Authors: Scott Lynch
“That’s a fine bedtime story,” said Locke. “If you wrote a book on that subject, I’d
pay for ten copies to be scribed. But here and now, you’re interfering with our lives.
You’re tearing us away from something we’ve worked long and hard to achieve.”
“I am prepared to expand on my earlier terms,” said Stragos, “and offer a financial
reward for the successful completion of your task.”
“How much?” said Locke and Jean simultaneously.
“No promises,” said Stragos. “Your reward will be proportional to your achievement.
I shall make you as happy as you make me. Is that understood?”
Locke stared at Stragos for several seconds, scratching his neck. Stragos was using
a confidence trick—an appeal to high ideals, followed by an appeal to greed. And this
was a
classic
fuck-the-agent situation; Stragos had
no compulsion whatsoever to follow through on his promise, and nothing to lose by
making it, and no reason at all to let him and Jean live once their task was finished.
He made eye contact with Jean and stroked his chin several times, a simple hand signal:
Lying
. Jean sighed, and tapped his fingers a few times against the gunwale on his side
of the boat. He seemed to share Locke’s thought that elaborate signals would best
be avoided with Stragos just a few feet away. His answer was equally simple:
Agreed
.
“That’s good news,” said Locke, conjuring a note of guarded optimism in his voice.
The knowledge that he and Jean were of one mind always gave him renewed energy for
false-facing. “A pile of solari when this is all over would go a long way toward mitigating
our distaste for the circumstances of our employment.”
“Good. My sole concern is that the mission may benefit from more enthusiasm on your
part.”
“This mission, to be frank, is going to need all the help it can get.”
“Don’t dwell on the matter, Lamora. And look out behind—we’re coming to the far side
of my little glen.”
The boat was sliding toward another curtain-barrier of hanging canvas; by Locke’s
casual estimate, the entire artificial garden enclosure must have been about eighty
yards long.
“Say farewell to the sun,” said the archon, and then they were slipping through the
canvas, back out into the muggy black-and-silver night, with its flitting lantern-flies
and genuine forest perfume. A guard dog barked nearby, growled, and went silent in
response to a hushed command. Locke rubbed his eyes as they slowly adjusted once again
to the darkness.
“You’ll begin training this week,” said Stragos.
“What do you mean, training? There’s a pile of questions you haven’t answered,” said
Locke. “Where’s our ship? Where’s our crew? How do we make ourselves known as pirates?
There’s a thousand damn details to go over.…”
“All in good time,” said Stragos. His voice had an air of unmistakable satisfaction
now that Locke was speaking constructively of carrying out his plan. “I’m told you
two frequently take meals at the Gilded Cloister. Spend a few days returning to a
schedule of rising with the sun. On Throne’s Day, have breakfast at the Cloister.
Wait for Merrain to find you. She’ll see you to your destination with her usual discretion,
and you’ll begin your lessons. They’ll take up most of your days, so don’t make any
plans.”
“Damn it,” said Jean, “why not let us finish our affair with Requin? It won’t take
more than a few weeks. Then we can do whatever you like, without distraction.”
“I’ve thought about it,” said Stragos, “but no. Postpone it. I want you to have something
to look forward to after you complete my mission. And I don’t have a few weeks to
wait. I need you at sea in a month. Six weeks at the very latest.”
“A
month
to go from gratefully ignorant landlubbers to fucking professional pirates?” said
Jean. “Gods.”
“It will be a busy month,” said Stragos.
Locke groaned.
“Are you up for the task? Or shall I simply deny you your antidote and give you a
prison cell from which to observe the results?”
“Just see to it that that fucking antidote is ready and waiting each time we come
back,” said Locke. “And give a serious
ponder
to just how much money would best send us away happy when this affair is concluded.
I’m guessing that you’re likely to be the underestimating type in that regard, so
I’d think
big
.”
“Rewards proportional to results, Lamora. That and your lives. When the red flag is
seen again in my city’s waters, and the Priori are begging me to save them, you may
turn your thoughts to the matter of reward. Then and no sooner. Understood?”
