Authors: Scott Lynch
The very thought made images of his desire swim in his head, mingling with the already
muddled scene around him. Seventeen at the oldest, body tight and firm as a dancer’s,
with the blood of a Camorri family that went all the way back to the old empire. She
was his to shape in every way. With his parents in their graves he was his own matchmaker,
his own judge and counsel. If he couldn’t or wouldn’t seize a prize as sweet as Verena
he ought to cut his balls off and let the house of Boulidazi fall! So she couldn’t
go onstage in Camorr? Piss on Camorr. In Espara she could do as she pleased, at least
until she started bearing children.
“M’lord.” It was one of his men, hatchet-faced Brego, whispering in his ear, too respectful
or scared to touch him. “Can I fetch a carriage for you?”
“ ’M fine,” muttered the baron, scanning the room dazedly. “Th’ gods fucking love
me. Preva loves me! Just look at what she’s sent me.”
Boulidazi concentrated, fighting back against the warm haze that was slowly gathering
between his senses and the world around him. Drunk actors everywhere—
his
company. And there was the mouthy seamstress, the nightskin with the papers and the
answer for everything. Oh, but she was tasty despite the airs she put on, no virgin
and certainly no girl. Hair like curling black silk and breasts like heavy purses
under that fraying bodice. Gods, yes, she’d know what to do once her legs were spread.
A man could sink right in and feel at home.
That thought stirred him to arousal, a sudden exquisite pressure. He stumbled and
had to push off a random inebriate to steady himself. The poor fellow toppled to the
floor, dismissed from Boulidazi’s mind even before he landed.
The seamstress! He needed to spend himself a bit, drain the urge
just enough to restore his self-control for a couple of days. Jenora would suit that
use … would probably be flattered. Boulidazi watched her closely, noted her furtive
whispers to the tubby Camorri, Jovanno. For some reason she’d taken the boy to her
bed. Did she have any idea who Lucaza and Verena really were? Was she trying, in her
own pathetic fashion, to sleep her way to better circumstances, fucking Lucaza’s man?
Now, that was damned amusing.
Jenora left the inn-room just a moment later, her intended arrangements for the night
obviously communicated to the boy. Jovanno, however, was dicing with Alondo and those
twins. So he’d be busy for a few minutes at least. Polite Jovanno, sociable Jovanno—the
boy would keep their company until the round was done. Well, tonight that would cost
him first pass at some quim.
Verena would never have to know. Jenora, like all of her associates, was empty-pursed
and painfully aware of it. It was the easiest thing in the world to keep a penniless
woman shut up.
“I need some privacy. Jus’ a few minutes,” Boulidazi muttered to Brego. Then, summoning
the dregs of his concentration, he put one unsteady foot in front of the other and
moved toward the stairs Jenora had taken.
EACH KISS
was longer and fiercer than the last.
Locke’s hands shook with the hot anxiety of impatience and inexperience. There were
so many things to figure out so quickly between short, desperate breaths. It was one
thing to throw a girl around in dreams, where the mind can discard the inconveniences
of physical reality, but real girls have weight and mass and demands that dream girls
lack. First passion is a complicated dance.
Strangely, it helped that Sabetha seemed just as impatient. She held him at bay a
moment while she all but tore the ribbon out of her hair, spilling it across her shoulders.
She was flushed, sweaty, as awkwardly excited as he was, and through that she’d shed
the imposing grace that usually made Locke feel so small and stumbling around her.
Neither
of them could be graceful at such close quarters, and Locke found that an immense
relief.
The heat grew in the tiny enclosure as they wound their arms and legs together, and
the shock of actually being there with her gave way at last to the explosion of pent-up
longing. Their tongues met, hesitantly at first, and they shared a nervous, muffled
laugh. Then they explored the new sensation together, more and more boldly. Their
hands, too, seemed to come unshackled from inhibition and roamed freely.
Order and planning were forgotten. Locke found himself having done things without
any realization that he’d even started them. Their clothes were shed with reckless
speed, as though torn off by ghosts. It was almost like being in a fight—the same
fearful exhilaration, the same sense of time disjointed into bright, hot, all-consuming
flashes. His hands on her breasts … her lips against the taut muscles of his stomach …
their final scramble to arrange themselves for something that neither of them understood.
