Authors: Scott Lynch
The blade of Jean’s hatchet whistled down, severing the Bondsmage’s little finger
of his left hand. The Falconer screamed.
“That’s Nazca,” said Locke. “Remember Nazca?”
He swung down again; the ring finger of the left hand rolled in the dirt, and blood
spurted.
“That’s Calo,” said Locke.
Another swing, and the middle finger was gone. The Falconer writhed and pulled at
his bonds, whipping his head from side to side in agony.
“Galdo, too. Are these names familiar, Master Bondsmage? These little
footnotes
to your fucking contract? They were awfully real to me. Now this finger coming up—this
one’s Bug. Actually, Bug probably should have been the little finger, but what the
hell.” The hatchet fell again; the index finger of the Falconer’s left hand joined
its brethren in bloody exile.
“Now the
rest
,” said Locke, “the rest of your fingers and both of your thumbs, those are for me
and Jean.”
IT WAS tedious work; they had to reheat the dagger several times to cauterize all
the wounds. The Falconer was quivering with pain by the time they’d finished; his
eyes were closed and his teeth clenched. The air in the enclosed room stank of burnt
flesh and scalded blood.
“Now,” said Locke, sitting on the Falconer’s chest. “Now it’s time to talk.”
“I cannot,” whispered the Bondsmage. “I cannot … betray my client’s secrets.”
“You no longer have a client,” said Locke. “You no longer serve Capa Raza; he hired
a Bondsmage, not a fingerless freak with a dead bird for a best friend. When I removed
your fingers, I removed your obligations to Raza. At least, that’s the way I see it.”
“Go to
hell
,” the Falconer spat.
“Oh, good. You’ve decided to do it the hard way.” Locke smiled again and tossed the
now-cool dagger to Jean, who set it over the flame and began to heat it once again.
“If you were any other man, I’d threaten your balls next. I’d make all sorts of cracks
about eunuchs; but I think you could
bear
that. You’re
not
most men. I think the only thing I can take from you that would truly pain you to
the depths of your soul would be your
tongue
.”
The Bondsmage stared at him, his lips quivering. “Please,” he croaked hoarsely, “have
pity, for the gods’ sakes. Have pity. We had a contract. I was merely carrying it
out.”
“When that contract became my friends,” said Locke, “you exceeded your mandate.”
“Please,” whispered the Falconer.
“No,” said Locke. “I will cut it out; I will cauterize it while you lay there writhing.
I will make you a mute—I’m guessing you might eventually be able to conjure some magic
without fingers, but without a tongue?”
“No! Please!”
“Then speak,” said Locke. “Tell me what I want to know.”
“Gods,” sobbed the Falconer, “gods forgive me. Ask. Ask your questions.”
“If I catch you in a lie,” said Locke, “it’s balls first, and then the tongue. Don’t
presume on my patience. Why did Capa Raza want us dead?”
“Money,” whispered the Falconer. “That vault of yours; I spied it out while I was
first making my observations of you. He’d intended just to use you as a distraction
for Capa Barsavi; when we discovered how much money you’d already stolen, he wanted
to have it—to pay for me. Almost another month of my services. To help him finish
his tasks here in the city.”
“You murdered my fucking friends,” said Locke, “and you tried to murder Jean and myself,
for the metal in our
vault
?”
“You seemed the type to hold a grudge,” coughed the Falconer. “Isn’t that funny? We
figured we’d be better off with all of you safely dead.”
“You figured right,” said Locke. “Now Capa Raza, the Gray King, whoever the fuck he
is.”
“Anatolius.”
“That’s his real name? Luciano Anatolius?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“Fuck you, Falconer, answer
my
questions. Anatolius. What was his business with Barsavi?”
“The Secret Peace,” said the Bondsmage.
“What about it?”
“The Secret Peace was not achieved without a great deal of bloodshed … and difficulty.
There was one rather powerful merchant, with the resources to discover what Barsavi
and the duke’s Spider had put together; not being of noble blood, he was rather upset
at being excluded.”
