Authors: Scott Lynch
“And Jerome?”
“Stay here in the service area, Valora.” She pulled them both in through the service
entrance so tray-bearing attendants, studiously ignoring the injured men on the ground,
could get on with earning festival-night tips from the city’s least inhibited.
“Thank you,” said Jean, taking a half-hidden spot behind tall wooden racks full of
unwashed dishes.
“I’ll give instructions to ignore you,” said Selendri. “As long as you ignore
my
people.”
“I’ll be a saint,” said Jean.
Selendri grabbed a passing attendant with no serving tray and whispered a few terse
instructions into his ear. Locke caught the words “dog-leech” and “dock their pay.”
Then he was following Selendri into the crowd on the ground floor, hunched over as
though trying to shrink down beneath his cloak and cap, praying that the next and
only person who’d recognize him would be Requin.
“SEVEN WEEKS,” said the master of the Sinspire. “Selendri was so sure we’d never see
you again.”
“Three weeks down and three weeks back,” said Locke. “Barely spent a week in Port
Prodigal itself.”
“You certainly look as though you passed some time on deck. Working for your berth?”
“Ordinary sailors attract much less notice than paying passengers.”
“I suppose they do. Is that your natural hair color?”
“I think so. Swap it as often as I have and you start to lose track.”
The wide balcony doors on the eastern side of Requin’s office were
open, but for a fine mesh screen to keep out insects. Through it, Locke could see
the torchlike pyres of two ships in the harbor, surrounded by hundreds of specks of
lantern-light that had to be spectators in smaller craft.
“They’re burning four this year,” said Requin, noticing that the view had caught Locke’s
attention. “One for each season. I think they’re just finishing the third. The fourth
should go up soon, and then all will be well. Fewer people in the streets, and more
crowding into the chance houses.” Locke nodded, and turned to admire what Requin had
done with the suite of chairs he’d had crafted for him. He tried to keep a smirk of
glee off his face, and managed to look only vaguely appreciative. The four replica
chairs were placed around a thin-legged table in a matching style, holding bottles
of wine and an artful flower arrangement.
“Is that—”
“A replica as well? I’m afraid so. Your gift spurred me to have it made.”
“My gift. Speaking of which …”
Locke reached beneath his cloak, removed the purse, and set it down atop Requin’s
desk.
“What’s this?”
“A consideration,” said Locke. “There are an awful lot of sailors in Port Prodigal
with more coins than card sense.”
Requin opened the satchel and raised an eyebrow. “Handsome,” he said. “You really
are
trying very hard not to piss me off, aren’t you?”
“I want my job,” said Locke. “Now more than ever.”
“Let’s discuss your task, then. Does this Calo Callas still exist?”
“Yes,” said Locke. “He’s down there.”
“Then why the hell didn’t you bring him back with you?”
“He’s out of his fucking mind,” said Locke.
“Then he’s useless—”
“No.
Not
useless. He feels persecuted, Requin. He’s delusional. He imagines that the Priori
and the Artificers have agents on every corner in Port Prodigal, every ship, every
tavern. He barely leaves his house.” Locke took pleasure at the speed with which he
was conjuring an imaginary life for an imaginary man. “But what he
does
inside that house. What he has! Locks, hundreds of them. Clockwork devices. A private
forge and bellows. He’s as insatiable about his trade as he ever was. It’s all he
has left in the world.”
“How is a madman’s detritus significant?” asked Selendri. She stood between two of
Requin’s exquisite oil paintings, leaning against the wall with her arms folded.
“I experimented with all kinds of things back when I thought I might have a chance
to crack this tower’s vault. Acids, oils, abrasives, different
types of picks and tools. I’d call myself a fair judge of mechanisms as well as lockbreaking.
And the things this bastard can do, the things he builds and invents, even with a
magpie mind—” Locke spread his hands and shrugged theatrically. “Gods!”
“What will it take to bring him here?”
“He wants protection,” said Locke. “He’s not averse to leaving Port Prodigal. Hell,
he’s eager to. But he imagines death at every step. He needs to feel that someone
with power is reaching out to put him under their cloak.”
“Or you could just hit him over the head and haul him back in chains,” said Selendri.
