Authors: Scott Lynch
It took a few minutes to rig Jean up in a similar fashion; soon enough they were each
attached to the tree by two lines, like a pair of human puppets. The two thieves wore
little save their tunics, breeches, field boots, and leather gloves, though Jean did
pause to slip his reading optics on.
“Now then,” he said. “Seems a fine day for abseiling. Care to do the honors before
we kiss solid earth farewell?”
“Crooked Warden,” said Locke, “men are stupid. Protect us from ourselves. If you can’t,
let it be quick and painless.”
“Well said.” Jean took a deep breath. “Crazy part on three?”
“On three.”
Each of them took up their coiled main line and tossed the free end over the cliff;
the two ropes went over and uncoiled with a soft hiss.
“One,” said Locke.
“Two,” said Jean.
“Three,” they said together. Then they ran for the cliff and threw themselves off,
whooping as they went.
For one brief moment Locke’s stomach and the misty gray sky seemed to be turning a
somersault in unison. Then his line was taut and the cliff
face was rushing toward him just a little too eagerly for his taste. Like a human
pendulum, he swung in, raised his legs, and hit the rock wall about eight feet beneath
the rim, keeping his knees bent to absorb the shock of impact. That much, at least,
he remembered very well. Jean hit with a heavier
whoomp
about two feet below him.
“Heh,” said Locke, his heartbeat pounding in his ears, loud enough to match the whisper
of the wind. “There’s got to be an easier way to test whether or not we have an honest
rope-weaver, Jean.”
“Whew!” Jean shifted his feet slightly, keeping a hold on his line with both hands.
The use of the descenders made it easy for them to apply enough friction to the rope
to slow or stop at will. The little devices were a marked improvement on what they’d
been taught as boys. While they could still no doubt slide down a rope using their
own bodies for friction, as they once had, it was easy to abrade a certain protruding
portion of the male anatomy with that approach if one was careless or unlucky.
For a few moments they simply hung there, feet against the cliffside, enjoying their
new vantage point as the vaporous clouds rolled by overhead. The ropes waving in the
air beneath them only hung down about half the distance to the ground, but they didn’t
intend to get there today anyway. There would be plenty of time to work up to longer
drops, in future practice sessions.
“You know,” said Locke, “this is the only part of the plan, I must admit, that I wasn’t
terribly sure of. It’s so much easier to contemplate abseiling from a height like
this than it is to actually run off a cliff with just two lengths of rope between
you and Aza Guilla.”
“Ropes and cliffs are no problem,” said Jean. “What we need to watch out for up here
are your carnivorous pigeons.”
“Oh, bend over and bite your own ass.”
“I’m serious. I’m terrified. I’ll keep a sharp lookout, lest the last thing we feel
in this life should be that
terrible swift pecking
—”
“Jean, your belay line must be weighing you down. Here, let me cut it for you.…”
They kicked and shoved good-naturedly against one another for a few minutes, Locke
scrambling around and trying to use his agility to balance out Jean’s far greater
strength and mass. Strength and mass seemed to be winning the day, however, so in
a fit of self-preservation he suggested they actually practice descending.
“Sure,” said Jean, “let’s go down five or six feet, nice and smooth, and stop on my
mark, shall we?”
Each of them gripped his taut main line and released a bit of tension on his descender.
Slowly, smoothly, they slipped down a good two yards, and Jean cried, “Hold!”
“Not bad,” said Locke. “The knack seems to come back quick, doesn’t it?”
“I suppose. I was never really keen on this after I got back from my little holiday
at Revelation House. This was more your thing, and the Sanzas’, than mine. And, ah,
Sabetha’s, of course.”
“Yeah,” said Locke, wistfully. “Yeah, she was so mad … so mad and so lovely. I used
to love watching her climb. She didn’t like ropes. She’d … take her boots off, and
let her hair out, and wouldn’t even wear gloves, sometimes. Just her breeches and
her blouse … and I would just …”
“Sit there hypnotized,” said Jean. “Struck dumb. Hey, my eyes worked back then too,
Locke.”
“Heh. I suppose it must have been obvious. Gods.” Locke stared at Jean and laughed
nervously. “Gods, I’m actually bringing her up myself. I don’t believe it.” His expression
turned shrewd. “Are we all right with each other, Jean? Back to being comfortable,
I mean?”
“Hell, we’re hanging together eighty feet above a messy death, aren’t we? I don’t
do that with people I don’t like.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“And yeah, I’d say we’re—”
“Gentlemen! Hello down there!”