Toward that
something
they fought, and fought was an apt description. However passionate they were, however
deep and pure the pleasure of their connection, there was something hesitant and incomplete
about their lovemaking. They were like two pieces of an unfinished craftwork, not
yet trimmed and polished to slide together properly. At last, they eased apart, exhausted
but not content. It was obvious to Locke that Sabetha was straining to conceal disappointment,
or discomfort, or even both.
Is that it?
The thought came unbidden from whatever corner of his mind was responsible for unhelpful
pessimism. Was that all?
That
was the act that turned the whole world on its ear, that made men and women crazy,
that bedeviled his dreams, that made hounds of the Sanza twins?
“Look,” he muttered when he’d caught his breath. He pushed himself up on his elbows.
“I, um, I’m sorry—”
Sabetha pulled him back down and held him tight, her breasts against his back. She
spread her hands possessively across his chest and kissed his neck, an act that instantly
disconnected him from whatever willpower he’d managed to summon.
“What are you apologizing for?” she whispered. “You think that’s it? You think we
never get to try again?”
“Well, I just thought you’d—”
“What, banish you like a passing fancy?” Her kiss became a playful bite, and Locke
yelped. “Preva help me, I’m sweet for an idiot.”
“Did we … did I hurt you, just now?”
“I wouldn’t say hurt, exactly.” She tightened her embrace reassuringly for an instant.
“It was … strange. But it wasn’t
bad
.”
There was a muffled thump from one of the nearby rooms, followed by some sort of passionate
outburst that quickly subsided.
“That could be us when we’ve rested a bit,” she said. “Believe me, I have every intention
of practicing until we get this right.”
They lay there for a while, muttering sweet inanities, letting the minutes unroll
in delectable languor. Sabetha’s hands had just begun roaming again, testing Locke’s
returning ardor, when the room’s secret door slid open barely an inch. Someone moved
against the dim light of the hall, and Locke’s heart pounded.
“Get dressed,” hissed Calo.
“What the
hell
,” said Sabetha. “This isn’t funny!”
“Damn right it’s not. It’s bad.”
“What can possibly—?”
“Don’t ask questions. If you trust me and want to live, get your bloody clothes on.
We need you both, this instant.”
Locke’s relief at not seeing Boulidazi outside the little chamber was instantly squelched
by the cold dead gravity of Calo’s voice. A serious Sanza was one hell of an ill omen.
Locke found his clothes with the most extreme haste, and still Sabetha beat him out
into the hall.
NO ONE
else was in the hall as they emerged, though the noise of revelry continued unabated
from the direction of the common room. Calo, visibly on edge, led them the short distance
to Jenora’s chamber door. Locke’s sense of dread grew as Calo knocked softly in a
three-two-one pattern.
It was Galdo who answered, ushered them in, and slammed the door shut behind them.
The scene within the room made Locke’s knees feel as though they’d dissolved, and
he found himself grabbing Sabetha to stay upright.
Jenora was huddled in a corner beside an overturned cot, wide-eyed
and shuddering, her tunic torn open at the neck. Jean crouched next to her, hands
on her shoulders.
Gennaro Boulidazi lay crumpled against the opposite wall, his imposing frame strangely
deflated, his face pale. A pair of seamstress’ shears, their plain handles roughened
and stained by Jenora’s long hours of work, was deeply embedded in a spreading red
stain on the baron’s right breast.
As Locke stared in horror, Boulidazi moaned softly, shuffled his legs, and coughed
more blood onto his tunic. Dull and helpless as the baron seemed, mortal as his wound
had to be, for the moment he was still very much alive.
“
WHAT LOCKE IS
,” said Sabetha, “is the man about to cook my dinner.”
“Surely you both saw further than that,” said Patience.
“It’s no affair of yours.” Sabetha slipped out of Locke’s arms, dangerously tense,
her air of cautious respect banished. “Locke might answer to you, but I don’t. Best
think on how my principals might respond if you use your magic to keep me from dragging
you out of this house.”
