by Scott Lynch
“Of course not—”
“Sabetha, you know how much I respect you, but if you can’t see what a gods-damned paradise we lucked into when Chains picked us, you need to set that beer down this instant.”
“I don’t regret the comforts or the education. He was a faultless provider. Except in one respect … he trained a gentle streak into us and let us pretend it would never cost us.”
“You think we should have been more cruel? Ready to turn on each other like sharks in blood, like every other gods-damned gang around us? I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but that wasn’t weakness he bred into us. It was loyalty. And loyalty’s a hell of a weapon.”
“You have the luxury of thinking so.”
“Oh, not this again. The Jean situation, right? Straight and simple, gorgeous, don’t you dare sit there and hit me with self-righteous envy for a friendship I kept and you walked away from.”
She set her beer down and stared coldly at him. Then, just as Locke’s heart started to sink in expectation of another one of their habitual misunderstandings, the chill thawed, and she attempted a smile. She whistled, mimicking the sound of an arrow in flight, and clutched at an imaginary shaft just above her heart.
“I’m sorry,” they both said, in Sanza-esque unison, and chuckled.
“You’re dwelling on something,” said Locke, reaching across the table to rest his free hand on hers. “Let it go. Just be here. Just be Sabetha, having dinner, floating on the Amathel. Let the world end at the sides of this barge.”
“I am dwelling on something.”
“Well, don’t take such a poisonous view of our upbringing. Come on. We lie for a living; it’s not healthy for us to lie to ourselves.”
“What do we do BUT lie to ourselves, Locke? Aren’t we supposed to be rich? Aren’t we supposed to be in command of our lives, free to go when and where we please, with all the honest simpletons of the world throwing coins at our feet? Here we are, halfway around the world, working for the gods-damned Bondsmagi just to stay alive.”
“You know, Jean’s slapped me out of a lot of moods like the one you’re in right now.” Locke took a long pull on his beer. “You’re taking the world awfully personally. Didn’t Chains ever tell you about the Golden Theological Principle?”
“The what?”
“The single congruent aspect of every known religion. The one shared, universal assumption about the human condition.”
“What is it?”
“He said that life boils down to standing in line to get shit dropped on your head. Everyone’s got a place in the queue, you can’t get out of it, and just when you start to congratulate yourself on surviving your dose of shit, you discover that the line is actually circular.”
“I’m just old enough to find that distressingly accurate.”
“You see? It’s universal,” said Locke. “Of course, I’m a stark staring hypocrite for telling you not to take it personally. It’s easy to prescribe remedies for our own weaknesses when they’re comfortably ensconced in other people. What’s got you dwelling on the past?”
“I don’t like dancing on strings, any strings, even my own. I’ve been … examining some, I suppose. Trying to follow them all the way back to where they began.”
“Ah.” Locke shuffled his glass around idly. “You’re trying to reconcile your contradictory thoughts about yours truly. And you’re wondering what sort of decision you’d be making without our shared history—”
“Gods damn it!” Sabetha punctuated this exclamation by throwing a wadded-up silk napkin at him. “Don’t do that. It makes me feel as though my thoughts are written on my forehead.”
“Come now. Fair’s fair. You read me like a scroll.”
“I tried to get you out of the way—”
“Half-assed,” said Locke. “Very half-assed. Admit it. You made it difficult, but some part of you wanted to see Jean and me get off that ship and come riding back into town.”
“I don’t know. I wanted to see you, but then I wanted you gone,” said Sabetha. “I tried to say no to dinner. I couldn’t. I don’t … I don’t want anyone to be a habit for me, Locke. If I love someone, I want it to be my choice.… I want it to be the right choice.”
“I never felt as though I had a choice. From the first hours I knew you. Remember when I told you, for the first time? You nearly threw me off the roof—”
“I thought you deserved it. You know, it’s an opinion I return to from time to time, whether or not a roof is available.”
“You’re a difficult woman, Sabetha. But then, difficult women are the only ones worth falling in love with.”
