Authors: Scott Lynch
“Why?”
“Because, Locke Lamora, someday you’re going to dine with barons and counts and dukes.
You’re going to dine with merchants and admirals and generals and ladies of every
sort! And when you do …” Chains put two fingers under Locke’s chin and tilted the
boy’s head up so they were eye to eye. “When you do, those poor idiots won’t have
any idea that they’re really dining with a thief.”
“NOW, ISN’T this lovely?”
Chains raised an empty glass and saluted his three young wards at the splendidly furnished
table; steaming brass bowls and heavy crockware held the results of Calo and Galdo’s
efforts at the cooking hearth. Locke, seated on an extra cushion to raise his elbows
just above the tabletop,
stared at the food and the furnishings with wide eyes. He was bewildered at how quickly
he had escaped his old life and fallen into this new one with strangely pleasant crazy
people.
Chains lifted a bottle of something he’d called
alchemical wine
; the stuff was viscous and dark, like quicksilver. When he pulled the loosened cork,
the air was filled with the scent of juniper; for a brief moment it overwhelmed the
spicy aroma of the main dishes. Chains poured a good measure of the stuff into the
empty glass, and in the bright light it ran like molten silver. Chains raised the
glass to a level with his eyes.
“A glass poured to air for the one who sits with us unseen; the patron and protector,
the Crooked Warden, the Father of Necessary Pretexts.”
“Thanks for deep pockets poorly guarded,” said the Sanza brothers in unison, and Locke
was caught off guard by the seriousness of their intonation.
“Thanks for watchmen asleep at their posts,” said Chains.
“Thanks for the city to nurture us and the night to hide us,” was the response.
“Thanks for friends to help spend the loot!” Chains brought the half-filled glass
down and set it in the middle of the table. He took up another, smaller glass; into
this he poured just a finger of the liquid silver. “A glass poured to air for an absent
friend. We wish Sabetha well and pray for her safe return.”
“Maybe we could have her back a little less crazy, though,” said one of the Sanzas,
whom Locke mentally labeled Calo for convenience.
“And humble.” Galdo nodded after he’d said this. “Humble would be really great.”
“The brothers Sanza wish Sabetha well.” Chains held the little glass of liquor rock-steady
and eyed the twins. “And they pray for her safe return.”
“Yes! Wish her well!”
“Safe return, that would be really great.”
“Who’s Sabetha?” Locke spoke quietly, directing his inquiry to Chains.
“An ornament to our little gang. Our only young woman, currently away on … educational
business.” Chains set her glass down beside the one poured to the Benefactor, and
plucked up Locke’s glass in exchange. “Another special deal from your old master.
Gifted, my boy, gifted like you are with a preternatural talent for the vexation of
others.”
“That’s us he’s talking about,” said Calo.
“Pretty soon it’ll mean you, too.” Galdo smiled.
“Pipe down, twitlings.” Chains poured a splash of the quicksilver wine
into Locke’s glass and handed it back to him. “One more toast and prayer. To Locke
Lamora, our new brother. My new
pezon
. We wish him well. We welcome him warmly. And for him, we pray,
wisdom
.”
With graceful motions, he poured wine for Calo and Galdo, and then a nearly full glass
for himself. Chains and the Sanzas raised their glasses; Locke quickly copied them.
Silver sparkled under gold.
“Welcome to the Gentlemen Bastards!” Chains tapped his glass gently against Locke’s,
producing a ringing sound that hung in the air before fading sweetly.
“You should’ve picked death!” said Galdo.
“He did offer you death as a choice, right?” Calo spoke as he and his brother tapped
their own glasses together, then reached across the table in unison to touch Locke’s.
“Laugh it up, boys.” Soon all the knocking about with glasses was finished and Chains
led the way with a quick sip of his wine. “Ahhh. Mark my words, if this poor little
creature lives a year, you two will be his
dancing monkeys
. He’ll throw you grapes whenever he wants to see a trick. Go ahead and have a drink,
Locke.”
Locke raised the glass; the silvery surface showed him a vivid but wobbly reflection
of his own face and the brightly lit room around him; the wine’s bouquet was a haze
of juniper and anise that tickled his nose. He put the tiny image of himself to his
lips and drank. The slightly cool liquor seemed to go two ways at once as he swallowed.
