Authors: Scott Lynch
“Oh, I hate the Eldren, Jean,” Locke gasped as they lay in the bottom of the tossing
boat, lashed by waves and rain. “I hate ’em. I hate whatever they did, I hate the
shit they left behind, I hate the way none of their mysteries ever turn out to be
pleasant and fucking good-neighborly!”
“Pretty lights,” muttered Jean.
“Yeah, pretty lights,” Locke spat. “Friendly sailors, the Amathel has it all.”
Locke nudged Jean aside and sat up. They were bobbing around like a wine cork in a
cauldron set to boil, but now that their weight was in the center of the little boat,
it seemed better able to bear the tossing. They had drifted astern and inshore of
the
Volantyne’s Resolve
, which was now more than fifty yards away. Confused shouts could be heard, but the
ship didn’t seem to be putting about to come after them. Locke could only hope that
Jean’s cold-cocking of Volantyne would prevent the rest of the crew from getting things
together until it was too late.
“Holy hells,” said Jean, “how’d I geddhere?”
“Never mind that. You see any oars?”
“Uh, I thing I bead the crap out of the guy that had them.” Jean reached up and gingerly
prodded his face. “Aw, gods, I thing I broge my node again!”
“You used it to break your fall when you hit the boat.”
“Is thad whad hid me?”
“Yeah, scared me shitless.”
“You saved me!”
“It’s my turn every couple of years,” said Locke with a thin smile.
“Thang you.”
“All I did was save my own ass four or five times down the line,”
said Locke. “And cut you in on a hell of a landing. If the waves keep taking us south,
we should hit the beach in just a few miles, but without any oars to keep ourselves
under control, it might be a hard way to leave the water.”
The waves did their part, bearing their little boat south at a frightful clip, and
when the beach finally came into sight their arrival went as hard as Locke had guessed.
The Amathel flung them against the black volcanic sand like some monster vomiting
up a plaything that had outlasted its interest.
THE COASTAL
road west of Lashain was called the Darksands Stretch, and it was a lonely place
to be traveling this windy autumn morning. A single coach, pulled by a team of eight
horses, trundled along the centuries-old stones raising spurts of wet gravel in its
wake rather than the clouds of dust more common in drier seasons.
The secure coach service from Salon Corbeau and points farther south was for rich
travelers unable to bear the thought of setting foot aboard a ship. With iron-bound
doors, shuttered windows, and interior locks, the carriage was a little fortress for
passengers afraid of highwaymen.
The driver wore an armored doublet, as did the guard that sat beside him atop the
carriage, cradling a crossbow that looked as though it could put a hole the size of
a temple window into whatever it was loosed at.
“Hey there!” cried a thin man beside the road. He wore an oilcloak flung back from
his shoulders, and there was a larger man on the ground beside him. “Help us, please!”
Ordinarily, the driver would have whipped his team forward and raced past anyone attempting
to stop them, but everything seemed wrong for an ambush. The ground here was flat
for hundreds of yards around, and if these men were decoys, they couldn’t have any
allies within half a mile. And their aspect seemed genuinely bedraggled: no armor,
no weapons, none of the cocksure bravado of the true marauder. The driver pulled on
the reins.
“What do you think you’re doing?” said the crossbowman.
“Don’t get your cock tied in a knot,” said the driver. “You’re here to watch my back,
aren’t you? Stranger! What goes?”
“Shipwreck,” cried the thin man. He was scruffy-looking, of middle height, with light
brown hair pulled loosely back at the neck. “Last night. We got washed ashore.”
“What ship?”
“
Volantyne’s Resolve
, out of Karthain.”
“Is your friend hurt?”
“He’s out cold. Are you bound for Lashain?”
“Aye, twenty-six miles by road. Be there tomorrow. What would you have of us?”
“Carry us, on horses or on your tailboard. Our master’s syndicate has a shipping agent
in Lashain. He can pay for your trouble.”
“Driver,” came a sharp, reedy voice from within the carriage, “it’s not my business
to supply rescue to those witless enough to meet disaster on the Amathel, of all places.
Pray for their good health if you must, but move on.”
