Authors: Scott Lynch
“It’ll be smoother than a Guilded Lily’s backside if we do,” said Galdo. “A sweet
fat fortune wrapped up in sacks, two carts with horses, provisions for a nice long
trip on the road.”
“And there’s men at the Viscount’s Gate who’ll slip us out so fast it’ll be like we’d
never even set foot in Camorr in the first place,” added Calo.
“Good. Well. Shit.” Locke rubbed his gloved hands together. “I guess that’s that.
I’m all out of rhetorical flourishes, so let’s just go get the bastards and pray for
a straight deal.”
Bug stepped forward and cleared his throat.
“I’m only doing this,” he said, “because I really love hiding in haunted Eldren buildings
on dark and creepy nights.”
“You’re a liar,” said Jean, slowly. “I’m only doing this because I’ve always wanted
to see Bug get eaten by an Eldren ghost.”
“Liar,” said Calo. “I’m only doing this because I fucking
love
hauling half a ton of bloody coins up out of a vault and packing them away on a cart.”
“Liar!” Galdo chuckled. “I’m only doing this because while you’re all busy elsewhere,
I’m going to go pawn all the furniture in the burrow at No-Hope Harza’s.”
“You’re all liars,” said Locke as their eyes turned expectantly to him. “We’re only
doing this because nobody else in Camorr is
good
enough to pull this off, and nobody else is
dumb enough
to get stuck doing it in the first place.”
“Bastard!”
They shouted in unison, forgetting their surroundings for a bare moment.
I can hear you shouting
, came the ghostly voice of the Falconer.
Have you all gone completely mad?
Locke sighed.
“Uncle doesn’t like us keeping him up all night with our carrying on,” he said. “Let’s
get to it, and by the grace of the Crooked Warden, we’ll all see each other back at
the temple when this mess is over.”
THE ECHO Hole is a cube of gray stone mortared with a dull sort of Elderglass; it
never gleams at Falselight. In fact, it never returns the reflection of any light
passed before it. It is perhaps one hundred feet on a side, with one dignified entrance—a
man-sized door about twenty feet above the street at the top of a wide staircase.
A single aqueduct cuts from the upper Angevine, past the Millfalls, south at an angle
and into Rustwater, where it spills its water into the heart of the Echo Hole. Like
the stone cube itself, this aqueduct is thought to be touched by some ancient ill,
and no use has ever been made of it. A small waterfall plunges through a hole in the
floor, down into the catacombs beneath the Echo Hole, where dark water can be heard
rushing. Some of these passages empty into the canal on the southwestern side of Rustwater;
some empty into no place known to living men.
Locke Lamora stood in darkness at the center of the Echo Hole, listening
to the rush of water down the break in the floor, staring fixedly at the patch of
grayness that marked the door to the street. His only consolation was that Jean and
Bug, crouched unseen in the wet darkness beneath the floor, would probably be even
more apprehensive. At least until the proceedings started.
Near
, came the voice of the Falconer,
very near. Stand ready
.
Locke heard the capa’s procession before he saw it; the sound of funeral drums came
through the open door to the street, muffled and nearly drowned out by the falling
water. Steadily, it grew louder; a red glow seemed to kindle beyond the door, and
by that light Locke saw that the gray mist had thickened. Torches flickered softly,
as though glimpsed from underwater. The red aura rose. The barest outline of the room
around him became visible, etched in faint carmine. The beating of the drum ceased,
and once again Locke was alone with the sound of the waterfall. He threw back his
head, placed one hand behind his back, and stared at the door, his blood pounding
in his ears.
Two small red fires appeared in the doorway like the eyes of a dragon from one of
Jean’s stories. Black shadows moved behind them, and as Locke’s eyes adjusted to the
influx of scarlet light he saw the faces of men, tall men, cloaked and armored. He
could see enough of their features and posture to see that they were almost surprised
to spot him; they hesitated, then continued forward, one moving to his left and the
other to his right. For his part, he did nothing, moving not a muscle.
Two more torches followed, and then two more; Barsavi was sending his men up the stairs
in pairs. Soon a loose semicircle of men faced Locke, and their torches cast the interior
of the Echo Hole into red-shaded relief. There were carvings on the walls—strange
old symbols in the tongue of the Eldren, which men had never deciphered.
