Authors: Scott Lynch
“The Lord of the Overlooked keeps vigil on every son and daughter of the dead, on
that point I can assure you! Blessed in his eyes are those, unbound by the duties
of blood, who render aid and comfort to the motherless and the fatherless.…”
Though he was known to be blind as well as blindfolded, Locke could have sworn that
Father Chains’ head turned toward himself and the Thiefmaker as they approached across
the square.
“Out of the undoubted goodness of their hearts, they nourish and protect the children
of Camorr—
not
with cold-souled avarice, but with selfless kindness! Truly blessed,” he hissed with
fervor, “are the
protectors
of Camorr’s
gentle, needful
orphans.”
As the Thiefmaker reached the steps of the temple and started up, he was careful to
slap his heels against the stones to announce his presence.
“Someone approaches,” Father Chains said. “Two someones, or so say my ears!”
“I’ve brought you the boy we discussed, Father,” the Thiefmaker announced loudly enough
for several passersby to hear him, should they be listening. “I’ve prepared him as
well as I could for the, ahhhh, tests of apprenticeship and initiation.”
The priest took a step toward Locke, dragging his clattering chains behind him. The
hooded boys guarding the money-kettle spared Locke a brief glance, but said nothing.
“Have you, then?” Father Chains’ hand shot out with alarming accuracy, and his calloused
fingers spidered themselves over Locke’s forehead, cheeks, nose, and chin. “A small
boy, it seems. A very small boy. Though not without a certain measure of character,
I venture, in the malnourished curves of his sad orphan’s face.”
“His name,” said the Thiefmaker, “is Locke Lamora, and I wager the Order of Perelandro
will find many uses for his, ahhhh, unusual degree of personal initiative.”
“Better still,” the priest rumbled, “that he were sincere, penitent, honest, and inclined
to discipline. But I have no doubt that his time in
your
affectionate care has instilled those qualities in him by example.” He clapped his
hands together three times. “My boys, our day’s business is done; gather the offerings
of the good people of Camorr, and let’s show our prospective initiate into the temple.”
The Thiefmaker gave Locke a brief squeeze on the shoulder, then pushed him quite enthusiastically
up the steps toward the Eyeless Priest. As the white-robed boys carried the jangling
copper bowl past him, the Thiefmaker tossed a small leather purse into it, spread
his arms wide, and bowed with his characteristic serpentine theatricality. The last
Locke saw of him, he was moving rapidly across the Temple District with his crooked
arms and bony shoulders rolling gaily: the strut of a man set free.
THE SANCTUARY of the Temple of Perelandro was a musty stone chamber with several puddles
of standing water; the mold-eaten tapestries on the walls were rapidly devolving into
their component threads. It was lit only by the pastel glare of Falselight and the
halfhearted efforts of a frosted white alchemical globe perched precariously in a
fixture just above the steel plate that chained the Eyeless Priest to the sanctuary
wall. Locke saw a curtained doorway on the back wall, and nothing else.
“Calo, Galdo,” said Father Chains, “be good lads and see to the doors, will you?”
The two robed boys set down the copper kettle and moved to one of the tapestries.
Working together, they swept it aside and pulled at a concealed device. Some great
mechanism creaked in the sanctuary walls, and the twin doors leading out to the temple
steps began to draw inward. When they finished sliding together with the scrape of
stone against stone, the alchemical globe suddenly flared into brighter luminescence.
“Now,” said the Eyeless Priest as he knelt, letting a great deal of slack chain gather
in little steel mounds about him, “come over here, Locke Lamora, and let’s see if
you have any of the gifts necessary to become an initiate of this temple.”
With Father Chains on his knees, Locke and he were roughly forehead to forehead. In
response to Chains’ beckoning hands, Locke stepped close and waited. The priest wrinkled
his nose.
“I see that your former master remains less than fastidious about the pungency of
his wards; no matter. That will soon be rectified. For now, simply give me your hands,
like so.” Chains firmly but gently guided Locke’s small hands until the boy’s palms
rested over Chains’ blindfold. “Now … merely close your eyes and concentrate … concentrate.
