Authors: Scott Lynch
Hard lessons were handed out. As many men learned to their sorrow, it’s
impossible
to be intimidating when one angry woman has your cock between her teeth and another
is holding a stiletto to your kidneys.
When Vencarlo Barsavi slew his opponents and rose to prominence as the sole Capa of
Camorr, even he dared not disturb the equilibrium that had grown between the traditional
gangs and the two guilds of whores. He met with representatives from the Docksies
and the Lilies; he agreed to let them preserve their quasi-autonomous status, and
they agreed to regular payments for his assistance—payments, as a percentage of profits,
significantly lower than any other dues paid to the capa by the Right People of Camorr.
Barsavi realized something that too many men in the city were slow to grasp; an idea
that he reinforced years later when he took the Berangias sisters to be his primary
enforcers. He was wise enough to understand that the women of Camorr could be underestimated
only at
great peril
to one’s health.
“CAN YOU ASSURE me,” said Ibelius, “that you will take better care for yourself than
you did previously, or that your friend Jean has taken for himself, this past week?”
“Master Ibelius,” said Locke, “you are our physiker, not our mother. And as I have
already told you a dozen times this afternoon, I am entirely prepared—body and mind—for
this affair at Raven’s Reach. I am the soul of caution.”
“La, sir, if that is the case, I should hope never to meet the soul of recklessness.”
“Ibelius,” groaned Jean, “let him alone; you are henpecking him without having the
decency to marry him first.”
Jean sat upon the sleeping pallet, haggard and rather scruffy; the darkness of the
hairs thickening on his face only emphasized his own unnatural pallor. His injuries
had been a close thing. A great wad of cloth was tied around his naked chest, and
similar bandages wrapped his leg beneath his breeches and his upper right arm.
“These physikers are handy things,” said Locke, adjusting his (formerly Meraggio’s)
coat cuffs, “but I think next time we should pay a bit extra for the silent version,
Jean.”
“And then you may dress your own wounds, sir, and apply your own
poultices—though I daresay it would be quicker and easier for the pair of you to simply
dig your own graves
and take your ease in them until your inevitable transition to a more quiet state
of affairs!”
“Master Ibelius,” said Locke, grasping the old man by the arms, “Jean and I are more
grateful than we can say for your aid; I suspect that we
would
both be dead without your intervention. I mean to repay you for the time you’ve endured
with us here in this hovel; I expect to come into a few thousand crowns in very short
order. Some of it is yours; you shall have a new life far from here with very full
pockets. And the rest will be used to put Capa Raza under the earth; take heart. Look
what Jean has already done to his sisters.”
“A feat I’m in no condition to perform again,” said Jean. “Take care of yourself,
Locke; I won’t be able to come running to the rescue if something goes awry tonight.”
“Though I have no doubt you would
try
,” muttered Ibelius.
“Don’t worry, Jean. It’ll be nothing but a routine evening with the duke and his entire
fucking court, assembled in a glass tower six hundred feet in the air. What could
possibly
go wrong?”
“That sarcasm sounds halfhearted,” said Jean. “You’re really looking forward to this,
aren’t you?”
“Of course I am, Jean. Chains would be beside himself with glee if he were alive;
I’m going to play Lukas Fehrwight in front of the gods-damned duke, not to mention
all the other peers of our acquaintance. The de Marres, the Feluccias, old Javarriz … Glory
to the Crooked Warden, it’s going to be
fantastic
fucking fun. Assuming I’m on top of my game. And then … money in our pockets. And
then revenge.”
“When are you expected at the Salvara manor?”
“Third hour of the afternoon, which means I’ve no more time to dawdle. Jean, Ibelius … how
do I look?”
“I would hardly recognize the man we laid on that sickbed not so many days ago,” said
Ibelius. “I’ll confess, you’ve a surprising degree of professional skill; I’d never
conceived of such a thing as this false-facing of yours.”
“That’s to our advantage, Master Ibelius,” said Jean. “Very few have. You look ready
for the evening, Master Fehrwight. Now, you’re going to take the long way round to
the Isla Durona, right?”
“Gods, yes. I’m only mad to a certain measure. I’ll go north through the graveyards
and up through the Quiet; I expect I won’t see a soul once I’m out of Ashfall.”