A dozen men, two dozen; the crowd of armored shapes grew, and Locke saw faces that
he recognized. Throat slitters, leg breakers, maulers. Assassins. A hard lot. Exactly
what Barsavi had promised him, when they’d stood looking down at the body of Nazca
together.
Moments passed. Still, Locke said nothing. Still, men and women filed in. The Berangias
sisters—even in a dimmer light, Locke would have recognized their swagger. They stood
at front and center of the gathering crowd, saying nothing, arms folded and eyes gleaming
in the torchlight. By some unspoken command, none of Barsavi’s people moved behind
Locke. He continued to stand alone, as the great press of Right People continued spreading
before him.
At last, the crowd of cutthroats began to part. Locke could hear the echoes of their
breathing and murmuring and the creaking of their leathers, bouncing from wall to
wall, mingling with the sound of falling water. Some of those on the edges of the
crowd extinguished their torches with wet leather pouches; gradually, the smell of
smoke seeped into the air, and gradually the light sank, until perhaps one in five
of the capa’s folk were still holding lit fires.
There was more than enough light to see Capa Barsavi as he turned the corner and stepped
through the door. His gray hair was pulled back in oiled rows; his three beards were
freshly brushed. He wore his coat of sharkskin leather, and a black cloak of velvet
lined with cloth of gold, thrown back from one shoulder. Anjais was on his right and
Pachero on his left as the capa strode forward, and in the reflected fires of their
eyes Locke saw nothing but death.
Nothing is as it seems
, came the voice of the Falconer.
Stand resolute.
At the front of the crowd, Barsavi halted, and for a long moment he stared at the
apparition before him, at the cool orange eyes within a shadowed hood, at Locke’s
cloak and mantle and coat and gloves of gray.
“King,” he finally said.
“Capa,” Locke replied, willing himself to feel the hauteur, conjuring it forth from
nothing. The sort of man who would stand in front of a hundred killers with a smile
on his face; the sort of man who would summon Vencarlo Barsavi with a trail of corpses,
the last of them his only daughter. That was the man Locke needed to be, not Nazca’s
friend but her murderer; not the capa’s mischievous subject, but his equal. His
superior
.
Locke grinned, wolfishly, then swept his cloak back from his left shoulder. With his
left hand he beckoned the capa, a taunting gesture, like a bully in an alley daring
his opponent to step forward and take the first swing.
“Oblige him,” said the capa, and a dozen men and women raised crossbows.
Crooked Warden
, thought Locke,
give me strength
. He ground his teeth in expectation. He could hear his jaw muscles creaking.
The snap-hiss of release echoed throughout the hall; a dozen taut strings twanged.
The bolts were too fast to follow, dark afterimages that blurred the air, and then—
A dozen narrow black shapes rebounded off nothing right before his face, and fell
clattering to the floor, scattered in an arc like dead birds at his feet.
Locke laughed, a high and genuine sound of pleasure. For one brief
moment, he would have kissed the Falconer if the Bondsmage had stood before him.
“Please,” he said, “I thought you’d listened to the stories.”
“Just establishing your bona fides,” said Capa Barsavi, “Your
Majesty
.” The last word was sneered. Locke had at least expected a certain wariness following
the blunting of the crossbow attack, but Barsavi stepped forward without apparent
fear.
“I’m pleased that you’ve answered my summons,” Locke replied.
“The blood of my daughter is the only thing that’s summoned me,” said Barsavi.
“Dwell on it if you must,” said Locke, praying silently as he extemporized.
Nazca, gods, please forgive me
. “Were you any gentler, when you took this city for yourself, twenty-two years ago?”
“Is that what you think you’re doing?” Barsavi stopped and stared at him; they were
about forty feet apart. “Taking my city from me?”
“I summoned you to discuss the matter of Camorr,” said Locke. “To settle it to our
mutual satisfaction.” The Falconer hadn’t interrupted him yet; he presumed he was
doing well.
“The satisfaction,” said Barsavi, “will not be mutual.” He raised his left hand, and
one man stepped from the crowd.
Locke peered at this man carefully; he seemed to be an older fellow, slight and balding,
and he wasn’t wearing armor. Very curious. He also appeared to be shivering.
“Do as we discussed, Eymon,” said the capa. “I’ll hold true to my bargain, truer than
any I’ve ever made.”
