Authors: Scott Lynch
“Something other than dogshit; I can hear it jingling. Give over and let’s see if
you accidentally brought in anything worth buying.”
Harza’s nostrils flared as he opened the sack and slid it along a leather pad atop
his shop counter, gently spilling the contents. The appraisal of stolen goods seemed
to be the only form of sensual gratification left to the old man, and he dove into
the task with enthusiasm, long crooked fingers wiggling.
“Crap.” He lifted the three lockets secured by Calo and Galdo. “Fucking alchemical
paste and river agates. Not fit for goat feed. Two coppers apiece.”
“Harsh,” said Locke.
“Fair,” said Harza. “Yes or no?”
“Seven coppers for all three.”
“Two times three is six,” said Harza. “Say yes or go twist a shark’s balls, for all
I care.”
“I suppose I’ll say yes, then.”
“Hmmm.” Harza perused the silver goblets Jean had selected from the Bullshit Box.
“Dented, of course. You idiots never see a pretty silver thing you don’t want to stuff
inside a scratchy fucking bag. I suppose I can polish them and send them upriver.
One solon three coppers apiece.”
“One solon four per,” said Locke.
“Three solons one copper total.”
“Fine.”
“And this.” Harza picked up the bottle of opium milk, unscrewed the cap, sniffed,
grunted to himself, and sealed the vial once again. “Worth more than your life, but
I can’t hardly do much with it. Fussy bitches like to make their own or get an alchemist
to do it for them; they never buy premixed from strangers. Maybe I can pass it off
on some poor fucker that needs a vacation from grapes or Gaze. Three solons three
barons.”
“Four solons two.”
“The gods wouldn’t get four and two from me. Morgante himself with a flaming sword
and ten naked virgins yanking at my breeches might get four solons one. You get three
and four and that’s final.”
“Fine. And only because we’re in a hurry.”
Harza was keeping a running total with a goose quill and a scrap of parchment; he
ran his fingers over the small pile of cheap rings from Calo and Galdo and laughed.
“You can’t be serious. This crap is as welcome as a pile of severed dog cocks.”
“Oh come on …”
“I could sell the dog cocks to the knackers, at least.” Harza flung the brass and
copper rings at the Gentlemen Bastards one by one. “I’m serious. Don’t bring that
crap around; I’ve got boxes on boxes of the fucking things I won’t sell this side
of death.”
He came to the threaded gold and platinum ring with the diamond and obsidian chips.
“Mmmm. This one signifies, at least. Five solons flat. Gold’s real, but the platinum’s
cheap Verrari shit, genuine as a glass eye. And I crap bigger diamonds five or six
times weekly.”
“Seven and three,” said Locke. “I went to pains to get that particular piece.”
“I have to pay extra because your ass and your brains switched places at birth? I
think not; if that were the case I’d have heard about it before. Take your five and
consider yourself lucky.”
“I can assure you, Harza, that nobody who comes to this shop considers himself particularly …”
And so it went—the apparently summary judgment, the two-way flow of abuse, the grudging
assent from Locke, and the gnashing of the old man’s remaining teeth when he took
each item and set it down behind the counter. In short order Harza was sweeping the
last few things he had no interest in back into the burlap sack. “Well, sweetmeats,
looks as though we’re quits at sixteen solons five. I suppose it beats driving a shit-wagon,
doesn’t it?”
“Or running a pawnshop, yes,” said Locke.
“Very amusing!” cried the old man as he counted out sixteen tarnished silver coins
and five smaller copper discs. “I give you the legendary lost treasure of Camorr.
Grab your things and fuck off until next week. Assuming the Gray King doesn’t get
you first.”
THE RAIN had faded back to a drizzle when they emerged from Harza’s shop, giggling
to themselves. “Chains used to claim that there’s no freedom quite like the freedom
of being constantly underestimated,” said Locke.
“Gods, yes.” Calo rolled his eyes and stuck out his tongue. “If we were any freer
we’d float away into the sky and fly like the birds.”
From the northern edge of the Wooden Waste, a long, high wooden bridge, wide enough
for two people, ran straight out to the capa’s water-bound fortress. There were four
men on guard at the shore, standing around in the open with weapons clearly visible
under their lightweight oilcloaks. Locke surmised there would be at least as many
concealed nearby, within easy crossbow shot. He made the month’s proper hand signs
as he approached with his gang behind him; everyone here knew each other, but the
formalities were nonnegotiable, especially at a time like this.
