Authors: Scott Lynch
“No,” said Jean from behind him. “Oh, gods, why did she do that?”
“I don’t know,” said Locke.
“What the hell do we do?”
“We … shit. Damned if I know that, either.”
“You should—”
“Nobody’s doing anything,” said Locke. “I’ll keep this safe. Once this is over, we’ll
sit down with it, have dinner, talk it over. We’ll come up with something.”
“You can—”
“Time to go,” said Locke, lowering his voice to an urgent whisper. “Get what we came
here for and go, before things get more complicated.” Before troops loyal to the archon
notice that he’s having a bad night. Before Lyonis finds out that Requin is actually
hunting for us as we speak. Before some other gods-damned surprise crawls out of the
ground to bite us on the ass.
“Cordo,” he shouted, “where’s that bag you promised?”
Lyonis gestured to one of his surviving false Eyes, and the woman passed a heavy burlap
sack to Locke. Locke shook it out—it was wider than he was, and nearly six feet long.
“Well, Maxilan,” he said, “I offered you the chance to forget all of this, and let
us go, and keep what you had, but you had to be a fucking asshole, didn’t you?”
“Kosta,” said Stragos, at least seeming to rediscover his voice, “I … I can give you …”
“You can’t give me a gods-damned thing.” Stragos seemed to be thinking of making an
attempt for Merrain’s dagger, so Locke gave it a hard kick. It skittered across the
gravel and into the darkness of the gardens. “Those of us in our profession, those
who hold with the Crooked Warden, have a little tradition we follow when someone close
to us dies. In this case, someone who got killed as a result of this mad fucking scheme
of yours.”
“Kosta, don’t throw away what I can offer—”
“We call it a death-offering,” said Locke. “Means we steal something of value, proportional
to the life we lost. Except in this case I don’t think there’s anything in the world
that qualifies. But we’re doing our best.”
Jean stepped up beside him and cracked his knuckles.
“Ezri Delmastro,” he said, very quietly, “I give you the archon of Tal Verrar.”
He punched Stragos so hard that the archon’s feet left the gravel. In a moment, he
was stuffing the unconscious old man into the burlap sack. Another moment, and the
sack was tied off, and slung over his shoulder like a bag of potatoes.
“Well, Lyonis,” said Locke, “best of luck with your revolution, or whatever the hell
it is. We’re sneaking out of here before things have a chance to get any more interesting
on us.”
“And Stragos—”
“You’ll never see him again,” said Locke.
“Good enough, then. Are you leaving the city?”
“Not half fast enough for our gods-damned taste.”
JEAN DUMPED him on the quarterdeck, under the eyes of Zamira and all the surviving
crew. It had been a long and arduous trip back—first to retrieve their backpacks from
Cordo’s little boat, and then to dutifully retrieve Drakasha’s ship’s boat, and then
to row nearly out to sea—but it had all been worth it. The entire
night
had been worth it, Locke decided, just to see the expression on Stragos’ face when
he found Zamira standing over him.
“Dr … r … akasha,” he mumbled, then spit one of his teeth onto the deck. Blood ran
in several streams down his chin.
“Maxilan Stragos, former archon of Tal Verrar,” she said. “
Final
archon of Tal Verrar. Last time I saw you my perspective was somewhat different.”
“As was … mine.” He sighed. “What now?”
“There are too many debts riding on your carcass to buy them off with death,” said
Zamira. “We thought long and hard about this. We’ve decided that we’re going to try
to keep you around as long as we possibly can.”
She snapped her fingers, and Jabril stepped forward, carrying a mass of sturdy, if
slightly rusted, iron chains and cuffs in his arms. He dropped them on the deck next
to Stragos and laughed as the old man jumped. The hands of other crewfolk seized him,
and he began to sob in disbelief as his legs and arms were clamped, and as the chains
were draped around him.
“You’re going in the orlop, Stragos. You’re going into the dark. And we’re going to
treat it as a special privilege, to carry you around with us wherever we go. In any
weather, in any sea, in any heat. We’re going to haul you a mighty long way. You and
your irons. Long after your clothes fall off, I guarantee, you’ll still have those
to wear.”
“Drakasha, please …”
“Throw him as far down as we got,” she said, and half a dozen crewfolk began carrying
him toward a main-deck hatch. “Chain him to the bulkhead. Then let him get cozy.”
