Authors: Scott Lynch
With a great flourish of trumpets and the cheer of the crowd, the boatmen outside
the circle of cages loosed the afternoon’s first shark. The ten-foot fish, already
blood-mad, shot forth from imprisonment and began to circle the stepping platforms,
its ominous gray fin slicing a rippling line in the water. Cicilia balanced on one
foot and bent down to slap the water with the heel of the other, screaming oaths and
challenges. The shark took the bait; in a few seconds it was in amongst the platforms,
stocky body whipping back and forth like a toothy pendulum.
“This one doesn’t like to waste time!” Don Salvara actually wrung his hands together.
“I bet it’s an early leaper.”
Barely had these words escaped his mouth than the shark rocketed up out of the water
in a fountain of silver spray, hurling itself at the crouching fighter. The shark’s
leap was not a high one; Cicilia avoided it by jumping right, to the next platform
over. In midair she let her javelin go with a backhanded cast; the shaft sunk into
the shark’s flank and quivered there for a split second before the streamlined mass
of hungry muscle splashed back down into the water. Crowd reaction was mixed; the
cast had displayed remarkable agility but minimal power. Cicilia’s shark was likely
only further angered, and her javelin wasted.
“Oh, poor decision.” The doña clicked her tongue. “This girl needs to learn some patience.
We’ll see if her new friend gives her the chance.”
Thrashing, spraying pink-foamed water, the shark maneuvered for another attack, chasing
Cicilia’s shadow on the water. She hopped from platform to platform, axe reversed
so the spike was facing outward.
“Master Fehrwight.” Don Lorenzo removed his optics and played with them while he watched
the fight; apparently, they weren’t necessary for use at long distances. “I can accept
your terms, but you have to appreciate that my portion of the initial risk is quite
heavy, especially relative to my total available funds. My request, therefore, is
that the split of revenues from our Austershalin sales be adjusted to fifty-five,
forty-five, in my favor.”
Locke pretended to ponder while Cicilia pumped her arms and leaped for dear life,
the eager gray fin slashing through the water just behind her feet. “I’m authorized
to make such a concession on behalf of my masters. In return … I would fix your family’s
ownership interest in the resecured Austershalin vineyards at five percent.”
“Done!” The don smiled. “I will fund two large galleons, crew and officers, necessary
bribes and arrangements, and a cargo to take north with us. I’ll oversee one galleon;
you the other. Mercenary crews of my choosing to be placed aboard each vessel for
added security. Conté will travel with you; your Graumann can stay at my side. Any
expenditures that bring our budget over twenty-five thousand Camorri crowns are to
be made solely at my discretion.”
The shark leaped and missed again; Cicilia performed a brief onearmed handstand on
her platform, waving her axe. The audience roared while the shark rolled over gracelessly
in the water and came back for another pass.
“Agreed,” said Locke. “Signed identical copies of our contract to be
kept by each of us; one additional copy in Therin to be kept with a mutually agreeable
neutral solicitor, to be opened and examined by them within the month should one of
us have … an accident while fetching the casks. One additional copy in Vadran to be
signed and placed into the care of an agent known to me, for eventual delivery to
my masters. I shall require a bonded scribe at the Tumblehome this evening, and a
promissory note for five thousand crowns, to be drawn at Meraggio’s tomorrow so I
can get to work immediately.”
“And that is all that remains?”
“Quite everything,” said Locke.
The don was silent for several seconds. “The hell with it; I agree. Let’s clasp hands
and take our chances.”
Out on the water, Cicilia paused and hefted her axe, timing a blow as the shark approached
her platform on her right, undulating, moving too slow for a high leap. Just as Cicilia
shifted her weight to bring the spike down, the shark jackknifed in the water beside
her, squeezing its body into a U shape, and drove itself straight downward. This maneuver
flicked its tail into the air, catching the
contrarequialla
just under her knees. Screaming more in shock than in pain, Cicilia de Ricura fell
backward into the water.
It was all over a few seconds after that; the shark came up biting and must have taken
her by one or both legs. They turned over and over in the water a few times—Locke
caught glimpses of the frantic woman’s form alternating with the dark rough hide of
the shark; white then gray, white then gray. In moments the pink foam was dark red
once more, and the two struggling shadows were sinking into the depths beneath the
platforms. Half the crowd roared lusty approval; the rest bowed their heads in a respectful
silence that would last just until the next young woman entered the ring of red water.