“Hullo, Lamora.” The oldest man in the guard detail, a wiry old fellow with faded
shark tattoos running up his neck and his cheeks all the way to his temples, reached
out; they grasped left forearms. “Heard about Tesso?”
“Yeah, hullo yourself, Bernell. One of the Gray Faces told us on the way down. So
it’s true? Nailed up, balls, the whole bit?”
“Balls, the whole bit. You can imagine how the boss feels about it. Speaking of which,
Nazca left orders. Just this morning—next time you came by she wanted to see you.
Said not to let you pay your taxes until she’d had a word. You are here for taxes,
right?”
Locke shook a little gray purse; Jean’s twenty solons plus Harza’s sixteen and change.
“Here to do our civic duty, indeed.”
“Good. Not passing many folks for any other reason. Look, I know you’ve got the distance
and Nazca’s a friend and all, but maybe you want to take it
real
easy today, right? Lots of
pezon
around, obvious and not so obvious. Tight as it’s ever been. Capa’s making inquiries
with some of the Full Crowns right now, as regards their whereabouts last night.”
“Inquiries?”
“In the grand old fashion. So mind your manners and don’t make any sudden moves, right?”
“Savvy,” said Locke. “Thanks for the warning.”
“No trouble. Crossbow bolts cost money. Shame to waste them on the likes of you.”
Bernell waved them through, and they strolled down the wooden walkway, which was about
a hundred yards long. It led to the stern of the wide, motionless vessel, where the
timbers of the outer hull had been cut away and replaced with a pair of iron-reinforced
witchwood doors. Another pair of guards stood here, one male and one female, the dark
circles under their eyes plainly evident. The woman knocked four times at their approach,
and the doors swung inward just a few seconds later. Stifling a yawn, the female guard
leaned back against the outer wall and pulled the hood of her oilcloak up over her
head. The dark clouds were sweeping in from the north, and the heat of the sun was
starting to fade.
The reception hall of the Floating Grave was nearly four times Locke’s height, as
the cramped horizontal decks of the old galleon had been torn out long ago, save for
the upper castle and waist decks, which now served as roofs. The floor and walls were
coffee-colored hardwood; the bulkheads were hung with black and red tapestries on
which shark’s-teeth border patterns were embroidered in gold and silver thread.
A half dozen bravos stood facing the Gentlemen Bastards, crossbows leveled. These
men and women wore leather bracers and leather doublets over silk tunics reinforced
with light metal bands; their necks were girded with stiff leather collars. A more
genteel foyer would have been decorated with glow-lamps and flower arrangements; the
walls of this one held wicker baskets of crossbow quarrels and racks of spare blades.
“Ease up,” said a young woman standing behind the gaggle of guards. “I know they’re
suspicious as hell, but I don’t see a Gray King among ’em.”
She wore men’s breeches and a loose black silk blouse with billowing sleeves, under
a ribbed leather dueling harness that looked to have seen
more use than storage. Her iron-shod boots (a taste she had never lost) clicked against
the floor as she stepped between the sentries. Her welcoming smile didn’t quite reach
all the way to her eyes, which darted nervously behind the lenses of her plain, black-rimmed
optics.
“My apologies for the reception, loves,” said Nazca Barsavi, addressing all the Bastards
but placing a hand on Locke’s left shoulder. She was a full two inches taller than
he was. “And I know it’s cramped in here, but I need the four of you to wait around.
Garristas
only. Papa’s in a mood.”
There was a muffled scream from behind the doors that led to the inner chambers of
the Floating Grave, followed by the faint murmur of raised voices—shouts, cursing,
another scream.
Nazca rubbed her temples, pushed back a few stray curls of her black hair, and sighed.
“He’s making a vigorous case for … full disclosure from some of the Full Crowns. He’s
got Sage Kindness in there with him.”
“Thirteen gods,” said Calo. “We’re happy to wait.”
“Indeed.” Galdo reached into his coat and pulled out a slightly soggy deck of playing
cards. “We can certainly keep ourselves entertained out here. Indefinitely, if need
be.”
At the sight of a Sanza brother offering cards, every guard in the room took a step
back; some of them visibly struggled with the idea of raising their crossbows again.