“Drakasha,” he screamed, “you can’t! You can’t! I’ll go mad!”
“I know,”
she said. “And you’ll scream. Gods, how you’ll wail down there. But that’s okay.
We can always do with a bit of music at sea.”
Then he was carried below the
Poison Orchid
’s deck, to the rest of his life.
“Well,” said Drakasha, turning to Locke and Jean. “You two delivered. I’ll be damned,
but you got what you wanted.”
“No, Captain,” said Jean. “We got what we went after, mostly. But we didn’t get what
we wanted. Not by a long gods-damned shot.”
“I’m sorry, Jerome,” she said.
“I hope nobody ever calls me that again,” said Jean. “The name is Jean.”
“Locke and Jean,” she said. “All right, then. Can I take you two somewhere?”
“Vel Virazzo, if you don’t mind,” said Locke. “We’ve got some business to transact.”
“And then you’ll be rich men?”
“We’ll be in funds, yes. Do you want some, for your—”
“No,” she said. “You went into Tal Verrar and did the stealing. Keep it. We’ve got
swag enough from Salon Corbeau, and so few ways to split it now. We’ll be fine. So
what will you do after that?”
“We had a plan,” said Locke. “Remember what you told me at the rail that night? If
someone tries to draw lines around your ship, just … set more sail?”
Drakasha nodded.
“I guess you could say we’re going to give it a try,” said Locke.
“Will you need anything else, then?”
“Well,” said Locke, “for safety’s sake, given our past history … perhaps you’d let
us consider borrowing one of your ship’s cats?”
THEY MET the next day, at Requin’s invitation, in what could only be described as
the wreckage of his office. The main door was smashed off its hinges, the suite of
chairs still lay broken across the floor, and of course almost all of the paintings
on the walls had been sliced out of their frames. Requin seemed to derive a perverse
pleasure in seating the seven Priori on fine chairs in the midst of the chaos and
pretending that all was perfectly normal. Selendri paced the room behind the guests.
“Has everything gone more smoothly for you ladies and gentlemen since last night?”
asked Requin.
“Fighting’s ended in the Sword Marina,” said Jacantha Tiga, youngest of the Inner
Seven. “The navy is on the leash.”
“The Mon Magisteria is ours,” said Lyonis Cordo, standing in for his father. “All
of Stragos’ captains are in custody, except for two captains of intelligence—”
“We can’t have another fucking Ravelle incident,” said a middle-aged Priori.
“I’ve got people working on that issue myself,” said Requin. “They won’t go to ground
within the city, I can promise that much.”
“The ambassadors from Talisham, Espara, and the Kingdom of the Seven Marrows have
publicly expressed confidence in the leadership of the council,” said Tiga.
“I know,” said Requin, smiling. “I forgave them some rather substantial debts last
night, and suggested that they might make themselves useful to the new regime. Now,
what about the Eyes?”
“About half of them are alive and in custody,” said Cordo. “The rest are dead, with
just a few thought to be trying to stir up resistance.”
“They won’t get far,” said Tiga. “Loyalty to the old archonate won’t buy food or beer.
I expect they’ll turn up dead here and there once they annoy the regulars too much.”
“We’ll have the rest quietly gotten rid of over the next few days,” said Cordo.
“Now, I wonder,” said Requin, “if that’s really so very wise. The Eyes of the Archon
represent a significant pool of highly trained and committed people. Surely there’s
got to be a better use for them than filling graves.”
“They were loyal to Stragos alone—”
“Or perhaps to Tal Verrar, were you to ask them.” Requin placed a hand over his heart.
“My patriotic duty compels me to point this out.”
Cordo snorted. “They were his shock troops, his bodyguards, his torturers. They’re
useless to us, if not actively seditious.”
“Perhaps, for all of his vaunted military understanding, our dear departed archon
employed the Eyes inefficiently,” said Requin. “Perhaps the business with the faceless
masks was too much. They might have been better off in plainclothes, as an enhancement
to his intelligence apparatus, rather than terrorizing people as his enforcers.”
“Maybe for
his
sake,” said Tiga. “Had he done so, that intelligence apparatus might have foiled
our move against him yesterday. It was a close thing.”
“Still,” said Cordo, “hard to keep a kingdom when you no longer have a king.”
