Authors: Scott Lynch
Locke suppressed a grin that would have reached his temples if it hadn’t been checked.
“But—”
“Here, I carry enough as pocket-money.” Jean held out two gold tyrins on his right
palm. “Surely it’s no hardship for you, either.”
“But—”
“What are you, a
Verrari
? Are you that much of a scrub that two tyrins is an
imposition
for you? If so, at least give me your name so I can let my mistress know who wouldn’t—”
“Fine,” said the man, holding his hands up toward Jean. “Fine! We’ll pay for the damn
cake. Half and half.” He passed a pair of gold tyrins over to Locke, and watched as
Jean did the same.
“Th-thank you, sirs,” said Locke with a quavering voice. “I’ll catch some hell for
this, but not nearly what I would have had coming.”
“It’s only reasonable,” said Jean. “Gods go with you, both of you.”
“Yes, yes,” said the older man, scowling. “Be more careful next time you’re hauling
a cake around, boy.” He hurried on his way without another word.
“Guilt is such a beautiful thing,” sighed Locke as he scooped up the toppled mess
of the boxed cake—a horrid conglomeration of old flour, sawdust, and white plaster
worth about a hundredth of what the unfortunate mark had handed over. “That’s a solid
tyrin apiece for tonight.”
“Think Chains will be pleased?”
“Let’s hope it’s the Benefactor that ends up pleased,” said Locke with a grin. “I’ll
just clear this mess up and find someplace to dump it so the yellowjackets don’t break
my skull. Back home?”
“Yeah, roundabout way,” said Jean. “See you in half an hour.”
“
SO THEN
this fellow backs off like Jean’s started juggling live scorpions,” said Locke, just
over half an hour later. “And Jean starts calling him a scrub, and a Verrari, and
all kinds of things, and the poor bastard just handed over two gold coins like that.”
Locke snapped his fingers, and the Sanza twins applauded politely. Calo and Galdo
sat side by side atop the table in the glass burrow’s kitchen, disdaining the use
of anything so commonplace as chairs.
“And that’s your offering?” said Calo. “A tyrin apiece?”
“It’s a fair sum,” said Jean. “And we thought we put some effort into it. Artistic
merit and all that.”
“Took us two hours to make the cake,” said Locke. “And you should have seen the acting.
We could have been on stage. That man’s heart melted into a puddle, I was so sad and
forlorn.”
“So it wasn’t acting at all, then,” said Galdo.
“Polish my dagger for me, Sanza,” said Locke, making an elaborate hand gesture that
Camorri only used in public when they absolutely wanted to start a fight.
“Sure, I’ll get the smallest rag in the kitchen while you draw me a map to where it’s
been hiding all these years.”
“Oh, be fair,” said Calo. “We can spot it easily enough whenever Sabetha’s in the
room!”
“Like now?” said Sabetha as she appeared from around the corner of the burrow’s entrance
tunnel.
The fact that Locke didn’t die instantly may be taken as proof that a human male can
survive having every last warm drop of blood within his body rush instantly to the
vicinity of his cheeks.
Sabetha had been exerting herself. Her face was flushed, several strands of her tightly
queued hair had fallen out of place, and the open neckline of her cream-colored tunic
revealed a sheen of sweat on her skin. Locke’s eyes would ordinarily have been fixed
on her as though connected to the aforementioned tunic by invisible threads, but he
pretended that something terribly important had just appeared in the empty far corner
of the kitchen.
“And where do you two get off teasing Locke?” said Sabetha. “If
either of you have any hair on your stones yet, you’ve been putting it there with
a paintbrush.”
“You wound us deeply,” said Calo. “And good taste prevents us from being able to respond
in kind.”
“However,” said Galdo, “if you were to ask around certain Guilded Lilies, you’d discover
that your—”
“You’ve been visiting the Guilded Lilies?” said Jean.
“Ahhh,” said Calo with a cough, “that is to say,
were
we to visit the, ah, Guilded Lilies, hypothetically—”
“Hypothetically,” said Galdo. “Excellent word. Hypothetically.”
“Oh, I don’t know. It’s just like you two to make someone else do all the work, isn’t
it?” Sabetha rolled her eyes. “So what’s your offering, then?”
“Red wine,” said Calo. “Two dozen bottles. We borrowed them from that half-blind old
bastard just off Ropelayer’s Way.”
