admirable impression of awe. “Damn! This is awful luck.”

  “That’s my pay for a year,” burbled Locke. “I don’t get to claim a man’s wages for two more to come. He’ll have it out of my hide and my pocket.”

  “Let’s not be hasty,” said Jean soothingly. “We can’t get you a new cake, but we can at least give your master his crown back.”

  “What do you mean, ‘we’?” The target rounded on Jean. “Who the devil are you to speak for me, boy?”

  “Jothar Tathis,” said Jean, “solicitor’s apprentice.”

  “Oh? Which solicitor?”

  “Mistress Donatella Viricona,” said Jean with the hint of a smile. “Of Meraggio’s.”

  “Ahhhh,” said the target, as though Jean had just pointed a loaded crossbow directly at his privates. Mistress Viricona was one of Camorr’s best-known litigators, a woman who served as the voice of several powerful noble families. Anyone who slung parchment for a living was bound to know her legend. “I see … but—”

  “We owe this poor boy a crown,” said Jean. “Come, we can split the sum. I might have stumbled into you, but you certainly could have avoided him if you’d been more careful.”

  Locke suppressed a grin that would have reached his temples if it hadn’t been checked.

  “But—”

  “Here, I carry enough as pocket-money.” Jean held out two gold tyrins on his right palm. “Surely it’s no hardship for you, either.”

  “But—”

  “What are you, a Verrari? Are you that much of a scrub that two tyrins is an imposition for you? If so, at least give me your name so I can let my mistress know who wouldn’t—”

  “Fine,” said the man, holding his hands up toward Jean. “Fine! We’ll pay for the damn cake. Half and half.” He passed a pair of gold tyrins over to Locke, and watched as Jean did the same.

  “Th-thank you, sirs,” said Locke with a quavering voice. “I’ll catch some hell for this, but not nearly what I would have had coming.”

  “It’s only reasonable,” said Jean. “Gods go with you, both of you.”

  “Yes, yes,” said the older man, scowling. “Be more careful next time you’re hauling a cake around, boy.” He hurried on his way wi
thout another word.

  “Guilt is such a beautiful thing,” sighed Locke as he scooped up the toppled mess of the boxed cake—a horrid conglomeration of old flour, sawdust, and white plaster worth about a hundredth of what the unfortunate mark had handed over. “That’s a solid tyrin apiece for tonight.”

  “Think Chains will be pleased?”

  “Let’s hope it’s the Benefactor that ends up pleased,” said Locke with a grin. “I’ll just clear this mess up and find someplace to dump it so the yellowjackets don’t break my skull. Back home?”

  “Yeah, roundabout way,” said Jean. “See you in half an hour.”

  3

  “SO THEN this fellow backs off like Jean’s started juggling live scorpions,” said Locke, just over half an hour later. “And Jean starts calling him a scrub, and a Verrari, and all kinds of things, and the poor bastard just handed over two gold coins like that.”

  Locke snapped his fingers, and the Sanza twins applauded politely. Calo and Galdo sat side by side atop the table in the glass burrow’s kitchen, disdaining the use of anything so commonplace as chairs.

  “And that’s your offering?” said Calo. “A tyrin apiece?”

  “It’s a fair sum,” said Jean. “And we thought we put some effort into it. Artistic merit and all that.”

  “Took us two hours to make the cake,” said Locke. “And you should have seen the acting. We could have been on stage. That man’s heart melted into a puddle, I was so sad and forlorn.”

  “So it wasn’t acting at all, then,” said Galdo.

  “Polish my dagger for me, Sanza,” said Locke, making an elaborate hand gesture that Camorri only used in public when they absolutely wanted to start a fight.

  “Sure, I’ll get the smallest rag in the kitchen while you draw me a map to where it’s been hiding all these years.”

  “Oh, be fair,” said Calo. “We can spot it easily enough whenever Sabetha’s in the room!”

  “Like now?” said Sabetha as she appeared from around the corner of the burrow’s entrance tunnel.

  The fact that Locke didn’t die instantly may be taken as proof that a human male can survive having every last warm drop of blood within his body rush instantly to the vicinity of his cheeks.

  Sabetha had been exerting herself. Her face was flushed, several strands of her tightly queued hair had fallen out of place, and the open neckline of her cream-colored tunic revealed a sheen of sweat on her skin. Locke’s eyes would ordinarily have been fixed on her as though connected to the aforementioned tunic by invisible threads, but he pretended that something terribly important had just appeared in the empty far corner of the kitchen.

  “And where do you two get off teasing Locke?” said Sabetha. “If either of you have any hair on your stones yet, you’ve been putting it there with a paintbrush.”

  “You wound us deeply,” said Calo. “And good taste prevents us from being able to respond in kind.”

  “However,” said Galdo, “if you were to ask around certain Guilded Lilies, you’d discover that your—”

  “You’ve been visiting the Guilded Lilies?” said Jean.

  “Ahhh,” said Calo with a cough, “that is to say, were we to visit the, ah, Guilded Lilies, hypothetically—”

  “Hypothetically,” said Galdo. “Excellent word. Hypothetically.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. It’s just like you two to make someone else do all the work, isn’t it?” Sabetha rolled her eyes. “So what’s your offering, then?”

  “Red wine,” said Calo. “Two dozen bottles. We borrowed them from that half-blind old bastard just off Ropelayer’s Way.”

  “I went in dressed like a swell,” said Galdo, “and while I kept him busy around the shop, Calo was in and out the rear window, quiet as a spider.”

