Authors: Scott Lynch
Locke’s blush deepened. Jean snuck a furtive glance at him; Calo and Galdo, who already
knew about the shark’s tooth, stared fixedly at their empty plates and glasses.
“The world is full of conundrums that will tax your skills. Do you presume that you
will always get to choose the ones that best suit your strengths? If I wanted to send
a boy to impersonate a money-changer’s apprentice, who do you think I’d give the job
to, if I had to choose between yourself and Jean? It’s no choice at all.”
“I … suppose.”
“You suppose too much. You deride your new brother because his figure aspires to the
noble girth of my own.” Chains rubbed his stomach and grinned mirthlessly. “Didn’t
it ever occur to you that he fits in some places even better than you do, because
of it? Jean looks like a merchant’s son, like a well-fed noble, like a plump little
scholar. His appearance could be as much an asset to him as yours is to you.”
“I guess.…”
“And if you needed any further demonstration that he can do things you cannot, well,
why don’t I instruct him to wallop the shit out of you one more time?”
Locke attempted to spontaneously shrink down inside his tunic and vanish into thin
air; failing, he hung his head.
“I’m sorry,” said Jean. “I hope I didn’t hurt you badly.”
“You don’t need to be sorry,” Locke mumbled. “I suppose I really did deserve it.”
“The threat of an empty stomach soon rekindles wisdom.” Chains smirked. “Hardships
are arbitrary, Locke. You never know which particular quality in yourself or a fellow
is going to get you past them. For example, raise your hands if your surname happens
to be Sanza.”
Calo and Galdo did so, a bit hesitantly.
“Anyone with the surname Sanza,” said Chains, “may join our new brother Jean Tannen
in dining this evening.”
“I
love
being used as an example!” said Galdo.
“Anyone with the surname Lamora,” said Chains, “may eat, but first he will serve forth
all the courses, and attend on Jean Tannen.”
So Locke scuttled about, embarrassment and relief mingled on his face. The meal was
roasted capon stuffed with garlic and onions, with grapes and figs scalded in a hot
wine sauce on the side. Father Chains poured all of his usual prayer toasts, dedicating
the last to “Jean Tannen, who lost one family but came to another soon enough.”
At that Jean’s eyes watered, and the boy lost whatever good cheer the food had brought
to him. Noticing this, Calo and Galdo took action to salvage his mood.
“That was really good, what you did with the box,” said Calo.
“None of us can work it that fast,” said Galdo.
“And we’re
good
with sums!”
“Or at least,” said Galdo, “we thought we were, until we met you.”
“It was nothing,” said Jean. “I can be even faster. I am … I meant to say …”
He looked nervously at Father Chains before continuing.
“I need optics. Reading optics, for things up close. I can’t see right without them.
I, um, I could work a box even faster if I had them. But … I lost mine. One of the
boys in Shades’ Hill …”
“You shall have new ones,” said Chains. “Tomorrow or the next day. Don’t wear them
in public; it might contravene our air of poverty. But you can certainly wear them
in here.”
“You couldn’t even see straight,” asked Locke, “when you beat me?”
“I could see a little bit,” said Jean. “It’s all sort of blurry. That’s why I was
leaning back so far.”
“A mathematical terror,” mused Father Chains, “and a capable little brawler. What
an interesting combination the Benefactor has given the Gentlemen Bastards in young
Master Tannen. And he
is
a Gentleman Bastard, isn’t he, Locke?”
“Yes,” said Locke. “I suppose he is.”
THE NEXT night was clear and dry; all the moons were up, shining like sovereigns in
the blackness with the stars for their court. Jean Tannen sat beneath one parapet
wall on the temple roof, a book held out before him at arm’s length. Two oil lamps
in glass boxes sat beside him, outlining him in warm yellow light.
“I don’t mean to bother you,” said Locke, and Jean looked up, startled.
“Gods! You’re quiet.”
“Not all the time.” Locke stepped to within a few feet of the larger boy. “I can be
very loud, when I’m being stupid.”
“I … um …”
“Can I sit?”
Jean nodded, and Locke plopped down beside him. He folded his legs and wrapped his
arms around his knees.
“I am sorry,” said Locke. “I guess I really can be a shit sometimes.”
“I’m sorry, too. I didn’t mean … When I hit you, it just … I’m not myself. When I’m
angry.”
