Authors: Scott Lynch
“Forgive my suspicion,” says Jean/Patience, “that the Speaker has come to this assembly
well-armed with conclusions to aid us in that measurement.”
“Archedama, I would be a poor advocate indeed if I dared to speak extemporaneously
on such a crucial matter. I’ve given this contract a great deal of thought since it
was first proposed.”
“If it were carried out,” says Archedama Foresight, “what would happen to Camorr?”
“I think it impossible,” says the Falconer, “that literally every noble in Camorr
could be caught in this trap. There must inevitably be those too ill to attend, those
out of favor at court, and those traveling abroad. There will also be those that leave
too early or arrive too late. Dozens of them are sure to survive. Anatolius understands
this. His point is made regardless.
“Camorr possesses a standing army of several companies, along with a rather infamous
constabulary. At the end of the night, the survivors would retain a disciplined force
to keep the peace.”
“That’s what they’d be used for, then?” Archedon Providence adopts a tone of mock
surprise. “Certainly not to settle old scores? Camorri are so famous for their deep
sense of restraint where lingering grudges are concerned.”
“I’m not trying to be fatuous, Archedon,” says the Falconer, “or unduly optimistic.
But our information—and our information is better than the duke of Camorr’s—is that
the duke’s standing forces are reasonably loyal to the throne and to Camorr itself.
Of course there’d be blood on the walls. Doors kicked in, alley fights, that personal
Camorri touch. Yet I think it likely the army and constabulary would stand aside from
these affairs until the strongest survivors restored a legitimate chain of command.”
“Are you seriously arguing,” says Providence, “that Camorr would, after a few knife-fights
in the dark, suffer no further instability from the sudden and rather horrific subtraction
of several hundred nobles?”
“Of course not. Archedon, you do me a rhetorical injustice. Camorr will lose much—its
present ambitions, its particular relations with other city-states, its high culture.
If Anatolius has his way, he’ll wipe out most of the old dogs who won the Thousand
Days and put down the Mad Count’s rebellion.
“Camorr will be severely tested. Tal Verrar, we must assume, will poke every visible
wound. But will Camorr collapse? Will there be riots in the streets? Will its soldiers
throw down their pikes and run to the wilds? Gods be gracious, no. And will it lash
out? At whom? Anatolius intends to make it generally known, if his plan is successful,
that
what took place was an act of vengeance by Camorri, upon Camorri. There’ll be no foreign
phantoms to chase.”
“They will try,” says Temperance, musingly. “And they’ll hunt Anatolius to the ends
of creation. Assassins will be lined up at the city gates for work.”
“I agree,” says the Falconer. “But that would be Anatolius’ problem, and he’s eager
to have it. He knows how to reach our agents if he wishes to discuss the price of
making himself vanish.”
There is a good-humored murmur from around the chamber. The sun has climbed higher;
the warm golden glow is steady.
“I believe the chaos unleashed by Anatolius’ plan would be brief, local, and easily
contained,” says the Falconer. “It is, of course, the place of the arch-magi to determine
whether or not I’ve been convincing. But I would say one thing more—a decision here
is only the first requirement for a contract to be placed into action. It must also
have a mage willing to become its instrument. I am no hypocrite! If the arch-magi
allow it, I would be the first to request the honor of the assignment.”
Jean feels a strange flare of emotion from somewhere below the surface of the memories
he rides. It isn’t anger, or even surprise. Rather … satisfaction? Anticipation? The
hint of feeling vanishes quickly, pushed back behind the curtains of Patience’s mental
stage.
“Are there any further arguments to be made,” says Temperance, “against the Anatolius
proposal, on the basis of the second Mandate?”
Silence around the room.
“We call the question.” Temperance raises his left hand, a gesture that allows his
sleeve to fall back just far enough to reveal his five rings. “Have these arguments
changed the opinions already offered by my peers?”
“I still can’t deem it acceptable,” says Providence.
“I can,” says Foresight.
“Then the time has come for Patience and me to make our declarations.” Temperance
broods before continuing. “I agree that this is a proposal without precedent. I agree
that it seems a singular and sinister thing, and I am no enemy of black contracts.