“And so … Barsavi killed him?” said Locke.
“Yes. Avram Anatolius, a merchant of Fountain Bend. Barsavi murdered him and his wife,
and his three younger children—Lavin, Ariana, and Maurin. But the three
older
children—they escaped with one of their master’s maids. She protected them, pretending
they were her own. She took them to safety in Talisham.”
“Luciano,” said Locke. “Luciano, Cheryn, and Raiza.”
“Yes … the oldest son and the twin sisters. They have been rather consumed with the
idea of vengeance, Master Lamora. You’re an amateur by comparison. They spent twenty-two
years
preparing for the events of the past two months; Cheryn and Raiza returned eight
years ago, under an assumed name; they built their reputations as
contrarequialla
and became Barsavi’s most loyal servants.
“Luciano, on the other hand … Luciano went to sea, to train himself in the arts of
command and to amass a fortune. A fortune with which to purchase the services of a
Bondsmage.”
“Capa Raza was a freighter captain?”
“No,” said the Falconer. “A buccaneer. Not the ragged sort of idiot you find down
on the Sea of Brass; he was quiet, efficient, professional. He struck rarely and he
struck well; he took good cargo from the galleons of Emberlain. He sank the ships
and left no one alive to speak his name.”
“Gods damn it,” said Jean. “Gods
damn
it; he’s the captain of the
Satisfaction
.”
“Yes, the so-called plague ship,” chuckled the Falconer. “Odd how easy it is to keep
people away from your ship when you really want to, isn’t it?”
“He’s been sending his fortune out to it as ‘charitable provisions,’ ” said Jean.
“It must be all the money he stole from us, and everything he took from Capa Barsavi.”
“Yes,” said the Bondsmage sadly. “Only now it belongs to my order, for services rendered.”
“We’ll just see about that. So what now? I saw your master Anatolius at Raven’s Reach
a few hours ago; what the fuck does he think he’s doing next?”
“Hmmm.” The Bondsmage fell silent for several moments; Locke prodded him in the neck
with Jean’s hatchet, and he smiled strangely. “Do you mean to kill him, Lamora?”
“Ila justicca vei cala,”
said Locke.
“Your Throne Therin is passable,” said the Bondsmage, “but your pronunciation is excrement.
‘Justice is red,’ indeed. So you want him, more than anything? You want him screaming
under your knife?”
“That’d do for a start.”
Unexpectedly, the Falconer threw back his head and began to laugh—a high-pitched noise,
tinged with madness. His chest shook with mirth, and fresh tears ran from his eyes.
“What?” Locke prodded him again with the hatchet. “Quit being deliberately freakish
and give me my fucking answer.”
“I’ll give you two,” said the Falconer, “and I’ll give you a choice. It’s guaranteed
to cause you pain, either way. What hour of the evening is it?”
“What the hell does it matter to you?”
“I’ll tell you everything; please, just tell me what the hour is.”
“I’d wager it’s half past seven,” said Jean. The Bondsmage began chuckling once again.
A smile grew on his haggard face, impossibly beatific for a man who’d just lost his
fingers and thumbs.
“What the fuck is it? Spit out a real answer or you lose something else.”
“Anatolius,” said the Falconer, “will be at the Floating Grave. He’ll have a boat
behind the galleon; he can reach it through one of Barsavi’s escape hatches. At Falselight,
the
Satisfaction
will turn on her anchor chain and put out to sea; she’ll tack first to the east,
sweeping past the south end of the Wooden Waste, where it opens to the ocean. His
crew in the city has been sneaking out to the ship, one or two at a time, in the provision
boat. Like rats leaving a sinking vessel.
He’ll
stay until the last; it’s his style. Last out of danger. They’ll pick him up south
of the Waste.”
“His crew in the city,” said Locke. “You mean his ‘Gray King’s men,’ the ones who’ve
been helping him all along?”