“How would you know? It’s not like you’ve ever been after anyone else—”
“That part’s easy. I started with the most difficult woman possible, so there was never any need to look any further.”
“You’re trying to be charming.” She squeezed his hand once, then pulled away. “I choose not to be entirely charmed, Locke Lamora.”
“Not entirely?”
“Not entirely. Not yet.”
“Well.” Locke sighed. The evening might not be ending as he’d dared to hope, but that was no reason to be less than good company. “I suppose I still have two ambitions to mind as long as I’m in Karthain. Dessert?”
“How about a ride back to shore?”
“I’ve been curious about what might happen when you suggested that. Will you be leaving by catapult? Giant kite?”
“One showy exit was amusing; two would be gauche. We can’t let these westerners think Camorri are entirely without a sense of restraint.”
Their ride back to shore was a flat-bottomed boat with velvet cushions, tended by an admirably mum old fellow rowing at the stern. Locke and Sabetha rode side by side in companionable silence, through waters that gleamed white and blue from the lanterns of the dining barge. The air was full of pale, fluttering streaks, pulsing like fireflies, adding their soft touches of light to the canvas of the water.
“Firelight Sovereigns,” whispered Sabetha. “Karthani night butterflies. It’s said they hatch at dusk and die with the dawn.”
“You and I are natives of the dark, too,” said Locke. “I’m glad some of us last a bit longer.”
Two carriages waited above the quayside.
“His and hers, I presume?” said Locke.
“To bear us back to ribbons and duties and dumping carts of burning alchemy on doorsteps.” She led him to the first carriage and held the door open. “The driver has Jean’s hatchets. Safe and sound, to be handed over on arrival.”
“Thanks. So … three nights hence?” He took her hand as he placed one foot on the step, and bit the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning too broadly when she didn’t draw away. “Come on. You know you want to say yes.”
“Three nights. I’ll send a carriage. However, I’m charging you with finding a place this time. You’ve roamed the city enough to have some ideas, I think.”
“Oh, I’m full of ideas.” He bowed and kissed the back of her hand, then climbed into the carriage. “Can I offer you one last thing?”
“You can offer.” She pushed the door shut and looked in at him through the barred window.
“Quit being so hard on yourself. We are what we are; we love what we love. We don’t need to justify it to anyone … not even to ourselves. I seem to remember telling you that before.”
“Thank you.” She did something to the lock on the carriage door. “We are what we are. Now, listen, my driver will let you out when you’re back home. Don’t bother messing with the door; I had the lock mechanism sealed on the inside.”
“Wha … wait a damned minute, what are you—”
“Have a smooth ride,” she said, waving. “And I want you to know that the bit with the snakes was pretty cute. In fact, I took pains to see that they weren’t harmed, because I was certain you’d want such adorable little creatures returned to you.”
She thumped the side of the carriage twice. A panel in
the cabin ceiling above Locke slid open, and as the carriage clattered across the cobbles, the rain of snakes began.
12
“PAINT ME a picture,” said Locke, standing in the Deep Roots private gallery two days later. Since his return from dinner with a carriage full of less-than-deadly but agitated serpents, he’d been consumed by the paper chase, poring over maps and allocating funds, checking and double-checking lists, with no chance to engage in more hands-on weasel work.
“Nikoros just went down to fetch the latest reports,” said Jean, blowing smoke from an aromatic Syresti-leaf cigar that would have cost a common laborer a day’s wages. “But our Konseil members here have been chatting their teeth out in all the better parts of town.”
“Successfully, too, I should think.” Damned Superstition Dexa took a sip from her brandy snifter and gestured at the map of Karthain with her own cigar. Asceticism was a virtue the Deep Roots party held in slight regard. “We’ve squeezed a lot of promises out of Plaza Gandolo and the Palanta District. Fence-sitters, mostly. And some old friends we’ve brought back into the fold.”
“Bought back is more like it,” said Firstson Epitalus. “Bloody ingrates.”