Lying
, Locke signaled to Jean, sure it was unnecessary but equally sure Jean would appreciate
a bit of cheek. “Your will then, I suppose. If the gods are kind we’ll poke a stick
into whatever hornets’ nest is left to be stirred up down in the Ghostwinds. After
all, we have no choice, do we?”
“As it should be,” said Stragos.
“You know, Locke,” said Jean in a lightly conversational tone of voice, “I like to
imagine that there are thieves out there who only ever get caught up in perfectly
ordinary, uncomplicated escapades. We should consider finding some and asking them
what their secret is, one of these days.”
“It’s probably as simple as staying the hell away from assholes like this,” said Locke,
gesturing at the archon.
A SQUAD of Eyes was waiting beside the boathouse when the little craft completed its
circuit of the artificial river.
“Here,” said Stragos after one of his soldiers took the oar from him. He
removed two glass vials from his pockets and held one out to each Camorri thief. “Your
first stay of execution. The poison’s had time to work its way into you. I don’t want
to have to worry about you for the next few weeks.”
Locke and Jean complied, each gagging as they drank. “Tastes like chalk,” said Locke,
wiping his mouth.
“If only it were that inexpensive,” said the archon. “Now give the vials back. Caps,
too.”
Locke sighed. “I suppose it was too much to hope you’d forget that part.”
The two thieves were being hauled back toward the Mon Magisteria as Stragos lashed
the boat to the piling once again.
Stragos stood up, stretched, and felt the old familiar creaks, the twinges in his
hips and knees and wrists. Damn rheumatism … by rights he was still outrunning his
age, still ahead of most men nearing threescore years, but he knew deep in his heart
that there would never be any way of running fast enough. Sooner or later, the Lady
of the Long Silence would call a dance for Maxilan Stragos, whether or not his work
here was done.
Merrain was waiting in the shadows of the unlit side of the boathouse, still and quiet
as a hunting spider until she stepped out beside him. Long practice enabled him to
avoid flinching.
“My thanks for saving those two, Merrain. You’ve been very useful to me, these past
few weeks.”
“Just as I was instructed to be,” she said. “But are you sure they really suit the
needs of this plan of yours?”
“They’re at every disadvantage in this city, my dear.” Stragos squinted at the blurry
forms of Locke, Jean, and their escorts as they disappeared into the garden. “The
Bondsmagi sewed them up for us, and we have them second-guessing their every step.
I don’t believe those two are used to being controlled. Out on their own, I know they’ll
perform as required.”
“Your reports give you that much confidence?”
“Not merely my reports,” said Stragos. “Requin certainly hasn’t killed them yet, has
he?”
“I suppose not.”
“They’ll serve,” said Stragos. “I know their hearts. As the days go by, the resentment
will fade and the novelty will gain on them. They’ll be enjoying themselves soon enough.
And when they start to enjoy themselves … I honestly think they can do it. If they
live. It’s for damn sure I’ve no other agents suitable to the task.”
“Then I may report to my masters that the plan is under way?”
“Yes, I suppose this commits us. You may do just that.” Stragos eyed the
shadowed shape of the slender woman beside him and sighed. “Let them know that everything
begins in a month or so. I hope for their sake they’re ready for the consequences.”
“
Nobody’s
ready for the consequences,” said Merrain. “It’s going to mean more blood than anyone’s
seen in two hundred years. All we can do is hope that by setting things off we can
ensure that
others
reap most of the trouble. By your leave, Archon, I’d like to go compose my messages
to them now.”
“Of course,” said Stragos. “Send my regards along with your report, and my prayers
that we might continue to prosper … together.”
“Oh, this is a
wonderful
spot to fling ourselves to our deaths from,” said Locke.
Six months had passed since his return from Salon Corbeau; the suite of four exquisitely
crafted chairs was safely locked away in a private storage room at the Villa Candessa.
Tal Verrar’s version of late winter held the region in the grip of temperatures so
brisk that folk had to engage in actual labor to break a sweat.
About an hour’s hard ride north of Tal Verrar, just past the village of Vo Sarmara
and its surrounding fields, a scrubby forest of gnarled witchwood and amberthorn trees
rose beside a wide, rocky vale. The walls of this vale were the grayish color of corpse-flesh,
giving the place the look of a giant wound in the earth. The thin olive-colored grass
abandoned the struggle for life about ten feet from the edge of the cliffs above this
vale, where Locke and Jean stood contemplating the sheer hundred-foot drop to the
gravel floor far below.
