Authors: Scott Lynch
Working quietly and slowly, the two children lifted the fifteen-foot plank to the
edge of the parapet and swiveled it out over the alley, Sabetha guiding it while Locke
put his full weight on the inner edge. He
felt uneasily like a catapult stone about to fly if the other end should fall, but
after a few chancy moments Sabetha had the far end of the plank settled on the parapet
of their target house. She hopped gracefully atop it, then got down on her hands and
knees.
“One at a time,” she whispered. “Stay low and don’t hurry.”
Across she went, while Locke’s heart raced with the familiar excitement of a crime
about to get under way. The farm-field smell of the Hangman’s Wind filled the air,
and a warm breeze caught at Locke’s hair. To the northeast loomed the impossibly tall
shadows of the Five Towers, with their crowns of silver and gold lanterns, warm artificial
constellations mingling with the cold and real stars.
Now came Locke’s turn. The board would have been unnervingly narrow for an adult,
but someone Locke’s size could turn around on it without bothering to stand up. He
went over with ease, rolled off the edge of the plank, and crouched amid the wet smells
of a living garden. Dark boughs of leaves rustled above him, and he almost jumped
when Sabetha reached out of the shadows and grabbed him by the shoulder.
“No noise,” she whispered. “I’ll go in after the necklace. You watch the roof. Make
sure the plank stays where we need it.”
“Wh-what if something happens?”
“Pound the floor three times. If something happens that you can see before I do, won’t
be anything for us to do but flee anyway. Don’t ever use my name if you call out.”
“I won’t. Good … um, good luck—”
But she was already gone, and a moment later he heard a faint set of clicks. Somewhere
in the garden, Sabetha was picking a lock. A moment later she had it, and the hinges
of a door creaked ever so faintly.
Locke stood guard at the plank for many long minutes, constantly glancing around,
although he admitted to himself that a dozen grown men could have been hiding in the
darkness of the vines and leaves around him. Occasionally he popped above the parapet
and glanced back across the narrow bridge. The other rooftop remained reassuringly
empty.
Locke was just settling back down from his fourth or fifth peek across the way when
he heard a commotion beneath his feet. He knelt
down and placed one ear against the warm stone; it was a murmur. One person talking,
then another. A rising chorus of adult voices. Then the shouting began.
“Oh, shit,” Locke whispered.
There was a series of thumps from the direction Sabetha had gone, then the loud bang
of a door being thrown open. She flew out of the shadows at him, grabbed him by the
arms, and heaved him onto the plank.
“Go, go, go,” she said, breathlessly. “Fast as you can.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Just go, gods damn it! I’ll steady the plank.”
Locke scuttled across the fifteen feet to safety as fast as he’d ever moved in his
life, so fast that he tumbled off the parapet on arrival and tucked into an ungainly
roll to avoid landing teeth-first. He popped up, head spinning, and whirled back toward
Sabetha.
“Come on,” he cried. “Come on!”
“The rope,” she hissed. “Get down the fucking rope!”
“I’ll s-steady the plank for you now.” Locke clamped his hands onto it, gritted his
teeth, and braced himself, knowing with some part of his mind just how ridiculous
a display of such feeble strength must look. Why was she not coming?
“THE ROPE,” she yelled. “GO!”
Locke looked up just in time to see tall dark shapes burst out of the garden behind
her. Adults. Their arms were reaching for her, but she wasn’t trying to escape; she
wasn’t even turning toward them. Instead her hands were on the plank, and she was—
“No,” Locke screamed. “NO!”
Sabetha was seized from behind and hoisted into the air, but as she went up she managed
to swivel her end of the plank just off the parapet and push it into empty space.
Locke felt the terrible sensation of that weight tipping and plummeting into the alley,
far too much for him to hold back. His end of the plank leapt up and cracked against
his chin, knocking him backward, and as he was landing on his posterior he heard the
echoing crash of the plank hitting the ground four stories below.
“GO,” yelled Sabetha one more time. Her shout ended in a muffled cry, and Locke spat
blood as he clambered back to his feet.
“The other roof!” A new voice, a man. “Get down to the street!”