But our custom compels a duty to fact, not to vague impressions. I find no valid reason
in law to disqualify the proposal.”
A critical moment. Temperance has handed Patience the most meaningful decision of
the entire assembly. If she refuses the proposal,
agents of the Bondsmagi will politely inform Luciano Anatolius that his proposition
has not been found convenient. If she allows the proposal, the Falconer will go to
Camorr to work an act of butchery.
“I share the qualms of the honorable Navigator, and our esteemed Archedon Providence,”
Jean/Patience says at last. “I also share the Archedon Temperance’s respect for the
strictness of our Mandates. I too lack any valid reason to disallow the contract.”
Jean is chilled to the core of his vaporous body as he feels this statement come from
his/Patience’s lips. Of all the curious privileges he has ever been granted in life,
surely this is among the most awful—the chance to speak the words that sent the Falconer
to Camorr, to slaughter the Barsavi family, to cause the deaths of Calo and Galdo
and Bug, to come within a hair’s width of killing himself and Locke.
“The proposal is accepted,” says Temperance. “I think it no small justice that the
task should be yours, Falconer. We know you have the stomach for black contracts.
Now we’ll see if your subtlety is any match for your enthusiasm.”
The Falconer has been handed a double-edged opportunity, a chance to crown his relatively
early success with a contract unlike any other. A chance to fail spectacularly if
he lacks the nerve to pull it off.
“This assembly is adjourned,” says Temperance. Jean’s perception shifts again; in
mid-sentence, the sound of the eldest archedon’s voice transmutes to the sensation
of thoughts. Patience has returned to her natural perspective.
Like a theater audience with no applause, the magi rise and begin to file out of the
Sky Chamber. A hundred private discussions continue, but there is no need to form
conversational knots and clusters when they are taking place in the swift silence
of thought.
The other arch-magi rise to leave, but Jean/Patience lingers, staring at the pool
of dreamsteel in the middle of the chamber. He/she can feel the Falconer’s eyes from
across the room.
I must admit, I wasn’t expecting you to make that allowance, Mother
.
If you’re no hypocrite, neither am I
.
Jean/Patience waves a hand across the surface of the dreamsteel; currents of warmth
pulse up and down the ghostly fingers. The silvery metal ripples birth slender shapes.
The sculpting takes a few moments,
and is far from perfect, but soon enough Jean/Patience has beckoned the dreamsteel
into a caricature of the Camorr skyline, with the Five Towers looming over islands
studded with smaller buildings.
Having no excuse to forbid this isn’t the same as condoning it
.
Frame it as you like
.
Is there any point to my offering a piece of advice?
If it’s truly advice, I’ll be surprised
.
Don’t go to Camorr. This contract isn’t just complex, it’s dangerous
.
I thought as much. Dangerous? I don’t recall my name being on Luciano Anatolius’ list
of enemies
.
Not merely dangerous for the ungifted. Dangerous for you
.
Oh, Mother. I hardly know whether your game is too deep or too shallow for me. Is
this your legendary prescience again? Curious how you seem to cite it whenever you
have an obvious reason to slow me down
.
The Falconer stretches forth a hand, and the Five Towers sink. In seconds the liquid-sculpture
buildings dissolve back into their primordial silver ooze. The dreamsteel quivers,
then becomes mirror-smooth once again. The Falconer grins.
Someday, Speaker, you may have cause to regret the intensity of your self-regard
.
Yes, well, perhaps we can continue to explore your rather thorough catalog of my faults
when I return from Camorr. Until then—
I doubt we’ll ever have the opportunity. Farewell, Falconer
.
Farewell, Mother. Rest assured I do look forward to enjoying the last word, whenever
it comes
.
He turns toward the door. As he walks away, Vestris cocks her head slightly, stares
with cold hunter’s eyes, and makes the slightest squawk. The bird’s equivalent of
a disdainful laugh.
The Falconer departs on his mission to Camorr two days later. When he returns, months
will have passed, and he will be in no condition to enjoy any words at all.
“
GODS ABOVE
,” whispered Jean as the deck of the
Sky-Reacher
became real beneath his feet again. His eyes felt as though he’d been
staring into a bitter wind. It was a deep relief to find himself back in the familiar
shape and mass of his own body. “That was insane.”
