Authors: Scott Lynch
“Oh,” said Locke. “That is … that is, as you say, unfortunate.”
He slid another orange slice into his mouth and sucked at the sweet liquor, using
it as an artificial stimulus to tilt the corners of his lips upward, quite against
his natural inclination.
ON THE waterfront of the Dregs, a priest of Aza Guilla glided from shadow to shadow,
moving with a slow and patient grace that belied his size.
The mist tonight was thin, the damp heat of the summer night especially oppressive.
Streams of sweat ran down Jean’s face behind the silver mesh of his Sorrowful Visage.
Camorri lore held that the weeks before the Midsummer-mark and the Day of Changes
were always the hottest of the year. Out on the water, the now-familiar yellow lamps
glimmered; shouts and splashes could be heard as the men aboard the
Satisfaction
hauled out another boat full of “charitable provisions.”
Jean doubted he could learn anything more about the items going out on those boats
unless he did something more obvious, like attacking one of the loading crews—and
that would hardly do. So tonight he’d decided to focus his attention on a certain
warehouse about a block in from the docks.
The Dregs weren’t quite as far gone as Ashfall, but the place was well on its way.
Buildings were falling down or falling sideways in every direction; the entire area
seemed to be sinking down into a sort of swamp of rotted wood and fallen brick. Every
year the damp ate a little more of the mortar between the district’s stones, and legitimate
business fled elsewhere, and more bodies turned up loosely concealed under piles of
debris—or not concealed at all.
While prowling in his black robes, Jean had noticed gangs of Raza’s men coming and
going from the warehouse for several nights in a row. The structure was abandoned
but not yet uninhabitable, as its collapsed neighbors were. Jean had observed lights
burning behind its windows almost until dawn, and parties of laborers coming and going
with heavy bags over their shoulders, and even a horse-cart or two.
But not tonight. The warehouse had previously been a hive of activity, and tonight
it was dark and silent. Tonight it seemed to invite his curiosity, and while Locke
was off sipping tea with the quality, Jean aimed to pry into Capa Raza’s business.
There were ways to do this sort of thing, and they involved patience, vigilance, and
a great deal of slow walking. He went around the warehouse block several times, avoiding
all contact with anyone on the street, throwing himself into whatever deep darkness
was at hand and keeping his silver mask tucked under his arm to hide the glare. Given
enough shadow, even a man Jean’s size could be stealthy, and he was certainly light
enough on his feet.
Circling and sweeping, circling and sweeping; he established to his satisfaction that
none of the roofs of nearby buildings held concealed watchers, and that there were
no street-eyes either.
Of course
, he thought to himself as he pressed his back up against the southern wall of the
warehouse,
they could just be better than I am
.
“Aza Guilla, have a care,” he mumbled as he edged toward one of the warehouse doors.
“If you don’t favor me tonight, I’ll never be able to return this fine robe and mask
to your servants. Just a consideration, humbly submitted.”
There was no lock on the door; in fact, it hung slightly ajar. Jean
donned his silver mask again, then slipped his hatchets into his right hand and pushed
them up the sleeve of his robe. He’d want them ready for use, but not quite visible,
just in case he bumped into anyone who might still be awed by his vestments.
The door creaked slightly, and then he was into the warehouse, pressed up against
the wall beside the door, watching and listening. The darkness was thick, crisscrossed
by the overlying mesh of his mask. There was a strange smell in the air, above the
expected smell of dirt and rotting wood—something like burnt metal.
He held his position, motionless, straining for several long minutes to catch any
sound. There was nothing but the far-off creak and sigh of ships at anchor, and the
sound of the Hangman’s Wind blowing out to sea. He reached beneath his robe with his
left hand and drew out an alchemical light-globe, much like the one he’d carried beneath
the Echo Hole. He gave it a series of rapid shakes, and it flared into incandescence.
By the pale white light of the globe he saw that the warehouse was one large open
space. A pile of wrecked and rotted partitions against the far wall might have been
an office at one time. The floor was hard-packed dirt, and here and there in corners
or against walls were piles of debris, some under tarps.
