Authors: Scott Lynch
Then she was gone. The rope was anchored to a point on the cage beneath the table;
Sabetha kicked it out the door and rappelled into the night, without a harness, sliding
down on the friction of boots and gloves with her gown billowing like the petals of
a wind-whipped flower.
“Gods
damn
,” whispered Locke as he watched her land safely and vanish far below. After a moment
her last words finally squeezed past the film of wine clinging to his brain, and he
frantically patted himself down. A piece of paper was in his left jacket pocket. A
note? A love letter?
He unfolded it in haste, and discovered the bill for dinner.
“
MOVE! MOVE!
For your life, move!”
Doormen scattered from a snorting pair of barely controlled horses dragging a rickety
dray tended by a single wild-eyed driver. The back of the vehicle was loaded with
sacks and barrels, one of which had bled an expanding trail of gray smoke all the
way down the street. With a lurching crash, the dray broke a wheel against the curb
and toppled, spilling its contents in a pile before the front doors of the Sign of
the Black Iris.
“It’s alchemy!” The driver, a slender, white-bearded fellow in a voluminous rat-chewed
coat, leapt to the ground as smoke billowed past him. Sparks leapt and flickered amidst
the spilled cargo, and he unyoked his frantic animals. “Heaps of alchemy! Fetch water
and sand, or run for your gods-damned lives!”
Patrons, servants, and guards poured out of the inn to investigate the commotion,
only to reel back in dismay as smoke boiled past them into the building. Crackling
noises rose ominously within the haze, and fires of eerie colors burst to life. The
driver of the crashed dray led
his horses across the street, where he found several boys in Black Iris livery watching
the unfolding disaster.
“Here,” he shouted, thrusting the reins into one boy’s hands. “Watch my animals! I’ll
be right back!”
The bearded man scuttled across the street and into the billowing murk. Green smoke,
red smoke, and mustard-yellow smoke uncoiled from the spreading fire, tendrils wafting
like sinister serpents of the air. The new hazes bore nauseating odors of garlic,
brimstone, and mortified flesh. The entire street side of the Sign of the Black Iris
was subsumed in a picturesque alchemical nightmare.
More or less hidden in the rising smoke, through which the masked afternoon sun shone
dimly bronze, the driver darted down an alley beside the inn. He threw his coat and
hat behind a pile of empty crates, then yanked away his baggy trousers and boots to
reveal black hose and polished shoes. The beard was the last to go. Freshly peeled
like a human fruit, smooth-cheeked and well-dressed, Locke Lamora strolled casually
out the end of the smoky alley and into the court behind the inn.
“Master Lazari. Good-
oof
-afternoon!”
Sabetha rolled off the lowest eave on the Sign of the Black Iris’ rear side, landed
hard, recovered gracefully, and offered a half-curtsy from about ten feet away. Three
of her security folk followed her, landed awkwardly, and spread out in an arc around
Locke. The window they’d spilled out of remained open, its shutters swaying in the
soft breeze.
“Oh, hello, Mistress Gallante,” said Locke cheerfully. “Having problems with your
inn?”
“Nothing that can’t be corrected with a little assistance, I’m sure.”
“I do wish I could help,” said Locke. “I just happened to be nearby. Ahhhh! I remember
now! You’re having some sort of big Black Iris party meeting today, aren’t you? My
condolences! The smoke, the flames … I can only imagine the consternation.”
“I’m sure you’ve imagined it in detail.” Sabetha moved close enough to lower her voice.
“Bearded peasant goes in one end of an alley, clean-shaven gentleman comes out the
other? Really?”
“It’s a classic!”
“It’s got cobwebs on it. Might have fooled someone who hadn’t
seen you do it before. Now, do you want to come with me gracefully or on the shoulders
of my friends?”
“I remind you, darling, my person is inviolate.”
“Don’t call me that when we’ve got our working faces on. And nobody’s person is getting
violated. But you can’t think I’m going to let you stroll away while a cart full of
alchemical crap burns on my doorstep.”
“Of course I can. It’s all perfectly harmless,” said Locke. “Oh, it might smell awful,
and some of it reacts badly with water, and there’s just no telling what’s what until
you experiment, but give it a few hours, then air your inn out for a day or two. There
won’t be any lingering issues.”
