Authors: Scott Lynch
Two years had removed some of the dread Locke had once felt toward his former master,
but there was no denying that the skinny old fellow retained a certain grotesque magnetism.
The Thiefmaker’s spindly fingers spread as he bowed from the waist, and his eyes lit
up when they seized on Locke.
“My dear, bedeviling little boy, what a
pleasure
it is to see you leading a productive life in the Order of Perelandro.”
“He owes his success to your early discipline, of course.” Chains’ smile spread beneath
his blindfold. “It’s what helped to make him the resolute and morally upright youth
he is today.”
“Upright?” The Thiefmaker squinted at Locke, feigning concentration. “I’d be hard-pressed
to say he’s grown an inch. But no matter. I’ve brought you the boy we discussed, the
one from the North Corner. Step forward, Jean.
You
can’t hide behind
me
any more than you could hide under a copper coin.”
There was indeed a boy standing behind the Thiefmaker; when the old man shooed him
out into plain view, Locke saw that he was about his own age, perhaps ten, and in
every other respect his opposite. The new boy was fat, red-faced, shaped like a dirty
pear with a greasy mop of black hair atop
his head. His eyes were wide and shocked; he clenched and unclenched his soft hands
nervously.
“Ahhh,” said Chains, “ahhh. I can’t see him, but then, the qualities the Lord of the
Overlooked desires in his servants cannot be seen by any man. Are you
penitent
, my boy? Are you sincere? Are you as upright as those our charitable celestial master
has
already
taken into his fold?”
He gave Locke a pat on the back, manacles and chains rattling. Locke, for his part,
stared at the newcomer and said nothing.
“I hope so, sir,” said Jean, in a voice that was soft and haunted.
“Well,” said the Thiefmaker, “hope is what we all build lives for ourselves upon,
is it not? The good Father Chains is your master now, boy. I leave you to his care.”
“Not mine, but that of the higher Power I serve,” said Chains. “Oh, before you leave,
I just
happened
to find this purse sitting on my temple steps earlier today.” He held out a fat little
leather bag, stuffed with coins, and waved it in the Thiefmaker’s general direction.
“Is it yours, by chance?”
“Why, so it is! So it is!” The Thiefmaker plucked the purse from Chains’ hands and
made it vanish into the pockets of his weather-eaten coat. “What a fortunate coincidence
that is.” He bowed once more, turned, and began to walk back in the direction of Shades’
Hill, whistling tunelessly.
Chains arose, rubbed his legs, and clapped his hands. “Let us call an end to our public
duties for the day. Jean, this is Locke Lamora, one of my initiates. Please help him
carry this kettle in to the sanctuary. Careful, it’s heavy.”
The thin boy and the fat boy heaved the kettle up the steps and into the damp sanctuary;
the Eyeless Priest groped along his chains, gathering the slack and dragging it with
him until he was safely inside. Locke worked the wall mechanism to slide the temple
doors shut, and Chains settled himself down in the middle of the sanctuary floor.
“The kindly gentleman,” said Chains, “who delivered you into my care said that you
could speak, read, and write in three languages.”
“Yes, sir,” said Jean, gazing around him in trepidation. “Therin, Vadran, and Issavrai.”
“Very good. And you can do complex sums? Ledger-balancing?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent. Then you can help me count the day’s takings. But first, come over here
and give me your hand. That’s it. Let us see if you have any of the gifts necessary
to become an initiate of this temple, Jean Tannen.”
“What … what must I do?”
“Simply place your hands on my blindfold.… No, stand easy. Close your eyes. Concentrate.
Let whatever virtuous thoughts you have within you bubble to the surface.…”
“I DON’T like him,” said Locke. “I don’t like him at all.”
He and Chains were preparing the breakfast meal early the next morning; Locke was
simmering up a soup from sliced onions and irregular little brown cubes of reduced
beef stock, while Chains was attempting to crack the wax seal on a honey crock. His
bare fingers and nails having failed, he was hacking at it with a stiletto and muttering
to himself.
“Don’t like him at all? That’s rather silly,” said Chains, his voice distant, “since
he’s not yet been here a single day.”
“He’s fat. He’s soft. He’s not one of
us
.”
“He most certainly is. We showed him the temple and the burrow; he took oath as my
pezon
. I’ll go see the capa with him in just a day or two.”