Jean carefully adjusted the position of the globe, keeping it pressed close against
his body so that it threw out light only in a forward arc. That would help to keep
his activity unseen; he didn’t intend to spend more than a few minutes poking around
in this place.
As he slowly paced toward the northern end of the warehouse, he became aware of another
unusual odor, one that raised his hackles. Something had been dumped in this place
and left to rot. Meat, perhaps … but the odor was sickly-sweet. Jean was afraid he
knew what it was even before he found the bodies.
There were four of them, thrown under a heavy tarp in the northeastern corner of the
building—three men and one woman. They were fairly muscular, dressed in undertunics
and breeches, with heavy boots and leather gloves. This puzzled Jean until he peered
at their arms and saw their tattoos. It was traditional, in Camorr, for journeymen
artisans to mark their hands or arms with some symbol of their trade. Breathing through
his mouth to avoid the stench, Jean shifted the bodies around until he could be sure
of those symbols.
Someone had murdered a pair of glasswrights and a pair of goldsmiths. Three of the
corpses had obvious stab wounds, and the fourth, the
woman … she had a pair of raised purple welts on one cheek of her waxy, bloodless
face.
Jean sighed and let the tarp settle back down on top of the bodies. As he did, his
eye caught the glimmer of reflected light from the floor. He knelt down and picked
up a speck of glass, a sort of flattened drop. It looked as though it had hit the
ground in a molten state and cooled there. A brief flick of the light-globe showed
him dozens of these little glass specks in the dirt around the tarp.
“Aza Guilla,” Jean whispered, “I stole these robes, but don’t hold it against these
people. If I’m the only death-prayer they get, please judge them lightly, for the
sorrow of their passing and the indignity of their resting place. Crooked Warden,
if you could back that up somehow, I’d greatly appreciate it.”
There was a creak as the doors on the northern wall of the building were pushed open.
Jean started to leap backward, but thought better of it; his light was no doubt already
seen, and it would be best to play the dignified priest of Aza Guilla. His hatchets
remained up his right sleeve.
The last people he expected to walk through the north door of the warehouse were the
Berangias sisters.
Cheryn and Raiza wore oilcloaks, but the hoods were thrown back and their shark’s-teeth
bangles gleamed by the light of Jean’s globe. Each of the sisters held a light-globe
as well. They shook them, and a powerful red glare rose up within the warehouse, as
though each woman were cupping fire in the palms of her hands.
“Inquisitive priest,” said one of the sisters. “A good evening to you.”
“Not the sort of place,” said the other, “where your order usually prowls without
invitation.”
“My order is concerned with death in every form, and in every place.” Jean gestured
toward the tarp with his light-globe. “There has been a foul act committed here; I
was saying a death prayer, which is what every soul is due before it passes into the
long silence.”
“Oh, a foul act. Shall we leave him to his business, Cheryn?”
“No,” said Raiza, “for his business has been curiously concerned with ours these past
few nights, hasn’t it?”
“You’re right, Sister. Once or twice a-prowling, that we might excuse. But this priest
has been persistent.”
“Unusually persistent.” The Berangias sisters were coming toward him, slowly, smiling
like cats advancing on a crippled mouse. “On our docks and now in our warehouse …”
“Do you dare suggest,” said Jean, his heart racing, “that you intend to interfere
with an envoy of the Lady of the Long Silence? Of Aza Guilla, the Goddess of Death
itself?”
“Interfering’s what we do professionally, I’m afraid,” said the sister on his right.
“We left the place open just in case you might want to stick your head in.”
“Hoped you wouldn’t be able to resist.”
“And we know a thing or two about the Lady Most Kind ourselves.”
“Although our service to her is a bit more
direct
than yours.”
With that, red light gleamed on naked steel; each sister had drawn out a curved, arm-length
blade—
thieves’ teeth
, just as Maranzalla had shown him so many years earlier. The Berangias twins continued
their steady approach.
“Well,” said Jean, “if we’re already past the pleasantries, ladies, allow me to quit
this masquerade.” Jean tossed his light-globe on the ground, reached up, pulled back
his black hood, and slipped off his mask.