“I went in dressed like a swell,” said Galdo, “and while I kept him busy around the
shop, Calo was in and out the rear window, quiet as a spider.”
“It was too easy,” said Calo. “That poor fellow couldn’t tell a dog’s ass from a douche
bucket if you gave him three tries.”
“Anyhow, Chains said they could be used for the toasting after the ceremony,” said
Galdo. “Since the point is to get rid of the offerings anyway.”
“Nice,” said Jean, scratching at the faint dark fuzz on his heavy chin. “What have
you been up to, Sabetha?”
“Yeah, what’s your offering?” said the twins in unison.
“It’s taken me most of the day,” said Sabetha, “and it hasn’t been easy, but I liked
the look of
these
.” She brought three polished witchwood truncheons out from behind her back. One of
them was new, one was moderately dented, and one looked as though it had been used
to crack skulls for as long as any of the younger Gentlemen Bastards had been alive.
“Oh, you’re kidding,” said Galdo.
“No, you’re
fucking
kidding,” said Calo.
“Your eyes do
not
deceive you,” said Sabetha, twirling the batons by their straps. “Several of Camorr’s
famously vigilant city watchmen have indeed misplaced their convincing sticks.”
“Oh, gods,” said Locke, his guts roiling with a tangled mess of admiration and consternation.
His self-satisfaction at squeezing half a crown out of the poor slob in the Fountain
Bend vanished. “That’s … that’s a bloody work of art!”
“Why, thank you,” said Sabetha, giving a mock bow to the room. “I have to admit, I
only got two of them off belts. Third one was lying around in a watch station. I figured
I had no business turning down that sort of temptation.”
“But why didn’t you tell us what you were doing?” said Locke. “Chasing the watch on
your own—”
“Have you always told everyone else what
you’re
up to?” said Sabetha.
“But you could have used some top-eyes, or a distraction just in case,” said Locke.
“Well, you were busy. I saw you and Jean baking your little cake.”
“You’re showing off,” said Calo. “Hoping to make an impression?”
“You think there’ll be a choosing,” said Galdo, slyly.
“Chains said there’s a chance every year,” said Sabetha. “Might as well stand out.
Haven’t you two ever thought about it?”
“The full priesthood?” Calo stuck out his tongue. “Not our style. Don’t get us wrong,
we love the Crooked Warden, but the two of us …”
“Just because we like to drink doesn’t mean we want to run the tavern,” finished Calo.
“What about you, Jean?” said Sabetha.
“Interesting question.” Jean took his optics off and wiped them against a tunic sleeve
as he spoke. “I’d be surprised if the Crooked Warden wanted someone like me as a divine.
My parents took oath to Gandolo. I like to think I’m welcome where the gods have put
me, but I don’t believe I’m meant for anything like a priesthood.”
“And you, Locke?” Sabetha asked quietly.
“I, uh, guess I haven’t really thought about it.” That was a lie. Locke had always
been fascinated by the hints Chains dropped about the secretive structure of the Crooked
Warden’s priesthood, but he wasn’t sure what Sabetha wanted to hear from him. “I,
ah, take it you have?”
“I have.” There was that smile of hers, a smile that was like the sun coming out from
behind a cloud. “I want it. I want to know what
Chains smirks about all the time. And I want to
win
it. I want to be the best—”
She was interrupted by an echoing clang from the entrance tunnel. That could only
be Chains returning to the burrow from the various preparations the night would require.
He rounded the corner and smiled when he saw them all gathered.
“Good, good,” he muttered. “Sanzas, the wine is being carried in by some people who’ll
be less busy than yourselves. Everyone else, I trust you have your offerings?” He
looked pleased at the nods he received. Locke caught the twinkle of unusual excitement
in his eyes despite the dark circles beneath them. “Excellent. Then let’s have some
dinner before we leave.”
“Will we need to dress up or bathe for this?” asked Sabetha.
“Oh no, my dear, no. Ours is a pragmatic sort of temple. Besides, it’s no use in trying
to prettify yourselves, since you’re going to have sacks thrown over your heads. Try
to act surprised. That’s the only little secret I’ll be giving away in advance.”