“Gods!” Doña Sofia stared at the spreading stain on the water; the surviving fighters
stood with their heads lowered, and the priests were gesturing some sort of mutual
blessing. “Unbelievable! Taken in so fast, by such a simple trick. Well, my father
used to say that one moment of misjudgment at the Revel is worth ten at any other
time.”
Locke bowed deeply to her, taking one hand and kissing it. “I doubt him not at all,
Doña Sofia. Not at all.”
Smiling amiably, he bowed to her once more, then turned to shake hands with her husband.
“What?” Locke nearly jumped to his feet. “What are you talking about?”
“My boy,” said Chains, “my intermittently brilliant little boy, your world has such
small horizons. You can see clearly enough to pull a fast one on someone, but you
can’t
see past the immediate consequences. Until you learn to think ahead of the repercussions,
you are putting yourself and everyone around you in danger. You can’t help being young,
but it’s past time that you stopped being stupid. So listen carefully.
“Your first mistake was that taking coin from the watch isn’t a beating offense. It’s
a
killing
offense. Are we clear on that? Here in Camorr, the watch takes
our
coin, and never the other way around. This rule is set in stone and there are no
exceptions, no matter what kind of thief you are. It’s death. It’s a throat-slashing,
shark-feeding, off-to-meet-the-gods offense, clear?”
Locke nodded.
“So when you set Veslin up, you
really
set him up. But you compounded this mistake when you used a white iron coin. You
know how much a full crown is worth, exactly?”
“Lots.”
“Ha. ‘Lots’ isn’t ‘exactly.’ You don’t speak Therin, or you don’t really know?”
“I guess I don’t really know.”
“Well, if everything’s butter and nobody’s been shaving the damn things, that little
piece of shiny white iron was worth forty silver solons. You see? Two
hundred
and forty coppers. Your eyes are wide. That means you can think that big, that you
understand?”
“Yes. Wow.”
“Yes,
wow
. Let me put it in perspective. A yellowjacket—one of our selfless and infinitely
dutiful city watchmen—might make that much for two months of daily duty. And watchmen
are decently paid, for common folk, and they sure as blessed shit do
not
get paid in white iron.”
“Oh.”
“So not only was Veslin taking money, he was taking too much money. A full crown!
You can buy a death for much less, yours included.”
“Um … how much did you pay for my …” Locke tapped his chest, where the death-mark
still hung beneath his shirt.
“I don’t mean to prick your rather substantial opinion of yourself, but I’m still
not sure if it was two coppers wisely spent.” At the boy’s expression, Chains barked
out a rich, genuine laugh, but then his voice grew serious once again. “Keep guessing,
boy. But the point remains. You can get good, hard men to do serious work for less.
You could buy five or six major pieces of business, if you know what I mean. So, when
you stuck a white iron coin in Veslin’s things—”
“It was too much money for anything … simple?”
“Dead on.
Far
too much money for information or errands. Nobody in their right mind gives a fucking
graveyard urchin a full crown. Unless that urchin is being paid to do something big.
Kill your old master, for example. Smoke out all of Shades’ Hill and everyone in it.
So if the poor Thiefmaker was upset to discover that Veslin was on the take, you can
imagine
how he felt when he saw how much money was involved.”
Locke nodded furiously.
“Ahhhhh, so. Two mistakes. Your third mistake was involving Gregor. Was Gregor
supposed
to get hit with the ugly stick?”
“I didn’t like him, but no. I just wanted Veslin. Maybe I wanted Gregor to get a little,
but not as much as Veslin.”
“Just so. You had a target, and you had a twist to play on that target, but you didn’t
control the situation. So your game for Veslin spilled over and Gregor Foss got the
knife, too.”
“That’s what I said, isn’t it? I already admitted it!”
“Angry now? My, yes, you
would
be … angry that you fucked up. Angry
that you’re not as clever as you think. Angry that the gods gave lots of other people
the same sort of brain they gave Locke Lamora. Quite the pisser, isn’t it?”