Locke wanted to stay, to keep Sabetha in sight, to do something for her, but his feet,
ever faster than his wits, were already carrying him away. He snatched at the rope
as he stumbled along, threw it over the opposite parapet, and without hesitation flung
himself over the edge. The stones flew past, and the pressure of the rope against
his palms rapidly grew into a hot, searing pain. He yowled and let go of the rope
just as he reached the bottom, all but flinging himself the last five feet to land
gracelessly in a heap.
Nothing seemed broken. His chin ached, his palms felt as though they’d been skinned
with a dull axe, and his head was still spinning, but at least nothing seemed broken.
He stumbled into a run. As his bare feet slapped against the cobbles of the road the
door to the target house burst open, revealing two men outlined in golden light. An
instant later they were after him with a shout.
Locke sprinted into the darkness of the alley, willing his legs to rise and fall like
water-engine pistons. He knew that he would need every inch of the lead he already
had if he hoped to escape. Vague black shapes loomed out of the shadows like something
from a nightmare, only transforming into normal objects as he ran past—empty barrels,
piles of refuse, broken wagons.
Behind him came the
slap-slap-slap
of booted feet. Locke sucked in his breath in short, sharp gasps and prayed he wouldn’t
run across a broken pot or bottle. Bare feet were better for climbing, but in a dead
run someone with shoes had every advantage. The men were getting closer—
Something slammed into Locke so forcefully that his first thought was that he’d struck
a wall. His breath exploded out of him, and his next impression was a confused sense
of movement. Someone grabbed him by his tunic and threw him down; someone else leapt
out of the darkness and sprinted in the direction he’d been headed. Someone about
his size or a little bigger.…
“Shhhh,” whispered one of the Sanzas, directly into his ear. “Play dead.”
Locke was lying with his cheek against wet stone, staring at a narrow opening into
a brick-walled passage. He realized he’d been yanked into a smaller alley branching
off the one he’d tried to escape down.
The Sanza restraining him pulled something heavy, damp, and fetid down around them,
leaving only the thinnest space exposed for them to see out of. A split second later
Locke’s two pursuers pounded past, huffing and swearing. They continued after the
shape that had taken Locke’s place and didn’t spare a glance for the two boys huddled
under cover a few feet away.
“Calo will give ’em a good chase, then get back to us once they’re slipped,” said
the Sanza after a few seconds.
“Galdo,” said Locke. “They got her. They got Beth.”
“We know.” Galdo pushed aside their camouflage. It looked like an ancient leather
coat, gnawed by animals and covered in every possible foulness an alley could cultivate.
“When we heard the shouting we ran for it and got in position to grab you. Quick and
quiet now.”
Galdo hoisted Locke to his feet, turned, and padded down the branch alley.
“They got her,” repeated Locke, suddenly aware that his cheeks were hot with tears.
“They got her, we have to do something, we have to—”
“I bloody well know.” Galdo seized him by the hand and pulled him along. “Chains will
tell us what to do. Come on.”
As Sabetha had promised, Chains wasn’t far. Galdo pulled Locke west, toward the docks,
to the rows of cheaper warehouses beside the canal that marked the farthest boundary
of the Razona. Chains was waiting there, in plain clothes and a long brown coat, inside
an empty warehouse that smelled of rot and camphor. When the two boys stumbled in
the door, Chains shook a weak light from an alchemical globe and hurried over to them.
“It went wrong,” said Galdo.
“They got her,” said Locke, not caring that he was bawling. “They got her, I’m sorry,
they just, they just got her.” Locke threw himself at Father Chains, and the man,
without hesitation, scooped him up and held him, patting his back until his racking
sobs quieted down.
“There, boy, there,” said Chains. “You’re with us now. All’s well. Who got her? Can
you tell me?”
“I don’t know … men in the house.”
“Not yellowjackets?”
“I don’t … I don’t think so. I’m sorry, I couldn’t … I tried to think of something,
but—”
“There was nothing you could have done,” said Chains firmly. He set Locke down and
used a coat sleeve to dry his cheeks. “You managed to get away, and that was enough.”
“We didn’t g-get … the necklace—”
“Fuck the necklace.” Chains turned to the Sanza who’d brought Locke in. “Where’s Galdo?”