“What are you handing out to steady their resolve?” said Locke.
“Oh, hints about tax easements,” said Dexa. “Everyone loves the thought of keeping a little more of their own money.”
“The Black Iris people can drop the same hints,” said Locke. “I don’t mean to tell you your business, but fuck me, if something as boring as tax easements is enough to hook votes, those people won’t care which party delivers the goods. We need some impractical reasons to motivate them. Emotional reasons. That means rumormongering. I want to rub dirt on whoever’s standing for the Black Iris in those districts. Something disgusting. In fact, we’ll completely avoid mud-flinging in a few other spots to make these stand out all the more. What’s guaranteed to repulse the good voters of Karthain?”
“Rather depends on how much vulgarity you’re willing to countenance, dear boy.” Dexa drew in a long breath of smoke while she pondered. “Thirdson Jovindus, that’s their lad for the Palanta District. He’s got what you might call an open-door policy for the contents of his breeches, but he’s also just dashing enough to carry it off.”
“Seconddaughter Viracois stands for them in Plaza Gandolo,” said Epitalus. “She’s clean as fresh plaster.”
“Hmmm.” Locke tapped his knuckles against the map table. “Clean just means we can paint whatever we like on her. But let’s not do it directly. Master Callas and I will arrange a crew. Scary people on a tight leash. They’ll visit some of our fence-sitters in Plaza Gandolo, and they’ll make threats. Vote for Viracois and the Black Iris or bad things happen to your nice homes, your pretty gardens, your expensive carriages.…”
“Well, I don’t mean to tell you your business, Master Lazari,” said Epitalus, “but shouldn’t we be frightening voters into our own corner?”
“I don’t want them frightened. I want them annoyed. Come now, Epitalus, how would you feel if a pack of half-copper hoods barged into your foyer and tried to put a scare into you? Swells aren’t used to being pushed around. They’ll resent it like hell. They’ll mutter about it to all their friends, and they’ll be at the head of the line to vote against the Black Iris out of spite.”
“My, my,” said Epitalus. “There may be something in that. And what about Jovindus?”
“I’ll come up with something suitable for him, too. Let the pot simmer awhile.” Locke tapped the side of his head. “Where’s Nikoros?”
“Coming, sirs, coming!” Long black plait bobbing behind him, Nikoros jogged up the gallery stairs and passed a set of papers to Jean. “Fresh as the weather, all the reports you asked for, and something, ah, unfortunate—”
“Unfortunate?” Jean flipped through the papers until he found one that caught his eye. The furrows in his forehead deepened as he read, and when he finished he drew Locke aside.
“What is it?”
“The official constabulary report on the arrest of Fifthson Lucidus of the Isas Merreau,” said Jean.
“What?”
“It says that acting on a tip from the Lashani legate, a party of constables paid Lucidus a visit and discovered a team of stolen Lashani carriage horses in his private stable, identifiable by their brands—”
“Cockless sons of Jeremite shit-jugglers!” Locke seized the report and scanned it. “That sneaky bitch. That beautiful, sneaky bitch. She just can’t let us feel good about ourselves, not even for a few days. Oh, look, out of concern for the diplomatic aspect of the situation, they’re holding Lucidus in solitary confinement until after the election!”
“Indeed.”
“Some of the Black Iris chicks must have complained to their mother hen about the big bad debt collector. So much for that scheme.”
“We should come back hard and fast.”
“Agreed.” Locke closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. “Keep pushing everyone on that list of vulnerabilities. Send courtesans and handsome lads after all the Black Iris people with wandering eyes. Make sure the gamblers get invitations to high-stakes games. Scatter temptations all around the ones with nasty habits. Pluck the weaknesses of the flesh like harp strings, all of ’em, from every direction.”
“I suppose there’s money in the bank itching to be spent,” sighed Jean.
“That’s right. We’ll spend it down to the dust under the last scrap of copper. Then we’ll sweep up the dust and see what we can get for it.”