As he spoke, he draped himself with the oilcloak Jean had brought back from his encounter
with the Berangias sisters, despite the sweltering heat. It would conceal his fine
garments from sight until he reached the Hill of Whispers. A man dressed in evening
best might attract too much attention from some of the lurkers in the dark places
of Ashfall.
“I’m for Raven’s Reach, then,” said Locke. “Until much later, Jean; rest up. Master
Ibelius, favor Jean with your motherly attention; I hope to return with very good
news.”
“I shall be grateful if you return at all,” said Ibelius.
MIDSUMMER-MARK; the Day of Changes, the seventeenth of Parthis in the Seventy-eighth
Year of Aza Guilla, as the Therin Calendar would have it. On the Day of Changes, the
city of Camorr went mad.
A Shifting Revel commanded the wide circular pond of the market, but this one was
smaller and more ragged than the formal monthly Revels. The centerpiece of this one
was a floating handball court made from a number of flat-topped barges lashed together.
Teams of commoners had selected colors from out of a barrel; now randomly matched,
they were mauling one another drunkenly as a crowd composed entirely of commoners
cheered. When a team scored, a small boat with a beer keg lashed amidships would pull
alongside the playing court and ladle out a drink for every man on that team. Naturally,
the matches got wilder and dirtier as they progressed; quite a few players were flung
into the water, there to be fished out by a crew of diligent yellowjackets who wouldn’t
otherwise dream of interfering.
Commoners ruled the streets of lower Camorr on the Day of Changes. They held wandering
picnics, hauling ale barrels and wine bags around with them. Streams of celebrants
would cross paths, jostle, join, and split; a gods’-eye view of the affair would have
shown disorderly men and women circulating through the city streets like blood through
the vessels of an inebriated man.
In the Snare, business was bountiful. The celebration sucked in sailors and visitors
from foreign shores like a tidal pool drawing downward; a few hours of Camorri hospitality
and the guest revelers were unlikely to be able to tell their asses from their eardrums.
There would be few ships setting out from port the next day; few would have the able
manpower necessary to raise so much as a flag pennant, let alone a sail.
In the Cauldron and the Narrows and the Dregs, Capa Raza’s people celebrated their
new ruler’s largesse. By his order, dozens upon dozens of casks of cheap red wine
had been rolled out in dog-carts. Those gangs that were too poor or too lazy to journey
to the crossroads of wickedness that was the Snare drank themselves silly on their
own doorsteps. Raza’s
garristas
passed through the neighborhoods he claimed as his own with baskets of bread, passing
them out to anyone who asked for them. It turned out that each loaf had either a copper
piece or a silver piece baked into it, and when these hidden gifts were revealed (by
means of a few unlucky broken teeth), not a single loaf of bread was safe from depredation
south of the Temple District.
Raza’s Floating Grave was open for visitors; several of his
garristas
and their gangs amused themselves with a game of cards that grew to epic size; at
its height, forty-five men and women were bickering and shuffling and drinking and
screaming at one another on the floor above the dark waters of the Waste—the waters
that had eaten Capa Barsavi and his entire family.
Raza was nowhere to be seen; Raza had business in the north that evening, and he told
none outside his close circle of original servants that he would be at the duke’s
court, looking down on them from the tower of Raven’s Reach.
In the Temple District, the Day of Changes was celebrated in a more restrained fashion.
Each temple’s full complement of priests and initiates traded places with another
in an ever-shifting cycle. The black-robes of Aza Guilla’s house conducted a stately
ritual on the steps of Iono’s temple; the servants of the Father of Grasping Waters
did likewise at theirs. Dama Elliza and Azri, Morgante and Nara, Gandolo and Sendovani;
all the delegations of the divine burned candles and sang to the sky before a different
altar, then moved on a few minutes later. A few extra benedictions were offered at
the burnt-out House of Perelandro, where a single old man in the white robes of the
Lord of the Overlooked, recently summoned from Ashmere, pondered the mess of a temple
that had been thrust into his care. He had no idea how to begin composing his report
to the chief divine of Perelandro on the destruction he’d found in an Elderglass cellar—the
existence of which he’d not been informed of before his journey.