“All the same, I think you should sit in a little room and be bored until I’ve got
the mess under control.”
“Now, now,” said Locke, “you must credit me with the foresight to have a backup plan
in case you decided to take it like this.”
“And of course, you must expect me to have one of my own in case you wanted to play
hard to get,” she said.
“Oh,
absolutely
.”
“Well.” She ran a finger lightly up and down one of the lapels of his jacket. “I’ll
show you mine if you show me yours.”
“YOU! HOLD IT RIGHT THERE!”
The shout echoed down the courtyard as a trio of surcoated constables appeared out
of the drifting smoke. The leader, a man with a wheat-colored beard and the aesthetic
qualities of a lard slab, touched Locke on the shoulder with a wooden baton.
“As a constable of Karthain, sir, I must formally detain you,” he said.
“How dreadful.” Locke feigned a yawn. “What’s the charge?”
“You resemble a suspect wanted for questioning in a confidential matter. You’ll have
to come with us.”
“Alas.” Locke allowed the constables to gather loosely around him, and doffed an imaginary
hat to Sabetha as he backed away with them. “Verena, I wish I could continue our conversation,
but it seems the deficiencies of my character have become a matter of official concern.
Best of luck dealing with your little … conflagration.”
Just before the smoke cloud swallowed him again, Locke rapidly gestured in code:
Looking forward to tomorrow night
.
Her response
was
a gesture, though not one originating in the private signals of the Gentlemen Bastards.
Still, Locke felt reassured by the fact that she smiled as she delivered it.
The street before the Sign of the Black Iris was a reeking mess. Well-dressed men
and women with black flowers pinned to their jackets sought escape, while well-meaning
people with buckets of water tripped over one another and tumbled around like billiard
balls. The alchemical fires burned merrily on, a partial rainbow of sorcerous lights
within the miasma. Locke’s “captors” walked with him for about a block before detouring
into an empty, windowless court.
“
Beautifully
timed, Sergeant,” said Locke, producing three leather purses of equal size. “Worthy
of applause.”
“We take pride in the conduct of our civic duty,” said the bearded man. He and his
cohorts accepted the purses with wide grins; each had earned three months’ wages for
the few minutes spent loitering nearby in case of Locke’s need. It was downright pleasant,
thought Locke, to be treading the old familiar realms of avarice after dealing with
the eerie malleability of the “adjusted” Deep Roots people.
“Now, none of that stuff is
really
dangerous, right?” said the sergeant, one bushy eyebrow raised.
“Harmless as baby spit,” said Locke. “As long as nobody’s dim enough to shove their
hand into a fire.”
Satisfied, the constables took their leave. Locke had only a few minutes to wait before
Jean came strolling down the avenue from the direction of the smoke, several empty
sacks flung over his shoulder.
“How’d it go up top?” said Locke as the two of them fell into step together.
“Perfection and then some,” said Jean. “They were all so distracted, bothering to
sneak might have been a waste of time. That’s thirty-seven snakes down the cold chimneys.”
“Magnificently childish, though I say it myself.” Locke scratched at his chin to remove
a few stubborn flecks of beard adhesive. “Hopefully that’ll keep them uneasy for a
few days.”
“And if she responds with more of the same?”
“I arranged to have city work gangs do some unnecessary mucking
with the cobblestones around Josten’s for the next few days. No carriages can get
closer than twenty yards. Our friends will grumble, but that should keep loads of
mischief at a distance.”
As they walked, Locke noticed for the first time that banners had started to appear,
hanging from balconies and windows. Here and there were a few brave greens, but in
this neighborhood the majority were black. Citizen interest was climbing; half the
allotted six weeks was nearly gone. Annoying pranks were a fine gambit, but now it
was time to begin truly curbing some of Sabetha’s capabilities.
“Those spies keeping watch on our place …” said Locke. “Fancy a little hospitality
visit once the sun goes down?”
THEIR SECOND
night of upper-story work went as smoothly as the first. They swept the block surrounding
Josten’s Comprehensive just after midnight, creeping silently through rooftop gardens
and over well-tended slate roofs, using chimneys and parapets for cover.