“Um, one thing more, sirs,” said Nikoros. “Josten tells me that we’ve got watchers on the surrounding rooftops again.”
“Leave that with me,” said Jean. “We gave fair warning. This time I’ll make some work for the physikers.”
13
COOL GRAY veils of drizzle and fog draped the neighborhood when Jean went out, an hour after midnight, to pay a call on the new neighbors. He moved up to the rooftops as slowly and cautiously as possible, using routes he’d noted on the previous excursion. In this weather there were no drunks or lovers to stumble over, and he was confident that he crept along as silently as he ever had in his life.
His first target was obvious—so obvious that Jean watched for nearly a quarter of an hour, straining his senses to spot the ambush or the trap that had to be there. The watcher sat (sat!) in a collapsible wood-and-leather chair beside a parapet, wrapped in a cloak and blanket. If not for the fact that the seated figure moved from time to time, Jean would have sworn it had to be a decoy.
The tiniest speck of light lit the shadows beside the chair, revealing a spread of gear and comforts, including bottles of wine, a silk parasol, and several different spyglasses. It had to be a joke, or a trap … and yet there was simply nobody else around. He took the opening. It was child’s play to sneak up behind the seated watcher and clap a hand over their mouth.
“Scream and I’ll break your arms,” hissed Jean. The watcher gave a start, but it was plain in an instant that this small-framed and weak body was incapable of serious resistance. Puzzled, Jean scrabbled for the light source, which turned out to be a dark-lantern with the aperture drawn to its narrowest setting. Jean eased it open another few clicks and held it up to his captive.
Gods, it was an old woman. A very old woman, seventy or more, and it wasn’t one of Sabetha’s makeup jobs, either. This woman was genuinely light and frail, her face a valley of lines, one eye gray as the overcast sky. The other one, however, fixed on him with mischievous vitality.
“Oh, hello, dear,” she whispered as he withdrew his hand. “I won’t be screaming, I promise. You gave me a start, though she warned me you’d be up sooner or later.”
“She?”
“My employer, dear.”
“So you admit that you’re—”
“A spy. Oh yes.” The old woman chuckled. A dry and not entirely healthy sound. “A spyfully spying spy. Settled up here all cozy to see what I can see. Which isn’t muc
h, more’s the pity. That’s why I’ve got all the lovely spyglasses. Now, what are you going to do with me, dear? Are you going to beat the hell out of me?”
“Wha … no!”
“Pick me up and throw me off the roof? Tie me up and leave me here for a few hours? Kick my teeth out?”
“Gods, woman, of course not!”
“Oh, that’s exactly what she told me,” beamed the old woman. “She said you weren’t the sort of fellow who’d raise his hand to a helpless old woman. Which, let’s be honest, is what time has made of me.”
Jean lowered his head against the cold stone of the parapet and groaned.
“Oh, come now, son, it’s not a thing to be ashamed of, having scruples.”
“Are all of her new spies as … um …”
“Old as myself? Oh, there’s no harm in saying it. Yes, dear, you’re hemmed in by old women. All of us wrapped up in our blankets, clutching our parasols. We’ve got apartments to use, and people to fetch us things, but we’re doing the watching from now on. Unless you beat us up.”
“Come now,” said Jean. “You know I won’t.”
“Yes, I do.”
“I don’t suppose I could ask you very politely to get down off this roof and go away?”
“Oh, gods no. Apologies, dear, but the money I’m seeing for this … well, I don’t think I can live long enough for money to ever be a problem again.”
“I could make you a better deal.”
“Oh no. No, gods bless you for offering, but no. You’ve got your scruples, and I’ve got mine.”
“I could pick you up and carry you down to the street!”
“Of course you could. And then I’d kick and scream and fuss, and you’d have to deal with that somehow. And when you were done, I’d creep back up here as fast as my joints could take me, and since you won’t just punch my lights out, we’d have to do it all over again.” She punctuated these words by tapping him gently on the chest with a very slender finger. “All over again. And again. And again.”