“Take care when throwing rules at a rule-maker, my dear,” said Patience. “Provoke
me outside the bounds of the five-year game and I’m free to respond as I will. And
you are
quite
outside the bounds of the game this evening, aren’t you? Because if you’re not, you’d
be perilously close to the one thing you both agreed—”
“Shove your
collusion
somewhere dark and painful,” said Locke, setting his hands on Sabetha’s shoulders.
“You know we weren’t talking business when you appeared. Only a snoop could have such
flawless dramatic timing. Why the hell are you here?”
“A matter of conscience.”
“Really?” said Locke. “Yours? You keep alluding to its existence. Somehow I’m not
convinced.”
“This interruption is entirely your own fault!” The archedama stabbed a finger in
Locke’s direction. “I gave you the clearest, fairest possible warning! I told you
to set aside your personal business. To get to work, not to wooing. And what have
you done?”
“What have we
both
done?” said Sabetha. She folded her arms, but Locke could still feel that simmering
tension, as familiar to him as her voice or her scent. He tightened his grip, doubting
that she had his experience with physically attacking magi. She didn’t relax, but
she gave his hand a brief, reassuring squeeze. “Enlighten us, Archedama. And I do
mean
us
.”
“This reckless pursuit of your old romance,” said Patience. “Set it aside. Go back
to your appointed tasks. Don’t make me carry out this obligation, Sabetha. Locke is
my responsibility now, and there are things about him that you don’t understand. Things
you don’t
need
to understand, if you would only stop here.”
“Stop what? My
life
?”
“I see I’m wasting breath. Remember that I made the offer, for what it’s worth.” Patience
gestured casually, and the balcony doors slid shut behind her. “Locke, you see, is
unique. But I’m not merely affirming his egotism. If you would continue pursuing him
you have the right to know his true nature.”
“He’s no stranger to me,” said Sabetha.
“He’s a stranger to everyone.” Patience fixed her disconcertingly dark eyes on Locke.
“Himself most of all.”
“Enough cryptic bullshit,” Locke growled. “Get to the meat of whatever—”
“Twenty-three years ago,” Patience interrupted him sharply, “the Black Whisper fell
on Camorr. Hundreds died, but the quarantine and the canals saved the city. Once the
plague burned itself out, you walked out of old Catchfire, recognized by no one. Home
unknown, age unknown, parents and friends unknown.”
“Yes, I do bloody well remember that,” said Locke.
“Take it as evidence. Reflect on it.”
“Here’s something you can reflect on, you—”
“I
know
why you have no real memories of the time before the
plague.” Again Patience parried his words with her peremptory tone. “I know why you
have no recollection of your father. In fact, I know why you make up stories about
how you took the name Lamora. You tell some it came from a sausage vendor. You tell
others it was a kindly old sailor.”
“You … you told me it was a sailor,” said Sabetha.
“Look,” said Locke, a serpentine chill creeping up and down his spine, “look, I’ll
explain, I just … Patience, how the hell can you
possibly
know that?”
“Not one instance of the surname Lamora has ever been recorded in a Camorri census.
Not in any century since the imperial collapse. You’ll find that we had good cause
to check. You brought the name with you out of Catchfire, wholly formed in your mind,
though you never knew where from. I do.”
She moved toward them with that uncanny smooth glide facilitated by her elegant robe.
“I know that you have only one true and immutable memory glowing dimly in that darkness
before the Catchfire plague. A memory of your mother. A memory of her trade.”
“Seamstress,” muttered Locke.
“Yes,” said Patience, gesturing toward herself. “I have, after all, told you what
my gray name was. The one I chose for myself, long before I was elevated to archedama—”
“
Seamstress
,” said Locke, “oh, no. Oh,
fuck no. Fuck, no!
You can’t be serious!”
SHE COMPOUNDED
his dreadful sense of shock by laughing.
“I’m serious as cold steel,” she said with a faintly catlike grin. “You’ve made quite
an amusing leap to the wrong conclusion, however. I assure you that the Falconer is
my one and only child.”
“
Gods
,” said Locke, gasping with relief. “So what the hell are you on about?”