“I suppose we should’ve kept more in practice with this,” said Jean, starting to shrug
his way out of the half dozen coils of rope draped from his right shoulder to his
left hip. “But then, I don’t recall many opportunities to put it to use in the past
few years.”
“Most places in Camorr, we could just hand-over-hand it, up and down,” said Locke.
“I don’t think you were even with us that night we used ropes, to get up Lady de Marre’s
tower at that horrible old estate of hers.…
Calo and Galdo and I nearly got pecked to bloody shreds by pigeons working that one.
Must’ve been five, six years ago.”
“Oh, I was with you, remember? On the ground, keeping watch. I saw the bit with the
pigeons. Hard to play sentry when you’re pissing yourself laughing.”
“Wasn’t funny at all from up top. Beaky little bastards were vicious!”
“The Death of a Thousand Pecks,” said Jean. “You would have been legends, dying so
gruesomely. I’d have written a book on the man-eating pigeons of Camorr and joined
the Therin Collegium. Gone respectable. Bug and I would’ve built a memorial statue
to the Sanzas, with a nice plaque.”
“What about me?”
“Footnote on the plaque. Space permitting.”
“Hand over some rope or I’ll show you the edge of the cliff,
space permitting
.”
Jean tossed a coil to Locke, who plucked it out of the air and walked back toward
the edge of the forest, about thirty feet from the cliff. The rope was tightly woven
demi-silk, much lighter than hemp and
much
more expensive. At the rim of the forest, Locke selected a tall old witchwood, about
as broad around as Jean’s shoulders. He pulled a goodly length of his line free, passed
it around the tree trunk, and stared at the slightly frayed end for a few seconds,
trying to rekindle his memories of knot-tying.
As his fingers slipped into hesitant motion, he took a quick glance around at the
melancholy state of the world. A stiff wind was blowing from the northwest, and the
sky was one vast cataract of wet-looking haze. Their hired carriage was parked at
the far end of the woods, perhaps three hundred yards away. He and Jean had set the
driver up with a clay jug of beer and a splendid basket lunch from the Villa Candessa,
promising to be gone for a few hours at most.
“Jean,” muttered Locke as the bigger man stepped up beside him, “this is a proper
anchor-noose, right?”
“Certainly looks like it.” Jean hefted the elaborate knot that secured the rope in
a bight around the tree and nodded. He took the working end of the rope and added
an additional half-hitch for safety. “There. Just right.”
He and Locke worked together for a few minutes, repeating the anchor-noose knot with
three further lengths of rope, until the old witchwood tree seemed thoroughly decorated
with taut demi-silk. Their spare coils of rope were set aside. The two men then slipped
out of their long frock coats and their vests, revealing heavy leather belts studded
with iron rings at their waists.
The belts weren’t quite like the custom climbing harnesses treasured by the more responsible
burglars of Camorr; these were actually nautical in origin, used by those happy sailors
whose ship owners cared enough to spend a bit of money to preserve their health. The
belts had been available on the cheap, and had spared Locke and Jean the need to suss
out a contact in Tal Verrar’s underworld who could make a pair to order … but remember
the transaction. There were a few things Requin would be better off not knowing until
the chance came to finally spring the game on him.
“Right, then. Here’s your descender.” Jean passed Locke a fairly heavy bit of iron,
a figure eight with one side larger than the other, with a thick bar right down the
middle. He also kept one for himself; he’d had them knocked up by a blacksmith in
Tal Verrar’s Istrian Crescent a few weeks earlier. “Let’s get you rigged up first.
Main line, then belay.”
Locke clipped his descender into one of his harness rings and threaded it through
with one of the demi-silk lines leading back to the tree. The other end of this line
was left free and tossed toward the cliff. A second line was lashed tight to a harness
ring above Locke’s opposite hip. Many Camorri thieves on working jobs “danced naked,”
without the added safety of a belay line in case their primary rope broke, but for
today’s practice session Locke and Jean were in firm agreement that they were going
to play it safe and boring.