Authors: Scott Lynch
Those ashes swirled in the hot wind at the foot of the one human-crafted object the
magi willingly preserved: the throne of the empire. That chair remains there to this
day, in the haunted city of Therim Pel, surrounded by a field of ashes that time and
rains have turned into a sort of black concrete. Nothing grows in Therim Pel anymore;
no sensible man or woman will set foot within that black monument to the resolve of
the Bondsmagi of Karthain.
It was they who broke the Therin Throne with that unearthly fire; they who cast the
city-states of the south into hundreds of years of warring and feuding while the Kingdom
of the Seven Marrows grew powerful in the north.
It is that image that comes to mind when most men think to cross a Bondsmage—the image
of an empty chair standing alone in a dry sea of desolation.
THE FALCONER MOVED his fingers, and Locke Lamora fell to his knees, gripped by an
all-too-familiar pain that burned within his bones. He toppled onto the floor of the
hovel, beside Jean.
“What a
pleasure
,” said the sorcerer, “to see that you survived our little arrangement at the Echo
Hole. I am impressed. Even despite your reputation, I had imagined we were too clever
for you. Only this afternoon I thought it was Jean Tannen alone that I sought; but
this is something finer by far.”
“You,” spat Locke, “are a twisted fucking
animal
.”
“No,” said the Bondsmage, “I obey the orders of my paying client. And my orders are
to make sure the murderer of my client’s sisters takes his time in dying.” The Falconer
cracked his knuckles. “
You
I regard as a windfall.”
Locke screamed and reached out toward the Bondsmage, willing himself forward through
the pain, but the Falconer muttered under his breath, and the racking, stabbing sensations
seemed to multiply tenfold. Locke flopped onto his back and tried to breathe, but
the muscles behind and beneath his lungs were as solid as stones.
When the Bondsmage released him from this torment, he slumped down, gasping. The room
spun.
“It’s very strange,” said the Falconer, “how the evidence of our victories can become
the instruments of our downfall. Jean Tannen, for example—you must be a
fantastic
fighter to have taken my client’s sisters, though I see you suffered in doing so.
And now they’ve struck back at you from the shadelands. A great many divinations are
possible when one of my kind can get his hands on the physical residue of another
man—fingernail parings, for example. Locks of hair.
Blood on the edge of a knife
.”
Jean groaned, unable to speak from pain.
“Oh, yes,” said the Falconer. “I was certainly surprised to see who that blood led
me to. In your shoes, I’d have been in the first caravan to the other side of the
continent. You might even have been left in peace.”
“Gentlemen Bastards,” hissed Locke, “do not abandon one another, and we do not run
when we owe vengeance.”
“That’s right,” said the Bondsmage. “And that’s why they also die at my feet in filthy
fucking hovels like this one.”
Vestris fluttered from his shoulder and settled into another corner of the room, staring
balefully down at Locke, twitching her head from side to side in excitement. The Falconer
reached inside his coat and drew out a sheet of parchment, a quill, and a small bottle
of ink. He uncapped the bottle and set it down atop the sleeping pallet; he wet the
quill and smiled down at Locke.
“Jean Tannen,” said the Falconer. “What a
simple
name; easy to write. Easier even than it was to stitch.”
His quill flew across the parchment; he wrote in great looping whorls, and his smile
grew with every letter. When he was finished, his silver thread snaked out around
the fingers of his left hand, and he moved them with an almost hypnotic rhythm. A
pale silver glow arose from the page in his hands, outlining the curves of his face.
“Jean Tannen,” said the Falconer. “Arise, Jean Tannen. I have a task for you.”
Shuddering, Jean rose first to his knees and then to his feet. He stood before the
Falconer; Locke, for his part, still found it impossible to move.
“Jean Tannen,” said the Bondsmage, “take up your hatchets. Nothing would please you
more at this moment than to take up your hatchets.”
Jean reached beneath the sleeping pallet and took out the Wicked Sisters; he slipped
one into either hand, and the corners of his mouth drew upward.
“You like to use those, don’t you, Jean?” The Falconer shifted the silver threads
in his left hand. “You
like
to feel them biting into flesh.… You like
to see the blood
spatter
. Oh, yes … don’t worry. I have a task you can set them to.”