Let whatever virtuous thoughts you have within you bubble to the surface, let the
warmth
of your generous spirit flow forth from your
innocent
hands. Ah, yes, like that …”
Locke was half-alarmed and half-amused, but the lines of Father Chains’ weathered
face drew downward, and his mouth soon hung open in beatific anticipation.
“Ahhhhhhh,” the priest whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “Yes, yes, you do
have some talent … some power.… I can feel it.… It might almost be … a
miracle
!”
At that, Chains jerked his head back, and Locke jumped in the opposite
direction. His chains clanking, the priest lifted manacled hands to his blindfold
and yanked it off with a flourish. Locke recoiled, unsure of what eyeless sockets
might look like, but the priest’s eyes were quite normal. In fact, Chains squinted
in pain and rubbed them several times, wincing at the glare of the alchemical globe.
“Ahhhh-ha-ha-ha!” he cried, finally holding out his hands toward Locke. “I’m healed!
I can
see! once! more!
”
Locke stared, gaping like a slackwit for the second time that night, unsure of what
to say. Behind him, the two hooded boys started to giggle, and Locke’s eyebrows bent
inward in suspicion.
“You’re not … really
blind
,” he said.
“And you’re clearly not stupid!” Chains cried, leaping up with a glee that brought
wet-sounding pops from his kneecaps. He waved his manacled hands like a bird trying
to take flight. “Calo! Galdo! Get these damn things off my wrists so we can count
our daily blessings.”
The two hooded boys hurried over and did something to the manacles that Locke couldn’t
quite follow; they slid open and fell to the floor with a jarring clatter. Chains
gingerly rubbed the skin that had been beneath them; it was as white as the meat of
a fresh fish.
“You’re not … really a priest!” Locke added while the older man caressed some color
back into his forearms.
“Oh no,” Chains said, “I am a priest. Just not a priest of, um, Perelandro. Nor are
my initiates initiates of Perelandro. Nor will you be an initiate of Perelandro. Locke
Lamora, say hello to Calo and Galdo Sanza.”
The white-robed boys swept back their hoods, and Locke saw that they were twins, perhaps
a year or two older than himself and far sturdier-looking. They had the olive skin
and black hair of the true Camorri. Their identical long, hook-ended noses, however,
were something of an anomaly. Smiling, they joined hands and bowed in unison from
the waist.
“Um, hi,” Locke said. “Which of you is which?”
“Today, I am Galdo,” said the one on Locke’s left.
“Tomorrow, I will probably be Galdo,” said the other one.
“Or perhaps we’ll both want to be Calo,” added the one who had first spoken.
“In time,” Father Chains interrupted, “you’ll learn to tell them apart by the number
of dents I’ve kicked in their respective asses; one of them always manages to be ahead
of the other, somehow.” He stood behind Locke and placed both of his wide, heavy hands
on Locke’s shoulders. “Idiots,
this is Locke Lamora. As you can see, I’ve just bought him from your old benefactor,
the master of Shades’ Hill.”
“We remember you,” said presumed-Galdo.
“A Catchfire orphan,” said presumed-Calo.
“Father Chains bought us just after you arrived,” they said in unison, grinning.
“Knock that bullshit off,” Father Chains said, his voice somehow regal. “You two have
just volunteered to cook dinner. Pears and sausage in oil, and a double portion for
your new little brother. Get. Locke and I will deal with the kettle.”
Sneering and gesturing rudely as they went, the twins ran for the curtained door and
vanished behind it. Locke could hear their footsteps trailing away down some sort
of staircase; then Father Chains motioned for him to sit beside the copper money-kettle.
“Sit, boy. Let’s have a few words about what’s going on here.” Chains eased himself
back down to the damp floor, crossing his legs and settling a thoughtful stare on
Locke. “Your former master said you could do simple sums. Is this true?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Don’t call me ‘master.’ Makes my balls shrivel and my teeth crack. Just call me Father
Chains. And while you’re sitting there, let’s see you tip that kettle and count all
the money in there.”
Locke strained to pull the kettle over on one side, seeing now why Calo and Galdo
preferred to share the burden. Chains gave the kettle a push on the base, and its
contents finally spilled out on the floor beside Locke. “Makes it much harder to snatch,
having it weigh that much,” Chains said.
“How can you … how can you pretend to be a priest?” Locke asked while he sorted full
copper coins and clipped copper bits into little piles. “Don’t you fear the gods?
