Authors: Scott Lynch
The Bridge of the Seven Lanterns was plain solid stone, no unnerving toy left over
from the long-vanished Eldren. Its parapets were low, and as Locke moved step by step
up the gentle arch he was offered a fine view of dozens of boats moving sluggishly
on the canal below—a view he ignored, focused as he was on the slender red shapes
of his two rivals. There was no wagon traffic at the moment, and while Locke watched,
the dress-wearers separated, moving to opposite sides of the bridge. There they paused,
each one turning her body as though she were gazing out over the water.
“Hell shit damn,” muttered Locke, trying for the first time in his life to emulate
the lengthy chains of profanity woven by the few adult role models he’d ever had.
“Pissing shit monkeys.” What was the game now? Stall him indefinitely and let the
sun cook them all? Looking for inspiration, he glanced around, and then back the way
he’d come.
A
third
girl in a cinnamon-red dress and gray veil was walking straight toward him, not twenty
yards behind, just at the point where the cobbles of the plaza met the bridge embankment.
Locke’s stomach performed a flip that would have been the highlight of any court acrobat’s
career.
He turned away from the newcomer, trying not to look too startled. Crooked Warden,
he’d been stupid not to check the whole area where Sabetha had picked up her first
decoy. And now, yes, his eyes weren’t merely playing tricks—the two girls in front
of him were slowly, calmly, demurely edging in his direction. He was trapped on a
bridge at the center of a collapsing triangle of red dresses. Unless he ran like mad,
which would signal to Chains and Sabetha alike that he’d broken character and given
up, one of the girls would surely manage to count his buttons.
Sweet gods, Sabetha had outwitted him before he’d even woken up that morning.
“Not done yet,” he muttered, desperately scanning the area for any distraction he
could seize. “Not yet, not
yet
.” His vague frustration had flared up into a sweat-soaked terror of losing—no, not
merely losing, but failing by such an astounding degree in his first contest against
a girl he would have swallowed hot iron nails to impress. This wouldn’t just embarrass
him, it would convince Sabetha that he was a little boy of no account.
Forever
.
As it happened, it wasn’t fresh and subtle inspiration that saved him—it was his old
teaser’s reflexes, the unsociably crude methods he’d used to create street incidents
back in his Shades’ Hill days. Barely realizing what he was doing, he flung himself
down on his knees against the nearest parapet, with his brass buttons scant inches
from the stone. With every ounce of energy he possessed, he pretended to throw up.
“Hooouk,” he coughed, a minor prelude to a disgusting symphony, “hggggk … hoooo-gggghhhhkkk …
HNNNNNN-BLAAAAAARGH!” The noises were fine, as convincing as he’d ever conjured, and
he pushed hard against the parapet with one shaking arm. That was always a great touch;
adults fell hard for it. Those that were repulsed would back off an extra three feet,
and those that were sympathetic would all but tremble.
He stole quick glances around while he moaned, shuddered, and retched. Adult passersby
were swinging wide around him, in the typical fashion of the rich and busy; there
was no profit in attending to someone else’s sick servant or messenger boy. As for
his red-dressed nemeses, they had all halted, wavering like veiled apparitions. Approaching
him now would be suspicious and dangerous, while standing there like statues would
rapidly invite needless attention. Locke wondered what they would do, knowing he had
merely succeeded in restoring a stalemate, but that was certainly better than letting
their trap snap him up.
“Just keep retching,” he whispered, and did so. As far as plans went,
it was perhaps the worst he’d ever conceived, but now it was up to someone else to
make the next move.
“What goes?” A woman’s voice, brimming with authority. “Explain yourself, boy.”
That someone else was, as it turned out, wearing the mustard-colored jacket of the
city watch.
“Lost your grip on breakfast, eh?” The guardswoman nudged Locke with the tip of a
boot. “Look, just move along and be sick at the end of the bridge.”
“Help me,” whispered Locke.
“Can’t stand on your own?” The woman’s leather fighting harness creaked as she crouched
beside him, and her belt-slung baton tapped the ground. “Give it a minute—”
“I’m not really sick!” Locke beckoned to her with one hand, concealing the gesture
from everyone else with his body. “Bend down, please. I’m in danger.”