“You did right. I didn’t know, about your mother and your father. I’m sorry. I should … I
shouldn’t have presumed. I’ve had a long time … to get used to it, you know.”
The two boys said nothing for a few moments after that; Jean closed his book and stared
up at the sky.
“You know, I might not even be one after all,” Locke said. “A real orphan, I mean.”
“How so?”
“Well, my … my mother’s dead. I saw that. I know that. But my father … he, um. He
went away when I was very little. I don’t remember him; never knew him.”
“I’m sorry,” said Jean.
“We’re both sorry a lot, aren’t we? I think he might have been a sailor or something.
Maybe a mercenary, you know? Mother never wanted to talk about him. I don’t know.
I could be wrong.”
“My father was a good man,” said Jean. “He was … They both had a shop in North Corner.
They shipped leathers and silks and some gems. All over the Iron Sea, some trips inland.
I helped them. Not shipping, of course, but record-keeping. Counting. And I took care
of the cats. We had nine. Mama used to say … she used to say that I was her only child
who didn’t go about … on all fours.”
He sniffled a bit and wiped his eyes. “I seem to have used up all my tears,” he said.
“I don’t know what to feel about all this anymore. My parents taught me to be honest,
that the laws and the gods abhor thieving. But now I find out thieving has its very
own god. And I can either starve on the street or be comfortable here.”
“It’s not so bad,” said Locke. “I’ve never done anything else, as long as I can remember.
Thieving is an honest trade, when you look at it like we do. We can work really hard
at it, sometimes.” Locke reached inside his tunic and brought out a soft cloth bag.
“Here,” he said, handing it over to Jean.
“What … what’s this?”
“You said you needed optics.” Locke smiled. “There’s a lens-grinder over in the Videnza
who’s older than the gods. He doesn’t watch his shop window like he ought to. I lifted
some pairs for you.”
Jean shook the bag open and found himself looking down at three pairs of optics; there
were two circular sets of lenses in gilt wire frames, and a square set with silver
rims.
“I … thank you, Locke!” He held each pair up to his eyes and squinted through them
in turn, frowning slightly. “I don’t … quite know … um, I’m not ungrateful, not at
all, but none of these will work.” He pointed at his eyes and smiled sheepishly. “Lenses
need to be made for the wearer’s problem. There’s some for people who can’t see long
ways, and I think that’s what these pairs are for. But I’m what they call close-blind,
not far-blind.”
“Oh. Damn.” Locke scratched the back of his neck and smiled sheepishly. “I don’t wear
them; I didn’t know. I really am an idiot.”
“Not at all. I can keep the rims and do something with them, maybe. Rims break. I
can just set proper lenses in them. They’ll be spares. Thank you again.”
The boys sat in silence for a short while after that, but this time it was a companionable
silence. Jean leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. Locke stared up at
the moons, straining to see the little blue and green specks Chains had once told
him were the forests of the gods. Eventually, Jean cleared his throat.
“So you’re really good at … stealing things?”
“I have to be good at something. It’s not fighting and it’s not mathematics, I guess.”
“You, um … Father Chains told me about this thing you can do, if you pray to the Benefactor.
He called it a death-offering. Do you know about that?”
“Oh,” said Locke, “I know
all about it
, truth of all thirteen gods, cross my heart and pray to die.”
“I’d like to do that. For my mother and my father. But I … I’ve never stolen anything.
Can you maybe help me?”
“Teach you how to steal so you can do a proper offering?”
“Yes.” Jean sighed. “I guess if this is where the gods have put me I should bend to
local custom.”
“Can you teach me how to use a numbers-box so I look less like a half-wit next time?”
“I think so,” said Jean.
“Then it’s settled!” Locke jumped back up to his feet and spread his hands wide. “Tomorrow,
Calo and Galdo can plant
their
asses on the temple steps. You and I will go out and
plunder
!”
“That sounds dangerous,” said Jean.
“For anyone else, maybe. For Gentlemen Bastards, well, it’s just what we
do
.”
“We?”
“We.”
THE RED HANDS led Locke up the long gangway to the Floating Grave just as the scarlet
sun broke above the dark buildings of the Ashfall district. The whole Wooden Waste
turned to blood in that light, and when Locke blinked to clear the brightness from
his eyes, even the darkness flashed with red.