“I’m Galdo.”
“Where’s—”
“Calo’s ditching a couple of men that chased us.”
“What kind of men? Uniforms? Weapons?”
“I don’t think they were mustard. They might’ve been with the old guy you wanted us
to rob.”
“Hell’s flaming shits.” Chains grabbed up his walking stick (an affectation for his
disguise, but a fine way to have a weapon close at hand), then produced a dagger in
a leather sheath that he tossed to Galdo. “Stay here. Douse the light and hide yourselves.
Try not to stab Calo if he returns before I do.”
“Where are you going?” asked Locke.
“To find out who we’re dealing with.”
Chains went out the door with a speed that put the lie to his frequent claims of advancing
infirmity. Galdo picked up the tiny alchemical light and tossed it to Locke, who concealed
it within his closed hands. Alone in the darkness, the two boys settled down to wait
for whatever came next.
CHAINS RETURNED
a brief fraction of an hour later, with an ashen-faced Calo in tow. Locke uncovered
the light as they entered the warehouse and ran toward them.
“Where is she?” he asked.
Chains stared at the three boys and sighed. “I need the smallest,” he said quietly.
“Me?”
“Of course you, Locke.” Chains reached out and grabbed both Sanza brothers. He knelt
beside them and whispered instructions that were too brief and quiet for Locke to
catch. Calo and Galdo seemed to recoil.
“Gods damn it, boys,” said Chains. “You know we’ve got no choice. Get back home. Stay
together.”
They ran out of the warehouse without another word. Chains rose and turned to Locke.
“Come,” he said. “Time is no friend of ours this evening.”
“Where are we going?” Locke scampered to keep up.
“Not far. A house a block north of where you were.”
“Is it … should we really be going back that way?”
“Perfectly safe now that you’re with me.” True to his word, Chains had turned east,
on a street rather than an alley, and was walking briskly toward the neighborhood
Locke had just fled.
“Who’s got her? The yellowjackets?”
“No. They’d have taken her to a watch station, not a private residence.”
“The, um, men we tried to rob?”
“No. Worse than that.” Locke couldn’t see Chains’ face, but he imagined that he could
hear his scowl in every word he spoke. “Agents of the duke. His secret police. Commanded
by the man with no name.”
“No name?”
“They call him the Spider. His people get work that’s too delicate for the yellowjackets.
They’re spies, assassins, false-facers. Dangerous folk, as dangerous as any of the
Right People.”
“Why were they at the house?”
“Bad luck is much too comforting a possibility. I believe my information about the
necklace was a poisoned tip.”
“But then … holy shit, but that means we have an informer!”
“It is a vile sin for
that word
to come lightly off the lips of our kind.” Chains whirled, and Locke stumbled backward
in surprise. Chains’ face was grimmer than Locke had ever seen it, and he waved a
finger to emphasize his words. “It’s the worst thing one Right Person can say or think
of another. Before you accuse, you’d damn well better
know
. Drop that word carelessly and you’d best be armed, understand?”
“Y-yes. Sorry.”
“My man at Meraggio’s is solid.” Chains turned, and with Locke at his heels hurried
down the street again. “My
children
are beyond reproach, all of you.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know. That means the information itself was bait for a trap. They probably didn’t
even know who’d bite. They set a line and waited for a fish.”
“Why would they care?”
“It’s in their interest,” grumbled Chains. “Thieves with contacts at Meraggio’s, thieves
willing to work in a nice quiet place like the Razona … that sort of person merits
scrutiny. Or stepping on.”
Locke held on to Chains’ sleeve as they threaded their way back into the quality neighborhoods,
where the peace and calm seemed utterly surreal to Locke, given the disturbance he
and Sabetha had raised so recently. At last Chains guided Locke into the low, well-kept
gardens behind a row of three-story homes. He pointed to the next house over, and
the two of them crouched behind a crumbling stone wall to observe the scene.
Half-visible past the edge of the house was a carriage without livery, guarded by
at least two men. The lights in the house were on, but all the windows, save one,
were covered by curtains behind thick mosaic glass. The lone exception was on the
rear wall, where an orange glow was coming from under a second-story window that had
been cracked open.