“What the hell are you on about?” She looked wary, but did come closer.
“Don’t react. Don’t hold this up.” In an instant, Locke had his little purse of silver
coins, thus far unspent, transferred from his right hand to her left. He pushed the
woman’s fingers gently closed over the bag. “That’s ten solons. My master is a rich
man. Help me, and he’ll know your name.”
“Gods be gracious,” the woman whispered. Locke knew that bag of silver represented
several months of her pay. Would she bend for it? “What’s going on?”
“I’m in danger,” Locke muttered. “I’m being followed. A man wants the messages I carry
for my master. Back on the plaza south of here, he tried to grab me twice.”
“I’ll take you to my watch station, then.”
“No, there’s no need. Just get me to the north side of this bridge. Pick me up and
carry me, like I’m being arrested. If he sees that, he won’t wait around. He’ll go
tell his masters the watch has me, and once we’ve gone a little ways, you can just
let me go.”
“Let you go?”
“Sure, just set me down, let me off with a warning, talk to me sternly.”
“That’d look damned irregular.”
“You’re the watch. You can do what you like and nobody’s going to say anything!”
“I still don’t know.…”
“Look, you’re not breaking any law. You’re just lending me a hand.” Locke knew he
nearly had her. She had already taken his coin; now it was a matter of notching the
promised reward up a bit. “Get me off this bridge and my master will double what I’ve
given you. Easily.”
The guardswoman seemed to consider this for a few seconds, then rose from her crouch
and seized him by the back of his jacket. “You’re not sick,” she yelled. “You’re just
making a gods-damned scene!”
“No, please,” cried Locke, praying that he was, in fact, witnessing a purchased performance
and not a sudden change of heart. The guardswoman lifted him, tucked him under her
left arm, and marched north. Some of the well-dressed onlookers chuckled, but they
all moved out of the way as Locke’s improvised transportation carried him away from
the scene of his near-humiliation.
He kicked and struggled to keep up his end of the presumed deception. Some of his
squirming was only too real, as the woman’s baton handle kept jabbing him in the ribs,
spoiling what was an otherwise surprisingly comfortable ride. At least he was being
carried with his all-important buttons facing the guardswoman’s side.
Locke scanned his tilted field of vision and saw, to his delight, that the two red
dresses in front of him had darted far to the left and were keeping their distance
from him and his temporarily tame yellowjacket. Would Sabetha believe he’d really
been seized against his will? Probably not, but now she’d have to sort out a new plan
of attack with her accomplices, whoever they were.
His own plans were developing speedily as he pretended to fight back against his captor.
Once he’d gotten well ahead of the girls, he could cut off their progress to the final
choke point, Goldenreach Bridge. And while his ultimate position there would find
him once again outnumbered three to one, at least he would have more time to play
spot-the-real-Sabetha.
Kicking, snarling, and shaking his fists, Locke was carried at last down the opposite
side of the bridge, onto the northern plaza. Here the real powers of Coin-Kisser’s
Row were situated, houses like Meraggio’s
and Bonaduretta’s, whose webs of coin and credit reached out across the continent.
“Don’t make me knock your teeth in,” his guardswoman growled down at him as a particularly
large group of onlookers moved past. Locke could have applauded her theatrical sense;
yellowjacket or not, the woman had good instincts. Now, all they had to do was find
a decent spot to set him down, and he was as good as—
“Oh, Constable, Constable,
please
wait!” Locke heard the soft sound of running feet even before he heard Sabetha’s
voice, and he squirmed madly, trying to spot her before she arrived. Too late—she
was at the guardswoman’s other side, veil flipped back over her four-cornered hat.
She was holding out a small dark pouch in her right hand. “You dropped this, Constable!”
“Dropped what?” The woman turned to face Sabetha, swinging Locke into position to
look directly at her. Her cheeks were flushed red and, inexplicably, she was letting
her open satchel just hang there. Locke stared openmouthed at the four tidy little
rolls of silk tucked therein—red, green, black, and blue.
“You must be mistaken, girl.”
“Not at all. I saw it myself. I’m
sure
this is yours.” Sabetha pressed the little pouch into the constable’s free hand,
precisely as Locke had just moments earlier, and in so doing she moved closer and
lowered her voice. “That’s four solons. Please, please let my little brother go.”