“Sir,” said the driver, “the fellow on the ground looks in a bad way. His nose is
as purple as grapes.”
“That’s not my concern.”
“There are certain rules,” said the driver, “to how we behave out here, sir, and I’m
sorry to have to refuse your command, but we’ll be on our way again soon.”
“I won’t pay to feed them! And I won’t pay for the time we’re losing by sitting here!”
“Sorry again, sir. It’s got to be done.”
“You’re right,” said the crossbowman with a sigh. “These fellows ain’t no highwaymen.”
The driver and the guard climbed down from their seat and walked over to where Locke
stood over Jean.
“If you could just help me haul him to his feet,” said Locke to the crossbowman, “we
can try and bring him around.”
“Beg pardon, stranger,” said the crossbowman, “it’s plain foolishness to set a loaded
piece down. Takes nothing to set one off by accident. One nudge from a false step—”
“Well, just point it away from us,” muttered the driver.
“Are you drunk? This one time in Tamalek I saw a fellow set a crossbow down for just
a—”
“I’m sure you’re right,” said the driver testily. “Never, ever set that weapon down
for as long as you live. You might accidentally hit some fellow in Tamalek.”
The guard sputtered, sighed, and carefully pointed the weapon at a patch of roadside
sand. There was a loud, flat
crack
, and the quarrel was safely embedded in the ground up to its feathers.
Thus, it was accomplished. Jean miraculously returned to life, and with a few quick
swings of his fists he eloquently convinced the two guards to lie down and be unconscious
for a while.
“I am really,
really
sorry about this,” said Locke. “And you should know, that’s not how it normally goes
with us.”
“Well, how now, tenderhearts?” shouted the man within the carriage. “Shows what you
know, eh? If you had any gods-damned brains you’d be inside one of these things, not
driving it!”
“They can’t hear you,” said Locke.
“Marauders! Sons of filth! Motherless bastards!” The man inside the box cackled. “It’s
all one to me, though. You can’t break in here. Steal whatever you like from my gutless
hirelings,
sirrahs
, but you’ll not have anything of mine!”
“Gods above,” said Locke. “Listen up, you heartless fucking weasel. Your fortress
has wheels on it. About a mile to the east there are cliffs above the Amathel. We’ll
unhitch you there and give your box a good shove over the edge.”
“I don’t believe you!”
“Then you’d better practice flying.” Locke hopped up into the driver’s seat and took
the reins. “Come on, let’s take shit-sauce here for the shortest trip of his life.”
Jean climbed up beside Locke. Locke urged the well-trained horses forward, and the
coach began to roll.
“Now wait a minute,” their suddenly unwilling passenger bellowed. “Stop, stop, stop!”
Locke let him scream for about a hundred yards before he slowed the team back down.
“If you want to live,” said Locke, “go ahead and open the—”
The door banged open. The man who came out was about sixty, short and oval-bellied,
with the eyes of a startled rabbit. His hat and dressing gown were crimson silk studded
with gold buttons. Locke jumped down and glowered at him.
“Take that ludicrous thing off,” he growled.
The man quickly stripped to his undertunic. Locke gathered his finery, which reeked
of sweat, and threw it into the carriage.
“Where’s the food and water?”
The man pointed to a storage compartment built into the outside rear of the carriage,
just above the tailboard. Locke opened it, selected a few things for himself, then
threw some of the neatly wrapped ration packages onto the dirt beside the road.
“Go wake your friends up and enjoy the walk,” said Locke as he climbed back up beside
Jean. “Shouldn’t be more than a day or so until you reach the outer hamlets of Lashain.
Or maybe someone will come along and take pity on you.”
“You bastards,” shouted the de-robed, de-carriaged man. “Thieving bastards! You’ll
hang for this! I’ll see it done!”
“That’s a remote possibility,” said Locke. “But you know what’s a certainty? Next
fire I need to start, I’m using your clothes to do it, asshole.”
He gave a cheery wave, and then the armored coach service was gathering speed along
the road, bound not for Lashain but Karthain, the long way around the Amathel.
I never knew any more beautiful than you:
I have hunted you under my thoughts
,
I have broken down under the wind
And into the roses looking for you
.