“And risk losing his actual cooperation forever? Worse—
deal
with him on a three-week voyage after he wakes up? His mind is delicate as glass,
Selendri. I wouldn’t recommend knocking it around.”
Locke cracked his knuckles. Time to sweeten the pitch.
“Look, you
want
this man back in Tal Verrar. He’ll drive you mad. You may even have to appoint some
sort of nurse or minder for him, and you’ll definitely have to hide him from the Artificers.
But the things he can do could make it worthwhile a hundred times over. He’s the best
lockbreaker I’ve ever seen. He just needs to believe that I truly represent you.”
“What do you suggest?”
“You have a wax sigil, on your ledgers and letters of credit. I’ve seen it, making
my deposits. Put your seal on a sheet of parchment—”
“And incriminate myself,” said Requin. “No.”
“Already thought about that,” said Locke. “Don’t write a name on it. Don’t date it,
don’t sign it to anyone, don’t even add your usual ‘R.’ Just write something pleasant
and totally nonspecific. ‘Look forward to comfort and hospitality.’ Or, ‘Expect every
due consideration.’ ”
“Trite bullshit. I see,” said Requin. He removed a sheet of parchment from a desk
drawer, touched a quill to ink, and scrawled a few sentences. After sprinkling the
letter with alchemical desiccant, he looked back at Locke. “And this childish device
will be sufficient?”
“As far as his fears are concerned,” said Locke, “Callas
is
a child. He’ll grab at this like a baby grabbing for a tit.”
“Or a grown man,” muttered Selendri.
Requin smiled. Gloved as always, he removed the glass cylinder from a small lamp atop
his desk, revealing a candle at its heart. With this, he heated a stick of black wax,
which he allowed to drip into a pool on the sheet of parchment. At last, he withdrew
a heavy signet ring from a jacket pocket and pressed it into the wax.
“Your bait, Master Kosta.” He passed the sheet over. “The fact that you’re skulking
at the service entrance and trying to hide beneath that cloak both suggest you’re
not planning on staying in the city for long.”
“Back south in a day or two, as soon as my shipmates finish offloading the, ah, completely
legitimate and responsibly acquired cargo we picked up in Port Prodigal.” That was
a safe lie; with dozens of ships offloading in the city every day, at least a few
of them had to be carrying goods from criminal sources.
“And you’ll bring Callas back with you.”
“Yes.”
“If the sigil isn’t sufficient, promise him anything else reasonable. Coin, drugs,
drink, women. Men. Both. And if that’s not enough, take Selendri’s suggestion and
let me worry about his state of mind. Don’t come back empty-handed.”
“As you wish.”
“What then, for you and the archon? With Callas in hand, you’ll likely be back to
this scheme for my vault.…”
“I don’t know,” said Locke. “I’ll be at least six or seven weeks away before I can
come back with him; why don’t you ponder how I can best serve you in that time? Whatever
plan you deem suitable. If you want me to turn him over to the archon as a double
agent, fine. If you want me to tell the archon that he died or something … I just
don’t know. My skull aches. You’re the man with the big picture. I’ll look forward
to new orders.”
“If you can stay this polite,” said Requin, hefting the purse, “bring me Callas, and
continue to be so satisfied with your place in the scheme of things … you may well
have a future in my service.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Go. Selendri will show you out. I still have a busy night lying in wait for me.”
Locke let a bit of his actual relief show in his expression. This web of lies was
growing so convoluted, so branching, and so delicate that a moth’s fart might knock
it to pieces—but the two meetings of the night had bought what he and Jean needed.
Another two months of life from Stragos, and another two months of tolerance from
Requin. All they needed to do now was steal back to their boat without complication,
and row themselves to safety.
“WE’RE BEING followed,” said Jean as they crossed the Sinspire service courtyard.
They were headed back toward the maze of alleys and hedgerows from which they’d come,
the little-used block of gardens and service paths behind the lesser chance houses.
Their boat was tied up at a pier along the inner docks of the Great Gallery; they’d
snuck up to the top of the Golden Steps on rickety stairs, ignoring the lift-boxes
and streets on which a thousand complications might lurk.
“Where are they?”
“Across the street. Watching this courtyard. They moved when we moved, just now.”