Locke struggled to keep his head clear; the combination of nervous excitement and
fatigue always made him feel as though he was sliding along an inch or two above the
ground, his feet not quite reaching all the way down. There were sentries on the quay,
sentries at the doors, sentries in the foyer—more than there had been before. They
were all grim-faced and silent as the Red Hands led Locke deeper into the capa’s floating
fortress. The inner clockwork doors weren’t locked.
Capa Barsavi stood in the middle of his great audience chamber, facing away from Locke,
his head bowed and his hands behind his back. Curtains had been drawn away from the
high glass windows on the eastern side of the galleon’s hull. Red fingers of light
fell on Barsavi, his sons, a large wooden cask, and a long object that lay covered
on a portable wooden bier.
“Father,” said Anjais, “it’s Lamora.”
Capa Barsavi grunted and turned. He stared at Locke for a few seconds,
his eyes glassy and dead. He waved his left hand. “Leave us,” he said. “Leave us
now
.”
Heads down, Anjais and Pachero hurried out of the room, dragging the Red Hands with
them. A moment later the hall echoed with the sound of the doors slamming shut and
the clockwork locks tumbling into position.
“Your Honor,” said Locke. “What’s going on?”
“The bastard. The bastard killed her, Locke.”
“What?”
“He killed Nazca. Last night. Left us … the body, just a few hours ago.”
Locke stared at Barsavi, dumbfounded, aware that his mouth was hanging open.
“But … but she was here, wasn’t she?”
“She left.” Barsavi was clenching and unclenching his fists. “She snuck off, near
as we can tell, or she was taken. Second or third hour of the morning. She … she was
returned at half past the fourth hour of the morning.”
“Returned? By whom?”
“Come. See.”
Vencarlo Barsavi drew back the cloth that covered the bier, and there lay Nazca—her
skin waxy, her eyes closed, her hair damp. Two livid purple bruises marred the otherwise
smooth skin on the left side of her neck. Locke felt his eyes stinging, and he found
himself biting down hard on the first knuckle of his right index finger.
“See what the bastard has done,” Barsavi said softly. “She was the living memory of
her mother. My only daughter. I would rather be
dead
than see this.” Tears began sliding down the old man’s cheeks. “She has been … washed.”
“Washed? What do you mean?”
“She was returned,” said the Capa, “in that.” He gestured to the cask, which stood
upright a few feet to the side of the bier.
“In a barrel?”
“Look inside.”
Locke slid the barrel’s cover back and recoiled as the full stench of the barrel’s
contents wafted out at him.
It was full of urine. Horse urine, dark and cloudy.
Locke whirled away from the cask and clapped both hands over his mouth, his stomach
spasming.
“Not just killed,” said Barsavi, “but drowned. Drowned in
horse piss
.”
Locke growled, fighting tears. “I can’t believe this. I just can’t believe it. This
doesn’t make any fucking sense.”
He moved back beside the bier and took another look at Nazca’s neck. The purple bruises
were actually raised bumps; straight red scratches were visible just in front of them.
Locke stared at them, thinking back to the feel of talons in his own skin. The injury
on his forearm still burned.
“Your Honor,” he said slowly, “maybe she was … returned in that thing, but I’m pretty
sure she didn’t drown in it.”
“What can you possibly mean?”
“The marks on her neck, the little scratches beside them?” Locke extemporized, keeping
his voice level and his face neutral.
What would sound plausible?
“I’ve, ah, seen them before, several years ago in Talisham. I saw a man murdered
by a scorpion hawk. Have you ever heard of such a thing?”
“Yes,” said the capa, “an unnatural hybrid, some sort of creature dreamed up by the
sorcerers of Karthain. Is that … the marks on her neck? Can you be sure?”
“She was stung by a scorpion hawk,” Locke said. “The talon marks beside the wounds
are clear. She would have been dead almost instantly.”
“So he merely …
pickled
her, afterward,” Barsavi whispered. “To increase the insult. To cut me more cruelly.”
“I’m sorry,” said Locke. “I know it … it can’t be much comfort.”
“If you’re right, it was a much quicker death.” Barsavi pulled the cloth back up over
her head, running his fingers through her hair one last time before he covered her
completely. “If that is the only comfort I can pray that my little girl received,
I will pray for it. That gray bastard will receive no such comfort when his time comes.
I swear it.”