I shall never find any
greater than you
.
—Carl Sandburg
from “The Great Hunt”
“
WHY IN ALL
the hells do you take this abuse?” said Jean as he and Jenora sat together over coffee
the second morning after the arrival of the Gentlemen Bastards in Espara. “Dealing
with Moncraine, the debts, the bullshit—”
“Those of us left are the stakeholders,” said Jenora. “We own shares in the common
property, and shares of the profits, when those miraculously appear. Some of us saved
for years to make these investments. If we walk away from Moncraine, we forfeit everything.”
“Ah.”
“Look at Alondo. He had a wild night at cards and he used the take to buy his claim
in the troupe. That was three years ago. We were doing
Ten Honest Turncoats
then, and
A Thousand Swords for Therim Pel
and
The All-Murderers Ball
. A dozen full productions a year, masques for Countess Antonia, festival plays, and
we were touring out west, where the countryside’s not the gods-damned waste it is
between here and Camorr. I mean, we had
prospects;
we weren’t out of our minds.”
“I never said you were.”
“It’s mostly hired players and the short-timers that evaporated on us. They don’t
have any anchors except a weekly wage, and they can make that with Basanti. Hell,
they’ll happily take less from him, because at least they’re sure to play.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know,” she said, staring into her mug as though it might conceal new answers.
“I guess sometimes there’s just a darkness in someone. You
hope
it’ll go away.”
“Moncraine, you mean.”
“If you could have seen him back in those days, I think you’d understand. You know
about the Forty Corpses?”
“Um … if I say no, do I become the forty-first?”
“If I killed people, glass-eyes, Moncraine wouldn’t have lived long enough to be arrested.
The Forty Corpses is what we call the forty famous plays that survived the fall of
the empire. The big ones by all the famous Throne Therins … Lucarno, Viscora, that
bunch.”
“Oh,” said Jean.
“They’re called corpses because they haven’t changed for four or five centuries. I
mean, we love them, most of them, but they do
molder
a bit. They get recited like temple ritual, dry and lifeless. Except, when Moncraine
was on, when Moncraine was good, he made the corpses
jump out of their graves
. It was like he was a spark and the whole troupe would catch fire from it. And when
you’ve seen that, when you’ve been a part of it … I tell you, Jovanno, you’d put up
with nearly anything if only you could have it again.”
“I am returned,” boomed a voice from the inn-yard door, “from the exile to which my
pride had sentenced me!”
“Oh, gods below, you people actually did it,” said Jenora, leaping out of her chair.
A man entered the common room, a big dark Syresti in dirty clothing, and cried out
when he saw her.
“Jenora, my dusky vision, I knew that I could—”
Whatever he’d known was lost as Jenora’s open palm slammed into his cheek. Jean blinked;
her arm had been a pale brown arc. He made a mental note that she was quick when angered.
“Jasmer,” she hollered, “you stupid, stubborn, bottle-sucking, lard-witted
fuck!
You nearly ruined us! It wasn’t your damn pride that put you in gaol, it was your
fists!”
“Peace, Jenora,” muttered Moncraine. “Ow. I was sort of quoting a play.”
“
Aiiiiiaahhhhhhhh!
” screamed Mistress Gloriano, rushing in from a side hall. “I don’t believe it! The
Camorri got you out! And it’s more than you deserve, you lousy wretch! You lousy Syresti
drunkard!”
“All’s well, Auntie, I’ve already hit him for both of us,” said Jenora.
“Oh, hell’s hungry kittens,” muttered Sylvanus, wandering in behind Mistress Gloriano.
His bloodshot eyes and sleep-swept hair gave him the look of a man who’d been caught
in a windstorm. “I see the guards at the Weeping Tower can be bribed after all.”
“Good morning to you too, Andrassus,” said Moncraine. “It warms the deep crevices
of my heart to hear so many possible explanations for my release
except
the thought that I might be innocent.”
“You’re as innocent as we convinced Boulidazi to pretend you are,” said Sabetha, entering
from the street. She and Locke had left early that morning to hover around the Weeping
Tower, ready to snatch Moncraine up as soon as he was released following his appearance
in court.