“What?” The constable sounded thoroughly mystified, but Locke noticed that she slipped
the pouch into her coat with smooth reflexes. He was beginning to suspect that this
yellowjacket had some prior experience with making offerings disappear.
“I’m sure he didn’t mean to cause a scene,” said Sabetha, letting a note of desperate
worry break into her voice. “He’s not supposed to be out on his own. He’s not quite
right in the head.”
“Hey,” said Locke, suddenly realizing that knowledge of the silk colors wouldn’t mean
much if he let the situation spin further out of his control. What the hell was Sabetha
doing? “Wait just a minute—”
“He’s a
total
idiot,” Sabetha whispered, squeezing the constable’s free hand. “It’s just not safe
for him to be out without an escort! He makes up stories, you see. Please … let me
take him home.”
“I don’t … I just … now, look here—”
One or more wheels were clearly about to fly off the previously smooth-running engine
of the guardswoman’s thought processes, and Locke cringed. Suddenly a wide, dark shape
insinuated itself between Locke’s constable and the cinnamon-red figure of Sabetha,
gently pushing the girl aside.
“Ahhhhhhhhh, Madam Constable, I am so utterly delighted to see that you’ve retrieved
the two parcels I misplaced,” said Chains. “You are a jewel of efficiency, excellent
woman, a gift from the heavens. I beg leave to shake your hand.”
For the third time in the span of a few minutes, a tiny parcel of coins slipped into
the palm of the now utterly dumbstruck watch-woman. This exchange was faster and smoother
by far than either of those effected by the children; Locke only saw it because he
was being held in just the right position to catch a tiny glimpse of something dark
nestled in Chains’ hand.
“Um … well, sir, I …”
Chains leaned over and whispered a few quick sentences in her ear. Even before he
finished, the woman gently lowered Locke to the ground. Not knowing what else to do,
he moved over to stand beside Sabetha, adopting a much-practiced facial expression
meant to radiate absolute harmlessness.
“Ahhh,” said the constable. Chains’ new offering joined the previous two inside her
coat.
“Indeed,” said Chains, beaming. “Blessings of the Twelve, and fair rains follow you,
dear constable. These two will trouble you no further.”
Chains gave a cheery wave (which was just as cheerfully returned by the guardswoman),
then turned and pushed Locke and Sabetha toward the east bank of the plaza, where
stairs led down to a wide landing for the hiring of passenger boats.
“What happened to your little accomplices?” whispered Chains.
“Told them to get lost when I went after that yellowjacket,” said Sabetha.
“Good. Now, shut up and behave while I get us a boat. We’d best be anywhere but here.”
All of the nearby gondolas were departing or passing by, save for one bobbing at the
quay, about to be boarded by a middle-aged man
of business who was fishing in a coin purse. Chains stepped smoothly past him and
gave the pole-man a peculiar sort of wave.
“I say,” said Chains, “sorry to be late. We’re in such a desperate hurry to reach
a friend of a friend, and I just knew that this would be the right sort of boat.”
“The rightest sort of right, sir.” The pole-man was young and skinny, tanned brown
as horse droppings, and he wore a sandy-colored beard down to the middle of his stained
blue tunic. Charms of silver and ivory were woven into that beard, so many that the
man actually chimed as he moved his head about. “Sir, I’m apologetic as hell, but
this is the gentleman I’ve been waiting for.”
“Waiting for?” The man looked up from his coin-counting, startled. “But you only just
pulled up!”
“Nonetheless, I got a previous engagement, and this is it. Now, I do beg pardon—”
“No, no, this is my boat!”
“It pains me to correct you,” said Chains, rendering his appropriation of the gondola
final by ushering Sabetha into it. “Nonetheless, I must point out that the boat is
actually the property of the young man with the pole.”
“Which it is, already and unfortunately, at this time engaged,” said that man.
“Why … you brazen, disrespectful little pack of dockside shits! I was here first!
Don’t you dare take that boat, boy!”
Locke had been following Sabetha, and the middle-aged man reached down and grabbed
him by the front of his jacket. Equally swiftly, Chains backhanded the man so hard
that he immediately let go and stumbled back two paces, nearly falling into the canal.