“Shit,” muttered Locke. “If only this city’s entire population of lurking assholes
shared one set of balls, so I could kick it repeatedly.”
“At the edge of the courtyard, let’s make a really obvious, sudden dash for it,” said
Jean. “Hide yourself. Whoever comes running after us—”
“Gets to explain some things the hard way.”
At the rear of the courtyard was a hedge twice Locke’s height. An archway surrounded
by empty crates and casks led to the dark and little-used backside of the Golden Steps.
About ten yards from this archway, acting in unison by some unspoken signal, Locke
and Jean broke into a sprint.
Through the arch, into the shadowed alley beyond; Locke knew they had just moments
to hide themselves. They needed to be far enough from the courtyard to prevent any
of the Sinspire attendants from glimpsing a scuffle. Past the backs of gardens and
walled lawns they ran, scant yards from buildings where hundreds of the richest people
in the Therin world were losing money for fun. At last they found two stacks of empty
casks on either side of the alley—the most obvious ambush spot possible, but if their
opponents thought they were hell-bent on escape, they might just ignore the possibility.
Jean had already vanished into his place. Locke pulled his boot dagger, feeling the
hammer of his own heartbeat, and crouched behind the casks on his side of the alley.
He threw his cloaked arm across his face, leaving only his eyes and forehead exposed.
The rapid slap of leather on stones, and then—two dark shapes flew past the piles
of casks. Locke deliberately delayed his own movement half a heartbeat, allowing Jean
to strike first. When the pursuer closest to Locke turned, startled by the sound of
Jean’s attack on his companion, Locke slipped forward, dagger out, filled with grim
elation at the thought of finally getting some answers to this business.
His grab for the attacker was good; he slipped his left arm around the man’s neck
at the exact instant he shoved his blade up against the soft junction of neck and
chin on the other side. “Drop your weapon or I’ll—” was all he had time to say, however,
before the man did the absolute worst thing possible. He jerked forward in an attempt
to break Locke’s hold, perhaps reflexively, not realizing the angle at which Locke’s
blade was poised. Whether it was supreme optimism or miserable foolishness, Locke
would never know, as the man sliced half the contents of his neck open and died that
instant, spewing blood. A weapon clattered to the stones from his limp fingers.
Locke put his hands up in disbelief and let the corpse drop, only to find himself
facing Jean, who was breathing heavily over the unmoving form of his own opponent.
“Wait a minute,” said Locke, “you mean—”
“Accident,” said Jean. “I caught his knife, we fought a bit, and he got it beneath
his own rib cage.”
“Gods damn it,” Locke muttered, flicking blood from his right hand. “You try to keep
a bastard alive, and look what happens—”
“Crossbows,” said Jean. He pointed to the ground, where Locke’s adjusting eyes could
see the dim shapes of two small hand crossbows. Alley-pieces, the sort of thing you
used within ten yards or not at all. “Grab them. There may be more of them after us.”
“Hell.” Locke grabbed one of the bows and gingerly handed the other to Jean. The little
quarrels might be poisoned; the thought of handling someone else’s envenomed weapon
in the dark made his skin crawl. But Jean was right; they’d need the advantage if
they had other pursuers.
“I say discretion is a pastime for other people,” said Locke. “Let’s run our asses
off.”
They sprinted at a wild tear through the forgotten places of the Golden Steps, north
to the edge of the vast Elderglass plateau, where they scrambled down flight after
flight of nauseatingly wobbly wooden steps, glancing frantically above and below for
pursuit or ambush. The world was a dizzy whirl around Locke by the middle of the staircase,
painted in the surreal colors of fire and alien glass. Out on the harbor the fourth
and final ship of the festival was bursting into incandescence, a sacrifice of wood
and pitch and canvas before hundreds of small boats packed with priests and revelers.
Down to the feet of the stairs and across the wooden platforms of the inner docks
they stumbled, past the occasional drunkard or beggar, waving their daggers and crossbows
wildly. Before them was their pier, long and empty, home only to a long stack of crates.
No beggars, no drunks. Their
boat bobbed welcomingly on the waves, just a hundred feet away now, brightly lit by
the glare of the inferno.