A line of tickling warmth ran straight down his throat while icy tendrils reached
upward, sliding across the roof of his mouth and into his sinuses. His eyes bulged;
he coughed and ran a hand over his suddenly numb lips.
“It’s mirror wine, from Tal Verrar. Good stuff. Now go ahead and eat something or
it’ll pop your skull open.”
Calo and Galdo whisked damp cloths off serving platters and bowls, revealing the full
extent of the meal for the first time. There were indeed sausages, neatly sliced and
fried in oil with quartered pears. There were also split red peppers stuffed with
almond paste and spinach; dumplings of thin bread folded over chicken, fried until
the bread was as translucent as paper; and cold black beans in wine and mustard sauce.
The Sanza brothers were suddenly scooping portions of this and that onto Locke’s plate
too fast for him to track.
Working awkwardly with a two-pronged silver fork and one of the rounded knives he’d
previously scorned, Locke began to shovel things into his mouth; the flavors seemed
to burst gloriously, haphazardly. The
chicken dumplings were spiced with ginger and ground orange peels. The wine sauce
in the bean salad warmed his tongue; the sharp fumes of mustard burned his throat.
He found himself gulping wine to put out each new fire as it arose.
To his surprise, the Sanza twins didn’t partake once they’d served him; they sat with
their hands folded, watching Chains. When the older man seemed assured that Locke
was eating, he turned to Calo.
“You’re a Vadran noble. Let’s say you’re a Liege-Graf from one of the less important
Marrows. You’re at a dinner party in Tal Verrar; an equal number of men and women,
with assigned seating. The party is just entering the dining hall; your assigned lady
is beside you as you enter, conversing with you. What do you do?”
“At a Vadran dinner party, I would hold her chair out for her without invitation.”
Calo didn’t smile. “But Verrari ladies will stand beside a chair to show they want
it pulled out. It’s impolite to presume. So I’d let her make the first move.”
“Very good. Now.” Chains pointed to the second Sanza with one hand as he began adding
food to his plate with the other. “What’s seventeen multiplied by nineteen?”
Galdo closed his eyes in concentration for a few seconds. “Um … three hundred and
twenty three.”
“Correct. What’s the difference between a Vadran nautical league and a Therin nautical
league?”
“Ah … the Vadran league is a hundred and … fifty yards longer.”
“Very good. That’s that, then. Go ahead and eat.”
As the Sanza brothers began to undecorously struggle for possession of certain serving
dishes, Chains turned to Locke, whose plate was already half-empty. “After you’ve
been here a few days, I’m going to start asking questions about what you’ve learned,
too. If you want to eat you’ll be expected to learn.”
“What am I going to learn? Other than setting tables?”
“Everything!” Chains looked very pleased with himself. “Everything, my boy. How to
fight, how to steal, how to lie with a straight face. How to cook meals like this!
How to disguise yourself. How to speak like a noble, how to scribe like a priest,
how to skulk like a half-wit.”
“Calo already knows that one,” said Galdo.
“Agh moo agh na mugh baaa,” said Calo around a mouthful of food.
“Remember what I said, when I told you we didn’t work like other thieves work? We’re
a new sort of thief here, Locke. What we are is actors.
False-facers. I sit here and pretend to be a priest of Perelandro; for years now people
have been throwing money at me. How do you think I paid to furnish this little fairy-burrow,
this food? I’m three and fifty; nobody my age can steal around rooftops and charm
locks. I’m better paid for being blind than I ever was for being quick and clever.
And now I’m too slow and too round to pass for anything really interesting.”
Chains finished off the contents of his glass and poured another.
“But you. You, and Calo and Galdo and Sabetha … you four will have every advantage
I didn’t. Your education will be thorough and vigorous. I’ll refine my notions, my
techniques. When I’m finished, the things you four will pull … well, they’ll make
my little scam with this temple look simple and unambitious.”
“That sounds nice,” said Locke, who was feeling the wine. A warm haze of charitable
contentment was descending over him and smothering the tension and worry that were
so second-nature to a Shades’ Hill orphan. “What do we do first?”