“Tannen!”
said the sister on his right. “Well, holy shit. So you didn’t go out through the
Viscount’s Gate after all.” The Berangias sisters halted, staring at him. Then they
began circling to his left, moving in graceful unison, giving themselves more space
to take action.
“You have some cheek,” said the other, “impersonating a priest of Aza Guilla.”
“Beg pardon? You were going to
kill
a priest of Aza Guilla.”
“Yes, well, you seem to have saved us from that particular blasphemy, haven’t you?”
“This is
convenient
!” said the other sister. “I never dreamed it’d be this easy.”
“Oh, whatever it is,” said Jean, “I guarantee it won’t be easy.”
“Did you like our work, in your little glass cellar?” The sister on the left spoke
now. “Your two friends, the Sanza twins. Twins done in by twins, same wounds to the
throat, same pose on the floor. Seemed appropriate.”
“Appropriate?” Jean felt new anger building like pressure at the back of his skull.
He ground his teeth together. “Mark my words, bitch. I’ve been wondering how I’d feel
when this moment finally came, and I have to say, I think I’m going to feel
pretty fucking good
.”
The Berangias sisters shrugged off their cloaks with nearly identical motions. As
the oilcoth fluttered to the floor, they threw down their light-globes and drew out
their other blades. Two sisters; four knives. They stared intently at Jean in the
mingled red-and-white light and crouched, as
they had a hundred times before crowds of screaming thousands at the Shifting Revel.
As they had a hundred times before pleading victims in Capa Barsavi’s court.
“Wicked sisters,” said Jean, as he let the hatchets fall out of his right robe sleeve
and into his hand, “I’d like you to meet the Wicked Sisters.”
“BUT DON’T take it too amiss, Lukas,” said Doña Sofia as she set her hollowed-out
orange back down on her shelf. “We have a few possible remedies.”
“We might only be out of the necessary funds for a few days,” said Don Lorenzo. “I
have other sources I can tap; I do have peers who would be good for the loan of a
few thousand. I even have some old favors I can call in.”
“That … that is a relief, my lord and lady, quite a relief. I am pleased to hear that
your … situation need not ruin our plan. And I wouldn’t call it embarrassing, not
at all. If anyone knows about financial hardship, why, it would be the House of bel
Auster.”
“I shall speak to several of my likely sources of a loan next Idler’s Day—which is,
of course, the Day of Changes. Have you ever been to any formal celebration of the
festival, Lukas?”
“I’m afraid not, Don Lorenzo. I have, previously, never been in Camorr at the Midsummer-mark.”
“Really?” Doña Sofia raised her eyebrows at her husband. “Why don’t we bring Lukas
with us to the duke’s feast?”
“An excellent idea!” Don Lorenzo beamed at Locke. “Lukas, since we can’t leave until
I’ve secured a few thousand more crowns anyway, why not be our guest? Every peer in
Camorr will be there; every man and woman of importance from the lower city—”
“At least,” said Doña Sofia, “the ones that currently have the duke’s favor.”
“Of course,” said Lorenzo. “Do come with us. The feast will be held in Raven’s Reach;
the duke opens his tower only on this
one
occasion every year.”
“My lord and lady Salvara, this is … quite an unexpected honor. But though I fear
very much to refuse your hospitality, I also fear that it might possibly interfere
with my ongoing work on our behalf.”
“Oh, come, Lukas,” said Lorenzo. “It’s four days hence; you said you’d
be supervising loading the first galleon for the next few days. Take a rest from your
labors and come enjoy a very singular opportunity. Sofia can show you around while
I press some of my peers for the loans I need. With that money in hand, we should
be able to set out just a few days after that, correct? Assuming you’ve told us of
every possible complication?”
“Yes, my lord Salvara, the matter of the second galleon is the only complication we
face other than your, ah, loss of fluidity. And, at any rate, even its cargo for Balinel
will not be in the city until next week. Fortune and the Marrows may be favoring us
once again.”
“It’s settled, then?” Doña Sofia linked hands with her husband and smiled. “You’ll
be our guest at Raven’s Reach?”
“It’s accounted something of an honor,” confided the don, “to bring an unusual and
interesting guest to the duke’s celebration. So we are eager to have you with us for
several reasons.”