“The first time isn’t easy. You bore it well enough.”
“You people do that often?” asked Jean.
“I wouldn’t go so far as ‘often.’ ”
“You can just pass your memories back and forth,” said Locke, shaking his head. “Like
an old jacket.”
“Not quite. The technique requires preparation and conscious guidance. I couldn’t
simply give you the sum total of my memories. Or teach you to speak Vadran with a
touch.”
“
Ka spras Vadrani anhalt
.”
“Yes, I know you do.”
“Falconer,” muttered Jean, rubbing his eyes. “Falconer! Patience, you could have stopped
him. You were
inclined
to stop him!”
“I was,” said Patience. She stared out at the Amathel, the cooling dregs of her tea
forgotten.
“But the Falconer was one of your exceptionalists, right?” said Locke. “Along with
what’s-her-name, Foresight. And here you had a contract, a mission, to go and really
fuck things up, Therim Pel style. If he’d actually pulled it off—and he came gods-damned
close, let me tell you—isn’t that just the sort of thing that would have given more
prestige to his faction?”
“Absolutely.”
“And you let him go anyway.”
“I thought of abstaining, until he announced his willingness to take the contract.
No, his
intention
of taking the contract. Once he’d done so, I realized that he wouldn’t be coming
back safely from Camorr.”
“What, you had some sort of premonition?”
“After a fashion. It’s one of my talents.”
“Patience,” said Locke, “I
would
like to ask you something deeply personal. Not to antagonize you. I ask because your
son helped kill four close friends of mine, and I want to know … I guess …”
“You want to know why we don’t get along.”
“Yes.”
“He hated me.” Patience wrung her hands together. “Still does, behind the fog of his
madness. He hates me as much as he did when we parted that day in the Sky Chamber.”
“Why?”
“It’s simple. And yet … rather hard to explain. The first thing you should understand
is how we choose our names.”
“Falconer, Navigator, Coldmarrow, et cetera,” said Jean.
“Yes. We call them
gray names
, because they’re mist. They’re insubstantial. Every mage chooses a gray name when
their first ring is tattooed on their wrist. Coldmarrow, for example, chose his in
memory of his northern heritage.”
“What were you, before you were Patience?” said Jean.
“I called myself
Seamstress
.” She smiled faintly. “Not all gray names are grandiose. Now, there’s another sort
of name. We call it the red name, the name that lives in the blood, the true name
which can never be shed.”
“Like mine,” muttered Jean.
“Just so. The second thing you need to understand is that magical talent has no relation
to heredity. It doesn’t breed true. Many decades of regrettable interference in the
private lives of magi made this abundantly clear.”
“What do you do,” said Jean, “with, ah, ‘ungifted’ children when you have them?”
“Cherish them and raise them, you imbecile. Most of them end up working for us, in
Karthain and elsewhere. What did you think we’d do, burn them on a pyre?”
“Forget I asked.”
“And gifted children?” said Locke. “Where do they come from, if they’re not homegrown?”
“A trained mage can sense an unschooled talent,” said Patience. “We usually catch
them very young. They’re brought to Karthain and raised in our unique community. Sometimes
their original memories are suppressed for their own comfort.”
“But not the Falconer,” said Locke. “You said he was your flesh-and-blood son.”
“Yes.”
“And for him to have the power … how rare is that?”
“He was the fifth in four hundred years.”
“Was his father a mage?”
“A master gardener,” said Patience softly. “He drowned on the Amathel six months after
our son was born.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Of course you’re not.” Patience moved her fingers slightly and her tea mug disappeared.
“I suppose I might have gone mad, if not for the Falconer. He was my solace. We became
so close, that little boy and I. We explored his talents together. Ultimately, though,
for magi to be born of magi is more curse than blessing.”
“Why?” said Jean.
“You’ve been Jean Tannen all your life. It’s what your mother and father called you
when you were learning how to speak. It’s engraved on your soul. Your friend here
also has a red name, but, to his great good fortune, he stumbled into a gray name
for himself at an early age. He calls himself Locke Lamora, but deep down inside,
when he thinks of himself, he thinks something else.”