“I don’t mean one of
us
, Gentlemen Bastards, I mean one of
us
, us. He’s not a
thief
. He’s a soft fat—”
“Merchant. Son of merchant parents is what he is. But he’s a thief now.”
“He didn’t steal things! He didn’t charm or tease! He said he was in the hill for
a few days before he got brought here. So he’s not one of
us
.”
“Locke.” Chains turned from the business of the honey crock and stared down at him,
frowning. “Jean Tannen is a thief because I’m going to
train
him as a thief. You do recall that’s what I
train
here; thieves of a very particular sort. This hasn’t slipped your mind?”
“But he’s—”
“He’s better-learned than any of you. Scribes in a clean, smooth hand. Understands
business, ledgers, money-shifts, and a great many other things. Your former master
knew I’d want him right away.”
“He’s fat.”
“So am I. And you’re ugly. Calo and Galdo have noses like siege engines. Sabetha had
spots breaking out last we saw her. Did you have a point?”
“He kept us up all night. He was
crying
, and he wouldn’t shut
up
.”
“I’m sorry,” said a soft voice from behind them. Locke and Chains
turned (the latter much more slowly than the former); Jean Tannen was standing by
the door to the sleeping quarters, red-eyed. “I didn’t mean to. I couldn’t help it.”
“Ha!” Chains turned back to his stiletto and his honey crock. “Looks as though boys
who live in glass burrows shouldn’t speak so loudly of those in the next room.”
“Well,
don’t
do it again, Jean,” said Locke, hopping down from the wooden step he still used to
reach the top of the cooking hearth. He crossed to one of the spice cabinets and began
shuffling jars, looking for something. “Shut up and let us sleep. Calo and Galdo and
I don’t blubber.”
“I’m sorry,” said Jean, sounding close to tears again. “I’m sorry, it’s just … my
mother. My father. I … I’m an orphan.”
“So
what
?” Locke took down a little glass bottle of pickled radishes, sealed with a stone
stopper like an alchemical potion. “
I’m
an orphan. We’re
all
orphans here. Whining won’t make your family live again.”
Locke turned and took two steps back toward the cooking hearth, so he didn’t see Jean
cross the space between them. He
did
feel Jean’s arm wrap around his neck from behind; it might have been soft but it
was damned
heavy
, for a ten-year-old. Locke lost his grip on the pickled radishes; Jean picked him
off the ground by main force, whirled, and
heaved
him.
Locke’s feet left the ground at the same time the radish jar shattered against it;
a confused second later the back of Locke’s head bounced off the heavy witchwood dining
table and he fell to the ground, landing painfully on his rather bony posterior.
“You shut up!” There was nothing subdued about Jean now; he was screaming, red-faced,
with tears pouring out of his eyes. “You shut your filthy mouth! You
never
talk about my family!”
Locke put up his hands and tried to stand up; one of Jean’s fists grew in his field
of vision until it seemed to blot out half the world. The blow folded him over like
a bread-pretzel. When he recovered something resembling his senses he was hugging
a table leg; the room was dancing a minuet around him.
“Wrrblg,” he said, his mouth full of blood and pain.
“Now, Jean,” said Chains, pulling the heavyset boy away from Locke. “I think your
message is rather thoroughly delivered.”
“Ugh. That really
hurt
,” said Locke.
“It’s only fair.” Chains released Jean, who balled his fists and stood glaring at
Locke, shuddering. “You really
deserved
it.”
“Huh … wha?”
“Sure we’re all orphans here. My parents were long dead before you were even born.
Your parents are years gone. Same for Calo and Galdo and Sabetha. But Jean,” said
Chains, “lost his only five nights ago.”
“Oh.” Locke sat up, groaning. “I didn’t … I didn’t know.”
“Well, then.” Chains finally succeeded in prying open the honey crock; the wax seal
split with an audible crack. “When you don’t know everything you could know, it’s
a
fine
time to shut your fucking noisemaker and be polite.”
“It was a fire.” Jean took a few deep breaths, still staring at Locke. “They burned
to death. The whole shop. Everything gone.” He turned and walked back to the sleeping
quarters, head down, rubbing at his eyes.
Chains turned his back on Locke and began stirring the honey, breaking up the little
patches of crystallization.