“Well, tonight, if you’re not busy throwing up the first decent meal you’ve ever had,
Calo and Galdo will draw you a bath. Once you’re less aromatic company, you can sleep
in. Tomorrow, we’ll get you an acolyte’s robe and you can sit the steps with us, taking
coins. Tomorrow night …” Chains scratched at his beard while he took a sip from his
glass. “I take you to meet the big man. Capa Barsavi. He’s ever so curious to get
a look at you.”
FOR THE SECOND time in two days, Don Lorenzo Salvara found his life interrupted by
masked and hooded strangers in an unexpected place. This time, it was just after midnight,
and they were waiting for him in his study.
“Close the door,” said the shorter intruder. His voice was all Camorr, rough and smoky
and clearly accustomed to being obeyed. “Have a seat, m’lord, and don’t bother calling
for your man. He is … indisposed.”
“Who the hell are you?” Salvara’s sword hand curled reflexively; his belt held no
scabbard. He slid the door closed behind him but made no move to sit at his writing
desk. “How did you get in here?”
The intruder who’d first spoken reached up and pulled down the black cloth that covered
his nose and mouth. His face was lean and angular; his hair black, his dark moustache
thin and immaculately trimmed. A white scar arced across the man’s right cheekbone.
He reached into the folds of his well-cut black cloak and pulled out a black leather
wallet, which he flipped open so the don could see its contents—a small crest of gold
set inside an intricate design of frosted glass.
“Gods.” Don Salvara fell into his chair, nervously, without further hesitation. “You’re
Midnighters.”
“Just so.” The man folded his wallet and put it back in his cloak. The
silent intruder, still masked and hooded, moved casually around to stand just a few
feet behind Don Lorenzo, between him and the door. “We apologize for the intrusion.
But our business here is extremely sensitive.”
“Have I … have I somehow offended His Grace?”
“Not to my knowledge, m’lord Salvara. In fact, you might say we’re here to help prevent
you from doing so.”
“I … I, ah … well. Ah, what did you say you did to Conté?”
“Just gave him a little something to help him sleep. We know he’s loyal and we know
he’s dangerous. We didn’t want any … misunderstandings.”
The man standing at the door punctuated this statement by stepping forward, reaching
around Don Salvara, and gently setting Conté’s matching fighting knives down on the
desktop.
“I see. I trust that he’ll be well.” Don Salvara drummed his fingers on his writing
desk and stared at the scarred intruder. “I should be very displeased otherwise.”
“He is completely unharmed; I give you my word as the duke’s man.”
“I shall hold that sufficient. For the time being.”
The scarred man sighed and rubbed his eyes with two gloved fingers. “There’s no need
for us to begin like this, m’lord. I apologize for the abruptness of our appearance
and the manner of our intrusion, but I believe you’ll find that your welfare is paramount
in our master’s eyes. I’m instructed to ask—did you enjoy yourself at the Revel today?”
“Yes …” Don Salvara spoke carefully, as though to a solicitor or a court recorder.
“I suppose that would be an accurate assessment.”
“Good, good. You had company, didn’t you?”
“The Doña Sofia was with me.”
“I refer to someone else. Not one of His Grace’s subjects. Not Camorri.”
“Ah. The merchant. A merchant named Lukas Ferhwight, from Emberlain.”
“From Emberlain. Of course.” The scarred man folded his arms and looked around the
don’s study. He stared for a moment at a pair of small glass portraits of the old
Don and Doña Salvara, set in a frame decked with black velvet funeral ribbons. “Well.
That man is no more a merchant of Emberlain than you or I, m’lord Salvara. He’s a
fraud. A sham.”
“I …” Don Salvara nearly jumped to his feet, but remembered the man standing behind
him and seemed to think better of it. “I don’t see how that could be possible. He …”
“Beg pardon, m’lord.” The scarred man smiled, gruesomely and
artificially, as a man without children might smile when trying to comfort an upset
babe. “But let me ask you—have you ever heard of the man they call the
Thorn of Camorr
?”
“I ONLY steal because my dear old family needs the money to live!”
Locke Lamora made this proclamation with his wineglass held high; he and the other
Gentlemen Bastards were seated at the old witchwood table in the opulent burrow beneath
the House of Perelandro; Calo and Galdo on his right, Jean and Bug on his left. A
huge spread of food was set before them, and the celestial chandelier swung overhead
with its familiar golden light. The others began to jeer.