  “It was too easy,” said Calo. “That poor fellow couldn’t tell a dog’s ass from a douche bucket if you gave him three tries.”

  “Anyhow, Chains said they could be used for the toasting after the ceremony,” said Galdo. “Since the point is to get rid of the offerings anyway.”

  “Nice,” said Jean, scratching at the faint dark fuzz on his heavy chin. “What have you been up to, Sabetha?”

  “Yeah, what’s your offering?” said the twins in unison.

  “It’s taken me most of the day,” said Sabetha, “and it hasn’t been easy, but I liked the look of these.” She brought three polished witchwood truncheons out from behind her back. One of them was new, one was moderately dented, and one looked as though it had been used to crack skulls for as long as any of the younger Gentlemen Bastards had been alive.

  “Oh, you’re kidding,” said Galdo.

  “No, you’re fucking kidding,” said Calo.

  “Your eyes do not deceive you,” said Sabetha, twirling the batons by their straps. “Several of Camorr’s famously vigilant city watchmen have indeed misplaced their convincing sticks.”

  “Oh, gods,” said Locke, his guts roiling with a tangled mess of admiration and consternation. His self-satisfaction at squeezing half a crown out of the poor slob in the Fountain Bend vanished. “That’s … that’s a bloody work of art!”

  “Why, thank you,” said Sabetha, giving a mock bow to the room. “I have to admit, I only got two of them off belts. Third one was lying around in a watch station. I figured I had no business turning down that sort of temptation.”

  “But why didn’t you tell us what you were doing?” said Locke. “Chasing the watch on your own—”

  “Have you always told everyone else what you’re up to?” said Sabetha.

  “But you could have used some top-eyes, or a distraction just in case,” said Locke.

  “Well, you were busy. I saw you and Jean baking your little cake.”

  “You’re showing off,” said Calo. “Hoping to make an impression?”

  “You think there’ll be a choosing,” said Galdo, slyly.

  “Chains said there’s a chance every year,” said Sabetha. “Might as well stand out. Haven’t you two ever thought about it?”

  “The full priesthood?” Calo stuck out his tongue. “Not our style. Don’t get us wrong, we love the Crooked Warden, but the two of us …”

  “Just because we like to drink doesn’t mean we want to run the tavern,” finished Calo.

  “What about you, Jean?” said Sabetha.

  “Interesting question.” Jean took his optics off and wiped them against a tunic sleeve as he spoke. “I’d be surprised if the Crooked Warden wanted someone like me as a divine. My parents took oath to Gandolo. I like to think I’m welcome where the gods have put me, but I don’t believe I’m meant for anything like a priesthood.”

  “And you, Locke?” Sabetha asked quietly.

  “I, uh, guess I haven’t really thought about it.” That was a lie. Locke had always been fascinated by the hints Chains dropped about the secretive structure of the Crooked Warden’s priesthood, but he wasn’t sure what Sabetha wanted to hear from him. “I, ah, take it you have?”

  “I have.” There was that smile of hers, a smile that was like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. “I want it. I want to know what Chains smirks about all the time. And I want to win it. I want to be the best—”

  She was interrupted by an echoing clang from the entrance tunnel. That could only be Chains returning to the burrow from the various preparations the night would require. He rounded the corner and smiled when he saw them all gathered.

  “Good, good,” he muttered. “Sanzas, the wine is being carried in by some people who’ll be less busy than yourselves. Everyone else, I trust you have your offerings?” He looked pleased at the nods he received. Locke caught the twinkle of unusual excitement in his eyes despite the dark circles beneath them. “Excellent. Then let’s have some dinner before we leave.”

  “Will we need to dress up or bathe for this?” asked Sabetha.

  “Oh no, my dear, no. Ours is a pragmatic sort of temple. Besides, it’s no use in trying to prettify yourselves, since you’re going to
have sacks thrown over your heads. Try to act surprised. That’s the only little secret I’ll be giving away in advance.”

  4

  A HUSH ran through the assembled thieves as several men and women, using a collapsible wooden frame, hung curtains over the door the postulants had been carried through. Other than a few vents in the ceiling, that door was the only entrance to the room Locke could see. Guards took up positions by the curtains—serious bruisers in long leather coats, with cudgels and axes ready. Chains had explained that their purpose was to ensure the privacy of the ritual. Other guards would be out there somewhere, an entire network, lurking along every route an outsider could use to spy upon or disrupt the Orphan’s Moon rites.

  There were about ten dozen people in the vault. That was a scant fraction of the people in Camorr whose lives were supposed to be ruled by the god with the hidden name, but that, according to Chains, was the nature of devotion. It was easy to mutter prayers and curses in the heat of the moment, and less convenient to skulk around in the middle of nowhere on the one night a year the dedicated actually came together.

  “This is the temple of the church without temples,” said a woman in a hooded gray cloak as she stepped into the middle of the vaulted chamber. “This is the ceremony of the order without ceremonies.”

  “Father of our fortunes, we consecrate this hall to your purpose; to be joined to your grace and to receive your mysteries.” This was Chains, his voice rich and resonant. He took his place by the woman’s side, wearing a similar robe. “We are thieves among thieves; our lot is shared. We are keepers of signs and passwords, here without malice or guile.”

  “This is our calling and our craft, which you from love have given us.” The third speaker was the garrista who’d sworn the postulants to secrecy, now robed in gray. “Father of Shadows, who teaches us to take what we would dare to take, receive our devotions.”

  “You have taught us that good fortune may be seized and shared,” said the female priest.