There was an echoing clang from the fall of the secret door that led down from the
temple above; a moment later Calo and Galdo appeared in the kitchen, each twin dressed
in his white initiate’s robe, each one balancing a long, soft loaf of bread atop his
head.
“We have returned,” said Calo.
“With bread!”
“Which is obvious!”
“No,
you’re
obvious!”
The twins stopped short when they saw Locke pulling himself up by the edge of the
table, lips swollen, blood trickling from the corners of his mouth.
“What did we miss?” asked Galdo.
“Boys,” said Chains, “I might have forgotten to tell you something when I introduced
you to Jean and showed him around last night. Your old master from Shades’ Hill warned
me that while Jean is mostly soft-spoken, the boy has one
hell
of a colorful temper.”
Shaking his head, Chains stepped over to Locke and helped him stand upright. “When
the world stops spinning,” he said, “don’t forget that you’ve got broken glass and
radishes to clean up, too.”
LOCKE AND Jean maintained a healthy distance from one another at the dinner table
that night, saying nothing. Calo and Galdo exchanged exasperated looks approximately
several hundred times per minute, but made no attempts at conversation themselves.
Preparations for the meal
were conducted in near silence, with Chains apparently happy to oblige his sullen
crew.
Once Locke and Jean had seated themselves at the table, Chains set a carved ivory
box down before each of them. The boxes were about a foot long and a foot wide, with
hinged covers. Locke immediately recognized them as Determiner’s Boxes, delicate Verrari
devices that used clockwork, sliding tiles, and rotating wooden knobs to enable a
trained user to rapidly conduct certain mathematical operations. He’d been taught
the basics of the device, but it had been months since he’d last used one.
“Locke and Jean,” said Father Chains, “if you would be so kind. I have nine hundred
and ninety-five Camorri solons, and I am taking ship for Tal Verrar. I should very
much like to have them converted to solari when I arrive, the solari currently being
worth, ah, four-fifths of one Camorri full crown. How many solari will the changers
owe me before their fee is deducted?”
Jean immediately flipped open the lid on his box and set to work, fiddling knobs,
flicking tiles, and sliding little wooden rods back and forth. Locke, flustered, followed
suit. His own nervous fiddlings with the machine were nowhere near fast enough, for
Jean shortly announced, “Thirty-one full solari, with about nine hundredths of one
left over.” He stuck out the tip of his tongue and calculated for a few more seconds.
“Four silver volani and two coppers.”
“Marvelous,” said Chains. “Jean, you can eat this evening. Locke, I’m afraid you’re
out of luck. Thank you for trying, nonetheless. You may spend dinner in your quarters,
if you wish.”
“What?” Locke felt the blood rushing to his cheeks. “But that’s not how it worked
before! You always gave us individual problems! And I haven’t used this box for—”
“Would you like another problem, then?”
“Yes!”
“Very well. Jean, would you indulge us by doing it as well? Now … a Jereshti galleon
sails the Iron Sea, and her captain is quite the penitent fellow. Every hour on the
hour he has a sailor throw a loaf of ships’ biscuit into the sea as an offering to
Iono. Each loaf weighs fourteen ounces; the captain is a remarkably neat fellow as
well. The captain keeps his biscuit in casks, a quarter-ton apiece. He sails for one
week even. How many casks does he open? And how much biscuit does the Lord of the
Grasping Waters get?”
Again the boys worked their boxes, and again Jean looked up while
Locke, little beads of sweat clearly visible on his little forehead, was still working.
“He only opens one cask,” Jean said, “and he uses one hundred and forty-seven pounds
of biscuit.”
Father Chains clapped softly. “Very good, Jean. You’ll still be eating with us tonight.
As for you, Locke, well … I shall call you when the clearing-up needs to be done.”
“This is ridiculous,” Locke huffed. “He works the box better than I do! You set this
up for me to lose.”
“Ridiculous, is it? You’ve been putting on airs recently, my dear boy. You’ve reached
that certain age where many boys seem to just sort of
fold up
their better judgment and set it aside for a few years. Hell, Sabetha’s done it,
too. Part of the reason I sent her off to where she is at the moment. Anyhow, it seems
to me that your nose is tilting a little high in the air for someone with a
death-mark
around his throat.”