The unarmored man began to walk forward, slowly, hesitantly, staring at Locke with
obvious fear. But still he kept coming, straight toward Locke, while a hundred armed
men and women waited behind him, doing nothing.
“I pray,” said Locke, with a bantering tone, “that man isn’t contemplating what I
suspect.”
“We’ll all see what his business is soon enough,” said the capa.
“I cannot be cut or pierced,” said Locke, “and this man will die at my touch.”
“So it’s been said,” replied the capa. Eymon continued to move forward; he was thirty
feet from Locke, then twenty.
“Eymon,” said Locke, “you are being ill-used. Stop now.”
Gods
, he thought.
Don’t do what I think you’re going to do. Don’t make the Falconer kill you
.
Eymon continued to shamble forward; his jowls were quivering, and he was breathing
in short sharp gasps. His hands were out before him, shaking, like a man about to
reach into a fire.
Crooked Warden
, Locke thought,
please, let him be scared. Please let him stop. Falconer, Falconer, please, put a
fright into him, do anything else but kill him.
A river of sweat ran down his spine; he bent his head slightly and fixed Eymon with
a stare. Ten feet now lay between them.
“Eymon,” he said, striving for a casual tone and not entirely succeeding, “you have
been warned. You are in mortal peril.”
“Oh yeah,” said the man, his voice quavering. “Yeah, that I know.” And then he closed
the distance between them, and he reached out for Locke’s right arm with both of his
hands—
Fuck
, thought Locke, and although he knew deep down that it would be the Falconer killing
the man and not himself …
He flinched back from Eymon’s touch.
Eymon’s eyes lit up; he gasped, and then, to Locke’s horror, he leapt forward and
grabbed Locke’s arm with both of his hands, like a scavenger bird clutching at a long-delayed
meal. “Haaaaaaaaaaaa!” he cried, and for one brief second Locke thought something
terrible was happening to him.
But no; Eymon still lived, and he had a very firm grip.
“Double fuck,” Locke mumbled, bringing up his left fist to clout the poor fellow;
but he was off balance, and Eymon had him at a disadvantage. The slender man gave
Locke a shove backward, screaming once again,
“Haaaaaaaaaaaaaa!”
A cry of absolute triumph; Locke puzzled over it as he fell flat on his ass.
And then there were booted feet slapping the stones behind Eymon, and dark shapes
rushing around him to grab at Locke. In the dancing light cast by two dozen moving
torches, Locke found himself hauled back up to his feet, pinned by strong hands that
clutched at his arms and his shoulders and his neck.
Capa Barsavi pushed through his eager crowd of men and women, forced Eymon more gently
to the side, and stood face to face with Locke, his fat ruddy features alight with
anticipation.
“Well, Your Majesty,” he said, “I’ll bet you’re
one confused son of a bitch
right about now.”
And then Barsavi’s people were laughing, cheering. And then the capa’s ham-hock fist
planted itself in Locke’s stomach, and the air rushed out of his lungs, and black
pain exploded in his chest. And then he knew just how deeply in the shit he truly
was.
“YES, I’LL bet you’re pretty
gods-damned curious
at this point,” said Barsavi, strutting back and forth in front of Locke, who remained
pinioned by half a dozen men, any one of them half again his size. “And so am I. Let’s
throw that hood back, boys.”
Rough hands yanked at Locke’s hood and mantle, and the capa stared coldly at him,
running one hand up and down his beards. “Gray, gray, gray. You look like you belong
on a stage,” he laughed. “And such a
skinny
fellow, too. What a weak little man we’ve caught ourselves tonight—the Gray King,
sovereign of fog and shadows and precious little else.”
The capa backhanded him, grinning; the stinging pain had just registered when he did
it again, from the other direction. Locke’s head lolled. He was grabbed from behind
by his hair and made to look the capa right in the face. Locke’s thoughts whirled.
Had the capa’s men somehow located the Falconer? Had they distracted him? Was the
capa mad enough to actually
kill
a Bondsmage, if he had the chance?
“Oh, we know you can’t be cut,” continued Barsavi, “and we know you can’t be pierced,
more’s the pity. But bruised? It’s a curious thing about the spells of a Bondsmage.
They’re so damn
specific
, aren’t they?”