In the North Corner and Fountain Bend, well-to-do young couples made for Twosilver
Green, where it was thought to be good luck to make love on the eve of the Midsummer-mark.
It was said that any union consummated there before Falselight would bring the couple
whatever they
most desired in a child. This was a pleasant bonus, if true, but for the time being
most of the men and women hidden away among the crushed-stone paths and rustling walls
of greenery desired only one another.
On the waters of Old Harbor, the frigate
Satisfaction
floated at anchor, yellow flags flying atop its masts, yellow lanterns shining even
by day. A dozen figures moved on its deck, surreptitiously going about the business
of preparing the ship for night action. Crossbows were racked at the masts, and canvas
tarps flung over them. Antiboarding nets were hauled out below the rails on the ship’s
upper deck and set there for rapid rigging, out of sight. Buckets of sand were set
out to smother flames; if the shore engines let fly, some of them would surely hurl
alchemical fire, against which water would be worse than useless.
In the darkened holds beneath the ship’s upper deck, another three dozen men and women
ate a large meal, to have their stomachs full when the time for action came. There
wasn’t an invalid among them; not so much as an ague fever.
At the foot of Raven’s Reach, home and palace of Duke Nicovante of Camorr, a hundred
carriages were parked in a spiraling fashion around the tower’s base. Four hundred
liveried drivers and guards milled about, enjoying refreshments brought to them by
scampering men and women in the duke’s colors. They would be there waiting all night
for the descent of their lords and ladies. The Day of Changes was the only day of
the year when nearly every peer of Camorr—every lesser noble from the Alcegrante islands
and every last member of the Five Families in their glass towers—would be crammed
together in one place, to drink and feast and scheme and intrigue and offer compliments
and insults while the duke gazed down on them with his rheumy eyes. Each year the
coming generation of Camorr’s rulers watched the old guard gray a bit more before
their eyes; each year their bows and curtsies grew slightly more exaggerated. Each
year the whispers behind their hands grew more poisonous. Nicovante had, perhaps,
ruled too long.
There were six chain elevators serving Raven’s Reach; they rose and fell, rose and
fell. With each new cage that creaked open at the top of the tower, a new flurry of
people in colored coats and elaborate dresses was disgorged onto the embarkation terrace
to mingle with the chattering flood of nobles and flatterers, power brokers and pretenders,
merchants and idlers and drunkards and courtly predators. The sun beat down on this
gathering with all of its power; the lords and ladies of Camorr seemed to be standing
on a lake of molten silver, at the top of a pillar of white fire.
The air rippled with waves of heat as the iron cage holding Locke Lamora and the Salvaras
swung, clattering, into the locking mechanisms at the edge of the duke’s terrace.
“HOLY MARROWS,” said Locke, “but I have never seen the like. I have never been this
high in the air; by the Hands Beneath the Waters, I have never been this high in
society
! My lord and lady Salvara, pardon me if I cling to you both like a drowning man.”
“Sofia and I have been coming here since we were children,” said Lorenzo. “Every year,
on this day. It’s only overwhelming the first ten or eleven times you see it, believe
me.”
“I shall have to take you at your word, my lord.”
Attendants in black and silver livery, with rows of polished silver buttons gleaming
in the sunlight, held the cage door open for them as Locke followed the Salvaras onto
the embarkation terrace. A squad of blackjackets marched past, in full ceremonial
dress, with rapiers carried over their shoulders in silver-chased scabbards. The soldiers
wore tall black fur hats with medallions bearing the crest of the Duchy of Camorr
just above their eyes. Locke winced to think at how those must have felt, marching
back and forth beneath the sun’s merciless consideration for hours on end. His own
clothes were working up a healthy sweat, but he and his hosts had the option of moving
inside the tower at will.
“Don Lorenzo and Doña Sofia? My lord and lady Salvara?”
The man who approached them from the edge of the crowd was very tall and wide-shouldered;
he stood a full head above most of the Camorri present, and his angular features and
singularly fair hair were the mark of the oldest, purest sort of Vadran blood. This
man had roots in the far northeast, in Astrath or Vintila, the heartlands of the Kingdom
of the Seven Marrows. Curiously, he was dressed in Nightglass Company black, with
a captain’s silver collar pips, and his voice was pure upper-class Camorr without
the hint of any other accent.