The wrath of Perelandro?”
“Of course I do,” Chains replied, running his fingers through his round, ragged beard.
“I fear them very much. Like I said, I’m a priest, just not a priest of Perelandro.
I’m an initiated servant of the Nameless Thirteenth—the Thiefwatcher, the Crooked
Warden, the Benefactor, Father of Necessary Pretexts.”
“But … there are only the Twelve.”
“It’s funny just how many people are sadly misinformed on that point, my dear boy.
Imagine, if you will, that the Twelve
happen
to have something of a black-sheep younger brother, whose exclusive dominion
happens
to be thieves like you and I. Though the Twelve won’t allow his Name to be spoken
or heard, they have some lingering affection for his merry brand of fuckery. Thus,
crooked old posers such as myself aren’t blasted with lightning or pecked apart by
crows for squatting in the temple of a more respectable god like Perelandro.”
“You’re a priest of this … Thirteenth?”
“Indeed. A priest of thieves, and a thieving priest. As Calo and Galdo will be, someday,
and as you might be, provided you’re worth even the pittance I paid for you.”
“But …” Locke reached out and plucked the Thiefmaker’s purse (a pouch of rust-red
leather) from the piles of copper and passed it to Chains. “If you paid for me, why
did my old master leave an offering?”
“Ah. Rest assured that I
did
pay for you, and you
were
cheap, and this is
no
offering.” Chains untied the little pouch and let its contents—a single white shark’s
tooth, as long as Locke’s thumb—drop into his hand. Chains waved it at the boy. “Have
you ever seen one of these before?”
“No. What is it?”
“It’s a death-mark. The tooth of the wolf shark is the personal sigil of Capa Barsavi—your
former master’s boss. My boss and your boss, for that matter. It means that you’re
such a
sullen, thick-skulled little fuck-up
that your former master actually went to the capa and got permission to
kill you
.”
Chains grinned, as though he were imparting nothing more than a ribald joke. Locke
shivered.
“Does that give you a moment of pause, my boy? Good. Stare at this thing, Locke. Take
a good, hard look. It means your death is
paid
for. I bought this from your former master when I got you at a bargain price. It
means that if Duke Nicovante himself adopted you tomorrow and proclaimed you his heir,
I could still crack your skull open and nail you to a post, and nobody in the city
would lift a
fucking
finger.”
Chains deftly shoved the tooth back into the red pouch, then hung it around Locke’s
neck by its slender cord. “You’re going to wear that,” the older man said, “until
I deem you worthy to remove it, or until I make use of the power it gives me and—so!”
He slashed two fingers across the air in front of Locke’s throat. “Hide it under your
clothes, and keep it next to your skin at all times to remind you just how close,
how
very
close, you came to getting your throat slit tonight. If your former master were one
shade less greedy than he is vindictive, I don’t doubt you’d be floating in the bay.”
“What did I do?”
Chains did something with his eyes that made Locke feel smaller just for having tried
to protest. Locke squirmed and fiddled with the death-mark pouch.
“Please, boy. Let’s not start out with either of us insulting the other’s intelligence.
There are only three people in life you can never fool—pawnbrokers, whores, and your
mother. Since your mother’s dead, I’ve taken her place. Hence, I’m bullshit-proof.”
Chains’ voice grew serious. “You know perfectly well why your former master would
have cause to be displeased with you.”
“He said I wasn’t … circumspect.”
“Circumspect,” Chains repeated. “That’s a good word. And no, you’re not. He told me
everything.”
Locke looked up from his little piles of coins, his eyes wide and near watering. “Everything?”
“Quite everything.” Chains stared the boy down for a long, difficult moment, then
sighed. “So what did the good citizens of Camorr give to the cause of Perelandro today?”
“Twenty-seven copper barons, I think.”
“Hmmm. Just over four silver solons, then. A slow day. But it beats every other form
of theft I ever met.”
“You steal this money from Perelandro, too?”
“Of course I do, boy. I mentioned that I was a thief, didn’t I? But not the sort of
thief you’re used to. Better. The entire city of Camorr is full of idiots running
around and getting hung, all because they think that stealing is something you do
with your
hands
.” Father Chains spat.