“Oh, not you bastards, too,” said Galdo. “Look, those stories are all bullshit. Everyone
else at that table was just having a very unlucky night.…”
Past the wide, heavy doors was a short passage, unguarded and empty. Nazca slid the
foyer doors closed behind herself and Locke, then turned to him. She reached and slicked
back his wet hair. The corners of her mouth were turned down. “Hello,
pezon
. I see you haven’t been eating.”
“I eat regular meals.”
“You should try eating for quantity as well as consistency. I believe I once mentioned
that you looked like a skeleton.”
“And I believe I’d never before seen a seven-year-old girl pushy drunk in public.”
“Well. Perhaps I was pushy drunk then, but today I’m just pushy. Papa’s in a bad way,
Locke. I wanted to see you before you saw him—he has some … things he wishes to discuss
with you. I want you to know that whatever he asks, I don’t want you to … for my sake … well,
please just agree. Please him, do you understand?”
“No
garrista
who loves life has ever tried to do otherwise. You think I’m
inclined to walk in on a day like today and deliberately twist his breeches? If your
father says ‘bark like a dog,’ I say ‘What breed, Your Honor?’ ”
“I know. Forgive me. But my point is this. He’s not himself. He’s
afraid
now, Locke. Absolutely, genuinely afraid. He was
morose
when Mother died, but damn, now he’s … he’s crying out in his sleep. Taking wine
and laudanum every day to keep his temper in check. Used to be I was the only one
not allowed to leave the Grave, but now he wants Anjais and Pachero to stay here,
too. Fifty guards on duty at all times. The duke’s life is more carefree. Papa and
my brothers were up shouting about it all night.”
“Well, ah … look, I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can help you with that. But just
what is it you think he’s going to ask me?”
Nazca stared at him, mouth half-open as though she were preparing to speak; then she
seemed to think better of it, and her lips compressed back into a frown.
“Dammit, Nazca, I’d jump in the bay and try to blackjack a shark if you wanted, really,
but you’d have to tell me how
big
it was and how
hungry
it was first. Savvy?”
“Yes, look, I just … it’ll be less awkward if he does it himself. Just remember what
I said. Hear him. Please him, and you and I can sort things out later. If we get a
later.”
“What do you mean, ‘If we get a later’? Nazca, you’re worrying me.”
“This is it, Locke. This is the
bad
one. The Gray King is finally getting to Papa. Tesso had sixty knives, any ten of
which were with him all the time. Tesso was
deep
into Papa’s good graces; there were big plans for him in the near future. But Papa’s
had things his way for so long I … I can’t rightly say if he knows what to do about
this. So he just wants to fold everything up and hide us here. Siege mentality.”
“Hmmmm.” Locke sighed. “I can’t say that what he’s done so far is imprudent, Nazca.
He’s—”
“Papa’s
mad
if he thinks he can just keep us all here, locked up in this fortress forever! He
used to be at the Last Mistake half the nights of the week. He used to walk the docks,
walk the Mara, walk the Narrows any time he pleased. He used to throw out coppers
at the Procession of the Shades. The duke of Camorr can lock himself in his privy
and rule legitimately; the capa of Camorr cannot. He needs to be
seen
.”
“And risk assassination by the Gray King?”
“Locke, I’ve been stuck inside this fucking wooden tub for two months, and I tell
you—we’re
no safer
here than we would be bathing naked at the dirtiest fountain in the darkest courtyard
in the Cauldron.”
Nazca had folded her arms beneath her breasts so tightly that her leather cuirass
creaked. “Who is this Gray King? Where is he? Who are his men? We don’t have a
single
idea—and yet this man reaches out and kills our people at leisure, however he sees
fit. Something is
wrong
. He has resources we don’t understand.”
“He’s clever and he’s lucky. Neither of those things lasts forever; trust me.”
“Not just clever and lucky, Locke. I agree there are limits to both. So what does
he have up his sleeves? What does he know? Or
who
? If we are not betrayed, then it must be that we are overmatched. And I am reasonably
certain that we are not yet betrayed.”
“Not yet?”
“Don’t play stupid with me, Locke. Business could go on after a fashion with Papa
and myself cooped up here. But if he won’t let Anjais and Pachero out to run the city,
the whole regime will go to hell. The
garristas
might think it prudent for some of the Barsavis to stay here; they’ll think it cowardice
for
all
of us to hide. And they won’t just talk behind our backs; they’ll actively court
another capa. Maybe a pack of new capas. Or maybe the Gray King.”