With the sheet of paper in his right hand, the Falconer gestured down at Locke.
“Kill Locke Lamora,” he said.
Jean shuddered; he took a step toward Locke, then hesitated. He frowned and closed
his eyes.
“I name your given name, Jean Tannen,” said the Bondsmage. “I name your given name,
the truthful name, the name of the spirit. I name your name.
Kill Locke Lamora
. Take up your hatchets and
kill Locke Lamora
.”
Jean took another halting step toward Locke; his hatchets rose slowly. He seemed to
be clenching his jaws. A tear rolled out of his right eye; he took a deep breath,
and then another step. He sobbed, and raised the Wicked Sisters above his shoulders.
“No,” said the Falconer. “Oh,
no
. Wait. Step back.”
Jean obliged, backing off a full yard from Locke, who sent up silent prayers of relief,
mingled with dread for whatever might come next.
“Jean’s rather soft-hearted,” said the Falconer, “but
you’re
the real weakling, aren’t you?
You’re
the one who begged me to do anything to you as long as I left your friends alone;
you’re the one who went into the barrel with his lips closed when he could have betrayed
his friends, and perhaps lived.
I
know how to make this right. Jean Tannen, drop your hatchets.”
The Wicked Sisters hit the ground with a heavy thud, bounced, and landed just beside
Locke’s eyes. A moment later, the Bondsmage spoke in his sorcerous tongue and shifted
the threads in his left hand; Jean screamed and fell to the ground, shaking feebly.
“It would be much better, I think,” said the Falconer, “if
you
were to kill
Jean
, Master Lamora.”
Vestris screeched down at Locke; the sound had the strange mocking undertones of laughter.
Oh, fuck
, Locke thought.
Oh, gods.
“Of course,” said the Falconer, “we already know your last name is a sham. But I don’t
need a full name; even a fragment of a true name will be quite enough. You’ll see,
Locke. I promise that you’ll see.” His silver threads disappeared; he dipped his quill
once again and wrote briefly on the parchment.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes. You may move again.” And as he spoke, it was so; the paralysis
lifted, and Locke twitched his fingers experimentally. The Bondsmage wiggled his silver
thread once more; Locke felt a strange
something
seem to form in the air around him, a sort of pressure, and the parchment glowed
again.
“Now,” said the Falconer. “I name your name, Locke. I name your given name, the truthful
name, the name of the spirit. I name your name, Locke. Arise. Arise and take up Jean
Tannen’s hatchets. Arise and
kill Jean Tannen
.”
Locke pushed himself up to his knees and rested on his hands for a moment.
“Kill Jean Tannen.”
Shaking, he reached out for one of Jean’s hatchets, slid it toward himself, and crawled
forward with it clutched in his right hand. His breathing was ragged; Jean Tannen
lay at the Bondsmage’s heels, just three or four feet away, on his face in the plaster
dust of the hovel.
“Kill Jean Tannen.”
Locke paused at the Falconer’s feet and turned his head slowly to stare at Jean. One
of the big man’s eyes was open, unblinking; there was real terror there. Jean’s lips
quivered uselessly, trying to form words.
Locke pushed himself up and raised the hatchet; he bellowed wordlessly.
He jabbed up with the heavy ball of the hatchet; the blow struck home right between
the Falconer’s legs. The silver thread and the parchment fluttered from the Bondsmage’s
hands as he gasped and fell forward, clutching at his groin.
Locke whirled to his right, expecting instant attack from the scorpion hawk, but to
his surprise the bird had fallen from its perch and was writhing on the hovel floor,
wings beating uselessly at the air, a series of choked half screeches issuing from
its beak.
Locke smiled the cruelest smile he’d ever worn in his entire life as he rose to his
feet.
“It’s like that, is it?” He grinned fiercely at the Bondsmage as he slowly raised
the hatchet, ball-side down. “You see what she sees; each of you feels what the other
feels?”
The words brought him a warm sense of exultation, but they nearly cost him the fight;
the Falconer managed to find concentration enough to utter one syllable and curl his
fingers into claws. Locke gasped and staggered back, nearly dropping the hatchet.
It felt as though a hot dagger had been shoved through both of his kidneys; the sizzling
pain made it impossible to act, or even to think.