Not everyone they crossed paths with was in Sabetha’s pay. A drunk woman, huddled
in the corner of her terrace, was sobbing over a small painting and didn’t notice
them slip past. Two lithe young men wrapped in one another’s arms a few gardens over
were similarly absorbed. Locke crept past their cast-off clothes, close enough to
sift them for purses, but pangs of sympathy stilled the impulse. Doing mischief to
happy lovers might invite a cruel justice to trample his own hopes.
Their first legitimate target was taken unawares, and his possessions made his job
plain. He wore a mottled gray-brown cloak ideal for blending into city shadows, carried
a spyglass, and the remains of a cold meal were spread beside his hiding place. In
an instant, Jean flung him down on his stomach and crouched atop him, wrenching the
poor fellow’s arms behind his back. Locke knelt at the man’s head, bemused at how
familiar he and Jean were becoming with the old Threatening Voice/Silent Brawn act.
“You try to cry out,” whispered Locke, “and we’ll rip your arms off. Shove one down
your throat and one up your ass so you’ll look like meat on a spit. How many of you
are watching Josten’s?”
“I don’t know,” hissed the man.
Locke gave him a shove on the back of the head, bouncing his face off the roof tiles.
Hard, but not too hard.
“It’s not worth it,” said Locke. “Your employer doesn’t expect life-or-death loyalty,
surely. But we
will
hurt you to send a message.”
“There’s one more,” spat their captive. “One that I know of. Maybe more. Look out
past this parapet. Four rows down, roof of the apothecary shop. He’s there somewhere.
I swear that’s all I can tell you.”
“Good enough,” said Locke. He pulled his dagger and slashed the man’s cloak into strips.
When Sabetha’s agent was gagged and thoroughly trussed, Locke gave him a pat on the
back. “Now, don’t fret. Once we’ve finished clearing out all your friends, we’ll tip
one of them off and you’ll be collected. Shouldn’t be more than a few hours. Don’t
do anything stupid.”
The second agent was crouched atop the apothecary shop as indicated, but he was a
touch more alert and met them with a drawn cosh. What followed was a proper scrum,
with Locke clinging to the man’s legs while Jean attempted to wrestle and disarm him,
hampered by the need to avoid killing him. Such was the fellow’s fighting spirit that
they ultimately had to pummel him unconscious before they could have a word.
As they neared the end of their circuit around the neighborhood, perhaps ten minutes
later, they found a third and likely final observer, fortunately no more on guard
than the first.
“All your friends are dealt with,” said Jean cheerfully as he dangled the man over
the back-alley side of the building by his jacket collar. “Trussed up like festival
chickens.”
“Great gods, mate, it’s nothing personal,” sobbed the man as he stared into the shadows
four stories below. “We’re just doing our bloody job!”
“Find another job,” said Locke. “This is us being very, very cordial. Next time we
catch spies lurking in this neighborhood, we cripple them. This isn’t Karthain right
now, it’s the sovereign state of Fuck Off and Go Home.”
“But—”
“Take a good look at that alley,” said Locke. “Imagine what those cold, hard stones
will feel like when we throw you off this roof. You
come round here again, you’d best have wings. Now, your comrades are tied up in their
usual spots. Fetch them and run hard.”
“Couldn’t we discuss—”
“Get the dogshit out of your ears, you witless corpse-fart,” growled Jean. “Do you
want to do as you’re told, or do you want to kiss that pavement?”
It turned out he wanted to do as he was told.
“
HAVE YOU
ever thought about how badly Chains fucked us all up?”
“Gods above!” Locke narrowly avoided choking on his beer. “How tipsy are you?”
“Not at all.” Sabetha held her own glass rock-steady for several moments to support
the assertion.
“I understand your frustration with the way some things played out,” said Locke. “You
know
I listened to you.”
“I do.”
“And you know I think you had some points. But Chains was a generous man. A generous
and caring man, whatever his faults.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about. He wanted a family, very desperately. You’ve realized
that?”
“Of course. I never thought of it as a defect.”
“I often think he wanted a family more than he wanted a gang.”
“Again—”
“A conscience is a deadweight in our profession.” She stared into the amber depths
of her half-full glass. “Make no mistake, he shackled each of us with one. Even Calo
and Galdo, rest their souls. For all that they did most of their thinking with their
cocks and the rest with their balls, even they wound up with essentially kindly dispositions.
Chains got us all in the end, good and hard.”