“Yes,” said Tiga, “we’re all so very impressed, Cordo. Subtly mention your involvement
in passing as often as you like, please.”
“At least I—”
“And more difficult
still
to keep a kingdom,” interrupted Requin, “when you discard perfectly good tools left
behind by the king.”
“Forgive us our density,” said Saravelle Fioran, a woman nearly as old as Marius Cordo,
“but what precisely are you driving at, Requin?”
“Merely that the Eyes, properly vetted and retrained, could be a significant asset
to Tal Verrar, if used not as shock troops but as … a secret constabulary?”
“Says the man in charge of the very people such a force would be charged with hunting
down,” scoffed Cordo.
“Younger Cordo,” said Requin, “those are also the ‘very people’ whose interference
with your family business is kept to an acceptable minimum through my involvement.
They are the very people who were instrumental in delivering our victory yesterday—carrying
your messages, filling the streets to detain army reinforcements, distracting Stragos’
most loyal officers while some of you were allowed to approach this affair with the
air of amateurs dabbling at lawn bowling.”
“Not I—,” said Cordo.
“No, not you. You did fight. But I flaunt my hypocrisy with a smile on my face, Lyonis.
Don’t you dare pretend, here in our highest privacy, that your disdain somehow absolves
you for your involvement with the likes of me. You don’t want to imagine a city with
crime
unregulated
by the likes of me! As for the Eyes, I am not asking, I am telling. Those few who
were true fanatics for Stragos can conveniently trip and land on swords, yes. The
rest are too useful to throw away.”
“On what grounds,” said Tiga, “do you presume to lecture—”
“On the grounds that six of the seven people sitting here have seen fit to store goods
and funds at the Sinspire vault. Items that, let us be frank, need not ever reappear
in the event that I begin to feel anxious about our relationship.
“I have an investment in this city, the same as you. I would not take kindly to having
a foreign power interrupt my affairs. To give Stragos his due, I cannot imagine that
the army and navy in your hands will inspire a great deal of awe in our enemies, given
what happened last time the Priori governed during a war. Therefore I see fit to hedge
all of our bets.”
“Surely we could discuss this in just a few days,” said Lyonis.
“I think not. Inconveniences like our surviving Eyes have a habit of disappearing
before arguments can broaden, don’t they? It’s a busy time. Messages might be lost,
or misconstrued, and I’m sure there’d be a perfectly plausible reason for whatever
happened.”
“So what do you want?” asked Fioran.
“If you’re going to take the Mon Magisteria as an administrative center for our shiny
new government, I would imagine that a suite of offices would be a good start. Something
nice and prestigious, before all the nice ones are gone. Plus I’ll expect a rudimentary
operating budget by the end of the week; I’ll set down the rough finnicking myself.
Salaries for the next year. Speaking of which, I will expect at least three or four
positions within the hierarchy of this new organization to be placed entirely at my
discretion. Salaries in the range of ten to fifteen solari per annum.”
“So you can pass out sinecures to some of your jumped-up thieves,” said Lyonis.
“So I can aid them in their transition to life as respectable citizens and defenders
of Tal Verrar, yes,” said Requin.
“Will this be your
own
transition to life as a respectable citizen?” asked Tiga.
“Here I thought I already was,” said Requin. “Gods, no. I have no desire to turn away
from the responsibilities I currently enjoy. But it just so happens
that I have an ideal candidate in mind to head our new organization. Someone who shares
my qualms about the manner in which Stragos employed his Eyes, and should be taken
all the more seriously for the fact that she used to
be
one.”
Selendri couldn’t help smiling as the Priori turned in their seats to stare at her.
“Now, Requin, hold on,” said Cordo.
“I see no need,” said Requin. “I don’t believe your six fellows are actually going
to deny me this very minor and very patriotic request, are they?”
Cordo looked around, and Selendri knew what he was seeing on the faces of the other
Priori; if he formally tried to stop this, he would be alone, and he would weaken
not only his father’s borrowed position but his own future prospects.
“I think her starting compensation should be something handsome, rather handsome,”
said Requin cheerfully. “And of course she’ll require use of official carriages and
barges. An official residence; Stragos had dozens of houses and manors at his disposal.
Oh, and I think her office at the Mon Magisteria should be the nicest and most prestigious
of all. Don’t you?”