The Falconer attempted to stand up, but Jean Tannen suddenly rolled
toward him and reached up, grabbing him by the lapels. The big man yanked hard, and
the Falconer crashed back down, forehead-first, against the floor of the hovel. The
pain in Locke’s guts vanished, and Vestris screeched once again from the floor beside
his feet. He wasted no further time.
He whipped the hatchet down in a hammer-blow, breaking Vestris’ left wing with a dry
crack.
The Falconer screamed and writhed, flailing hard enough to briefly break free from
Jean’s grasp. He clutched at his left arm and hollered, his eyes wide with shock.
Locke kicked him in the face, hard, and the Bondsmage rolled over in the dust, spitting
up the blood that was suddenly running from his nose.
“Just one question, you arrogant fucking
cocksucker
,” said Locke. “I’ll grant the Lamora part is easy to spot; the truth is, I didn’t
know about the apt translation when I took the name. I borrowed it from this old sausage
dealer who was kind to me once, back in Catchfire before the plague. I just liked
the way it sounded.
“But what the
fuck
,” he said slowly, “ever gave you the idea that
Locke
was the first name I was actually born with?”
He raised the hatchet again, reversed it so the blade side was toward the ground,
and then brought it down with all of his strength, severing Vestris’ head completely
from her body.
The sound of the bird’s suddenly interrupted screech echoed and merged with the screams
of the Falconer, who clutched at his head and kicked his legs wildly. His cries were
pure madness, and it was a mercy to the ears of Locke and Jean when they died, and
he fell sobbing into unconsciousness.
THE FALCONER of Karthain awoke to find himself lying spread-eagled, arms and legs
out on the dusty floor of the hovel. The smell of blood was in the air—Vestris’ blood.
He closed his eyes and began to weep.
“He is secure, Master Lamora,” said Ibelius. When the dog-leech had awoken from whatever
spell the Bondsmage had flung at him, he’d been only too eager to help tie the Karthani
down. He and Jean had scavenged some metal stakes from the other side of the structure;
these were pounded into the floor, and the Bondsmage was lashed to them by long strips
of bedding, tied tight around his wrists and ankles. Smaller strips
had been tied around his fingers and had been used to pad between them, immobilizing
them.
“Good,” said Locke.
Jean Tannen sat on the sleeping pallet, looking down at the Bondsmage with dull, deeply
shadowed eyes. Locke stood at the sorceror’s feet, staring down at him with undisguised
loathing.
A small oil fire burned in a glass jar; Ibelius crouched beside it, slowly heating
a dagger over it. The thin brown smoke curled up toward the ceiling.
“You are fools,” said the Falconer between sobs, “if you think to kill me. My brethren
will take satisfaction; think on the consequences.”
“I’m not going to kill you,” said Locke. “I’m going to play a little game I like to
call ‘scream in pain until you answer my fucking questions.’ ”
“Do what you will” said the Falconer. “The code of my order forbids me to betray my
client.”
“Oh, you’re not working for your client anymore, asshole,” said Locke. “You’re not
working for your client
ever again
.”
“It’s ready, Master Lamora,” said Ibelius.
The Bondsmage craned his neck to stare over at Ibelius. He swallowed and licked his
lips, his wet, bloodshot eyes darting around the room.
“What’s the matter?” Locke reached out and carefully took the dagger from the dog-leech’s
hand; its blade glowed red. “Afraid of fire? Why ever should that be?” Locke grinned,
an expression utterly without humor. “Fire’s the only thing that’s going to keep you
from
bleeding to death
.”
Jean rose from the sleeping pallet and knelt on the Falconer’s left arm. He pressed
it down at the wrist, and Locke slowly came over to stand beside him, hatchet in one
hand and glowing knife in the other.
“I heartily approve, in theory,” said Ibelius, “but in practice I believe I shall … absent
myself.”
“By all means, Master Ibelius,” said Locke.
The curtain swished, and the dog-leech was gone.
“Now,” said Locke, “I can accept that it would be a bad idea to kill you. But when
I finally let you slink back to Karthain, you’re going as an object lesson. You’re
going to remind your pampered, twisted, arrogant fucking brethren about what might
happen when they
fuck
with someone’s friends in
Camorr
.”