Locke blew his little lamp out with one quick breath, then flung it in an arc, as
high over the parapet as his slender arm could throw. The crash of its landing was
lost in the murmur of the busy Camorri night. The boy crossed his arms defensively.
“Well, it certainly is nice to be free from the threat of that lamp, my boy.” Chains
drew a last breath of smoke, then rubbed his dwindling sheaf of tobacco out against
the roof stones. “Was it informing for the duke? Plotting to murder us?”
Locke said nothing, teeth clenched and lower lip protruding. Petulance, the natural
nonverbal language of the very young. Chains snorted.
“I do believe everything you’ve told me, Locke, because I had a long talk with your
former master before I took you off his hands. Like I said, he told me everything.
He told me about your last and biggest mistake. The one that tipped him off and got
you sent here. Can you guess what it might have been?”
Locke shook his head.
“Can’t, or won’t?”
“I really don’t know.” Locke looked down. “I hadn’t actually … thought about it.”
“You showed other kids in Streets the white iron coin, didn’t you? You had them help
you look for it. You let some of them know what it might be used for. And you ordered
them not to talk about it. But what did you, ah,
back that order up
with?”
Locke’s eyes widened; his pout returned, but his petulance evaporated. “They … they
hated Veslin, too. They wanted to see him get it.”
“Of course. Maybe that was enough for one day. But what about later? After Veslin
was dead, and Gregor was dead, and your master’d had a chance to cool down some, and
reflect on the situation? What if he started asking questions about a certain Lamora
boy? What if he took some of your little boon companions from Streets and asked them
nicely if Locke Lamora had been up to anything … unusual? Even for him?”
“Oh.” The boy winced. “Oh!”
“Oh-ho-ho!” Chains reached out and slapped the boy on the shoulder. “Enlightenment!
When it comes, it comes like a brick to the head, doesn’t it?”
“I guess.”
“So,” said Chains, “now you see where everything went wrong. How many boys and girls
are in that little hill, Locke? A hundred? Hundred and twenty? More? How many do you
really think your old master could handle, if they turned on him? One or two, no problem.
But four? Eight? All of them?”
“We, um … I guess we never … thought about it.”
“Because he doesn’t rule his graveyard by logic, boy; he rules it by fear. Fear of
him keeps the older sprats in line. Fear of them keeps little shits like
you
in line. Anything that undermines that fear is a threat to his position. Enter Locke
Lamora waving the idiot flag and thinking himself
so
much cleverer than the rest of the world!”
“I really … I don’t … think I’m cleverer than the rest of the world.”
“You did until three minutes ago. Listen, I’m a
garrista
. It means I run a gang, even if it’s just a small one. Your old master is a
garrista
, too; the
garrista
of Shades’ Hill. And when you mess with a leader’s ability to rule his gang, out
come the knives. How long do you think the Thiefmaker could control Shades’ Hill if
word got around of how you played him so sweetly? How you jerked him around like a
kitten on a chain? He would never have real control over his orphans ever again; they’d
push and push until it finally came to blood.”
“And that’s why he got rid of me? But what about Streets? What about the ones that
helped me get Veslin?”
“Good questions. Easily answered. Your old master takes orphans in off the streets
and keeps them for a few years; usually he’s through with them by the time they’re
twelve or thirteen. He teaches them the basics: how to sneak-thief and speak the cant
and mix with the Right People, how to get along in a gang and how to dodge the noose.
When he’s through with them, he sells them to the bigger gangs, the real gangs. You
see? He takes orders. Maybe the Gray Faces need a second-story girl. Maybe the Arsenal
Boys want a mean little bruiser. It’s a great advantage to the gangs; it brings them
suitable new recruits that don’t need to have their hands held.”
“That I know. That’s why … he sold me to you.”
“Yes. Because you’re a very special case. You have profitable skills, even if your
aim so far has been terrible. But your little friends in Streets? Did they have your
gifts? They were just regular little coat-charmers, simple little teasers. They weren’t
ripe. Nobody would give a penny for them, except slavers, and your old master has
one sad old scrap of real conscience. He wouldn’t sell one of you to the crimpers
for all the coin in Camorr.”