A HUSH
ran through the assembled thieves as several men and women, using a collapsible wooden
frame, hung curtains over the door the postulants had been carried through. Other
than a few vents in the ceiling, that door was the only entrance to the room Locke
could see. Guards took up positions by the curtains—serious bruisers in long leather
coats, with cudgels and axes ready. Chains had explained that their purpose was to
ensure the privacy of the ritual. Other guards would be out there somewhere, an entire
network, lurking along every route an outsider could use to spy upon or disrupt the
Orphan’s Moon rites.
There were about ten dozen people in the vault. That was a scant fraction of the people
in Camorr whose lives were supposed to be ruled by the god with the hidden name, but
that, according to Chains, was the nature of devotion. It was easy to mutter prayers
and curses in the heat of the moment, and less convenient to skulk around in the middle
of nowhere on the one night a year the dedicated actually came together.
“This is the temple of the church without temples,” said a woman in a hooded gray
cloak as she stepped into the middle of the vaulted chamber. “This is the ceremony
of the order without ceremonies.”
“Father of our fortunes, we consecrate this hall to your purpose; to be joined to
your grace and to receive your mysteries.” This was Chains, his voice rich and resonant.
He took his place by the woman’s side, wearing a similar robe. “We are thieves among
thieves; our lot is shared. We are keepers of signs and passwords, here without malice
or guile.”
“This is our calling and our craft, which you from love have given us.” The third
speaker was the
garrista
who’d sworn the postulants to secrecy, now robed in gray. “Father of Shadows, who
teaches us to take what we would dare to take, receive our devotions.”
“You have taught us that good fortune may be seized and shared,” said the female priest.
“
Thieves prosper
,” chanted the crowd.
“You have taught us the virtue and the necessity of our arts,” said Father Chains.
“
The rich remember
.”
“You have given us the darkness to be our shield,” said the third priest. “And taught
us the blessing of fellowship.”
“
We
are thieves among thieves
.”
“Blessed are the quick and the daring,” said Chains, moving to the front of the hall,
where a block of stone had been covered with a black silk drape. “Blessed are the
patient and the watchful. Blessed is the one who aids a thief, hides a thief, revenges
a thief, and remembers a thief, for they shall inherit the night.”
“
Inherit the night
,” chanted the crowd solemnly.
“We are gathered in peace, in the eyes of our Benefactor, the Thirteenth Prince of
Earth and Heaven, whose name is guarded.” The female priest spoke now, and took a
place by Chains’ left hand. “This is the night he claims for his remembrance, the
Orphan’s Moon.”
“Are there any among us who would swear a solemn covenant with this temple, and take
the oath of joining?” said the third priest.
This was the crucial moment. Any thief, anyone even remotely connected to an unlawful
existence, was welcome in this company, so long as they took the oath of secrecy.
But those taking the next step,
the oath of joining, would proclaim their choice of the Unnamed Thirteenth as their
heavenly patron. They would certainly not be turning their backs on the other gods
of the Therin pantheon, but to their patron they would owe their deepest prayers and
best offerings for as long as they lived. Even children studying to become priests
didn’t take formal oaths of joining until their early teens, and many people never
took them at all, preferring to cultivate a loose devotion to all gods rather than
a more formal obligation to one.
Nazca was the first to step forward, and behind her in a self-conscious rush came
everyone else. Once the postulants had arranged themselves with as much dignity as
they could manage, Chains held up his hands.
“This decision, once made, cannot be unmade. The gods are jealous of promises and
will not
suffer this oath to be cast aside. Be therefore sober and solemnly resolved, or stand
aside. There is no shame in not being ready at this time.”
None of the postulants backed down. Chains clapped three times, and the sound echoed
around the vault.
“Hail the Crooked Warden,” said the three priests in unison.
“STOP!”
A new voice boomed from the back of the chamber, and from behind the crowd of watchers
came a trio of men in black robes and masks, followed by a woman in a red dress. They
stormed down the aisle in the center of the vault, shoving the postulants aside, and
formed a line between them and the altar.
“STOP AT ONCE!” The speaker was a man whose mask was a stylized bronze sun, with carved
rays spreading from a sinister, unsmiling face. He seized Oretta, a scar-covered girl
with a reputation as a knife-fighter, and dragged her forward. “The Sun commands you
now! I burn away shadows, banish night, make your sins plain! Honest men rise as I
rise, and sleep as I set! I am lord and father of all propriety. Who are you to defy
me?”