The voice was Verrari, with a rough rustic edge. Locke and Jean glanced up in surprise
and saw a man standing at the edge of the cliff, arms akimbo, silhouetted against
the churning sky. He wore a threadbare cloak with the hood thrown up.
“Er, hello up there,” said Locke.
“Fine day for a bit of sport, ain’t it?”
“That’s exactly what we thought,” cried Jean.
“A fine day indeed, beggin’ your pardons, sirs. And a fine set o’ coats and vests
you’ve gone and left up here. I like them very much, exceptin’ that there ain’t no
purses in the pockets.”
“Of course not, we’re not stu—Hey, come on now. Kindly don’t mess with our things,”
said Jean. As if by some unspoken signal, he and Locke reached out to brace themselves
against the cliff, finding hand- and footholds as quickly as they could.
“Why not? They’re such fine things, sirs, I just can’t help but feel sort of drawn
to them, like.”
“If you’ll just wait right there,” said Locke, preparing to begin climbing,
“one of us should be up in a few minutes, and I’m sure we can discuss this civilly.”
“I’m also sort of drawn to the idea of keepin’ you two down there, if it’s all the
same to you, gents.” The man moved slightly, and a hatchet appeared in his right hand.
“It’s a mighty fine pair of choppers you’ve left up here with your coats, too. Damned
fine. Ain’t never seen the like.”
“That’s very polite of you to say,” yelled Locke.
“Oh, sweet jumping fuck,” muttered Jean.
“I might point out, however,” continued Locke, “that our man at the carriage is due
to check on us soon, and he’ll have his crossbow with him.”
“Oh, you mean the unconscious fellow I like jacked over the head with a rock, sir?
Sorry to report that he was drunk.”
“I don’t believe you. We didn’t give him that much beer!”
“Beggin’ pardon, but he weren’t all that much
man
, gents. Skinny fellow, if you savvy. As it is, he’s sleepin’ now. And he didn’t have
no crossbow anyway. I checked.”
“Well, I hope you don’t blame us for trying,” said Locke.
“I don’t, not one little bit. Good try. Very creditable, like. But I’m sort of interested,
if you don’t mind, in the wheres-abouts of your purses.”
“Safely down here with us,” said Locke. “We might be convinced to surrender them,
but you’ll have to help haul us up if you want them.”
“Now on that subject,” said the stranger, “you an’ I have a sort of difference in
outlook, like. Since I know you’ve got ’em, now, I think it’s easier to just chop
you down and collect ’em at my ease.”
“Unless you’re a much better rock climber than you look,” said Jean, “it’s one hell
of a climb down and back for the sake of our little purses!”
“And they are little,” said Locke. “Our rock-climbing purses. Specially made not to
weigh us down. Hardly hold anything!”
“I think we probably got different ideas of what
anythin
’ is. And I wouldn’t have to climb,” said the stranger. “There’s easier ways down
to that valley floor, if you know where to go.”
“Ah, don’t be foolish,” said Jean. “These ropes are demi-silk. It’ll take you some
time to cut through them. Longer than it will take for us to climb back up, surely.”
“Probably,” said the man in the cloak. “But I’m still up here if you do, ain’t I?
I can just crack you over the edge and make your skulls into soup bowls, like. See
if I don’t!”
“But if we stay down here, we’ll die anyway, so we might as well come up and die fighting,”
said Locke.
“Well, have it your way, sir. Whole conversation’s gettin’ sort of circular, if you
don’t mind me sayin’, so I’m just gonna start cuttin’ rope now. Me, I’d stay put and
go quiet, was I you.”
“Yeah, well, you’re a miserable cur,” shouted Locke. “Any child of three could murder
helpless men hanging over a cliff. Time was when a bandit would have the balls to
fight us face-to-face and earn his pay!”
“What do I rightly look like, sir, an honest tradesman? Guild tats on my arms?” He
knelt down and began to chop at something, steadily, with Jean’s hatchet. “Splattin’
you against those rocks below seems a fine way of earnin’ my pay. Even finer, if you’re
gonna speak so unkind.”
“You’re a wretch,” cried Locke. “A cringing dog, a scrub, damned not just for avarice
but for cowardice! The gods spit on those without honor, you know! It’ll be a cold
hell, and a dark one, for you!”
“I’m chock-full of honor, sir. Got lots of it. Keep it right here between my empty
stomach and my puckered white ass, which you may kiss, by the way.”
“Fine, fine,” said Locke. “I merely wanted to see if you could be goaded to misjudgment.
I applaud your restraint! But surely, there’s more profit to be had in hoisting us
up and holding us for ransom!”
“We’re important people,” said Jean.
“With rich, important friends. Why not just hold us prisoner and send a letter with
a ransom demand?”
“Well,” said the man, “for one thing, I can’t read nor write.”
“We’d be happy to write the demand for you!”
“Can’t rightly see how that’d work. You could just write anythin’ you like, couldn’t
you? Ask for constables and soldiers instead of gold, if you take my meanin’. I said
I can’t read, not that I got worm piss for brains.”
“Whoa! Hold it! Stop cutting!” Jean heaved himself up another foot and braced his
rope within the descender to hold him. “Stop cutting! I have a serious question!”
“What’s that, then?”
“Where the hell did you come from?”
“Roundabouts, here and there, by way of my mother’s womb, original like,” said the
man, who continued chopping.
“No, I mean, do you always watch these cliffs for climbers? Seems bloody unlikely
they’d be common enough to skulk in ambush for.”
“Oh, they isn’t, sir. Ain’t never seen any, before you two. Was so curious I just
had to come down and take a peek, and ain’t I glad I did.”
Chop, chop, chop
. “No, mostly I hide in the woods, sometimes the hills. Watch the roads.”
“All by yourself?”
“I’d be cuttin’ you down faster if I wasn’t by myself, wouldn’t I?”
“So you watch the roads. Looking to rob what, carriages?”
“Mostly.”
“You have a bow or a crossbow?”
“Sadly, no. Think maybe I might buy a piece if I can get enough for your things.”
“You hide in the woods, all by yourself, and try to ambush carriages without a real
weapon?”
“Well,” said the man a bit hesitantly, “has been a while since I got one. But today’s
my lucky day, ain’t it?”
“I should say so. Crooked Warden, you must be the worst highwayman under the sun.”
“What did you say?”
“He said,” said Locke, “that in his highly educated opinion you’re the—”
“No, the other part.”
“He mentioned the Crooked Warden,” said Locke. “Does that mean something to you? We’re
members of the same fraternity, friend! The Benefactor, the Thiefwatcher, the Nameless
Thirteenth, patron of you and I and all who take the twisty path through life. We’re
actually consecrated servants of the Crooked Warden! There’s no need for animosity,
and no need for you to cut us down!”
“Oh yes there is,” said the man vehemently, “now I’m
definitely
cuttin’ you down.”
“What? Why?”
“Bloody fuckin’ heretics, you are! There ain’t no Thirteenth! Ain’t naught but the
Twelve, that’s truth! Yeah, I been to Verrar a couple times, met up with lads and
lasses from the cuttin’ crews what tried to tell me ’bout this Thirteenth. I don’t
hold with it. Ain’t right like I was raised. So down you go, boys!” The man began
hacking at the demi-silk ropes with a vengeance.
“Shit. Want to try and snag him in the belay lines?” Jean swung over beside Locke
and spoke with soft urgency. Locke nodded. The two thieves took hold of their ends
of their belay lines, stared upward, and at Jean’s whispered signal, yanked them downward.
It was hardly an efficient trap; the lines were slack, and coiled up above the cliffs.
Their tormentor looked down at his feet, hopped up, and stepped away as seven or eight
feet of each belay line slipped over the cliff’s edge.
“Ha! You’ll have to get up earlier than that, gents, if you don’t mind my sayin’ so!”
Whistling tunelessly, he vanished out of sight and continued
chopping. A moment later he gave a cry of triumph, and Locke’s coiled belay line flew
over the edge of the cliff. Locke averted his face as the rope fell just past him;
it was soon dangling in thin air from his waistbelt, its frayed far end still too
many feet above the ground for safety.
“Shit,” said Locke. “Right, Jean. Here’s what we do. He should cut my main line next.
Let’s hook arms. I’ll slide down your main line, knot what’s left of mine to the bottom,
and that should probably get us within twenty feet or so of the ground. If I haul
up my belay line and knot that on the end of the other two, we can make it all the
way down.”
“Depends on how quickly that asshole cuts. You think you can tie knots fast enough?”
“I think I’ve got no choice. My hands feel up to the task, at least. Even if I just
get one line lashed, twenty feet’s a happier fall than eighty.”