“Yes,” said the Bondsmage. “Time your entrance properly … and you should have him
to yourself, or very close, before he sets off in the boat.”
“That doesn’t cause me pain,” said Locke. “That thought brings me pleasure.”
“But here’s the second point. The
Satisfaction
puts out to sea just as the greater part of Anatolius’ plan goes into effect.”
“Greater part?”
“Think, Lamora. You can’t truly be this dense; Barsavi slew Avram Anatolius, but who
allowed
it to happen? Who was
complicit
?”
“Vorchenza,” said Locke slowly. “Doña Vorchenza, the duke’s Spider.”
“Yes,” said the Falconer. “And behind her, the man who gave her the authority to make
such decisions?”
“Duke Nicovante.”
“Oh yes,” whispered the sorcerer, genuinely warming to his subject. “Oh, yes. But
not just him, either. Who stood to benefit from the Secret Peace? Who did the arrangement
shield, at the expense of men like Avram Anatolius?”
“The nobility.”
“Yes. The peers of Camorr. And Anatolius wants them.”
“Them? Which ‘them’?”
“Why, all of them, Master Lamora.”
“How the fuck is
that
possible?”
“Sculptures. Four
unusual
sculptures delivered as gifts to the duke. Currently placed at various points within
Raven’s Reach.”
“Sculptures? I’ve seen them—gold and glass, with shifting alchemical lights.
Your
work?”
“Not my work,” said the Falconer. “Not my sort of thing at all. The alchemical lights
are just a bit of mummery; they
are
beautiful, I suppose. But there’s a lot of room left inside those things for the
real surprise.”
“What?”
“Alchemical fuses,” said the Falconer. “Set for a certain time; small clay pans of
fire-oil, intended to be set off by the fuses.”
“But that can’t be all.”
“Oh no, Master Lamora.” Now the sorcerer positively smirked. “Before he hired me,
Anatolius spent part of his considerable fortune to secure large amounts of a rare
substance.”
“No more games, Falconer—what the hell is it?”
“Wraithstone.”
Locke was silent for a long moment; he shook his head as though to clear it. “You
can’t be fucking serious.”
“Hundreds of pounds of it,” said the Falconer, “distributed in the four sculptures.
All the peers of Camorr will be crammed into those galleries at Falselight; the duke
and his Spider and all their relatives and friends and servants and heirs. Do you
know anything about Wraithstone smoke, Master Lamora? It’s slightly lighter than air.
It will spread upward until it fills every level of the duke’s feast; it will pass
out through the roof vents and it will fill the Sky Garden, where all the children
of the nobility are playing as we speak. Anyone standing on the embarkation platform
might
escape … but I very much doubt it.”
“At Falselight,” said Locke in a small voice.
“
Yes
,” hissed the sorcerer. “So now you have your choice, Master Lamora. At Falselight,
the man you want to kill more than anyone in the world will be briefly alone at the
Floating Grave. And at Falselight, six hundred people at the top of Raven’s Reach
will suffer a fate worse than death. Your friend Jean looks to be in very poor health;
I doubt he can help you with either task. So the decision is yours. I wish you joy
of it.”
Locke arose and tossed Jean his hatchet. “It’s no decision at all,” he said. “Gods
damn you, Falconer, it’s no decision at all.”
“You’re going to Raven’s Reach,” said Jean.
“Of course I am.”
“Have a pleasant time,” said the Falconer, “convincing the guards and the nobility
of your sincerity; Doña Vorchenza herself is rather convinced that the sculptures
are completely harmless.”
“Well,” said Locke, grinning wryly and scratching the back of his head. “I’m kind
of popular at Raven’s Reach at the moment; they might be glad to see me.”
“How do you expect to get back out?” asked Jean.
“I don’t know,” said Locke. “I don’t have the first fucking clue; but it’s a state
of affairs that’s served me well in the past. I need to run. Jean, for the love of
the gods, hide near the Floating Grave if you must, but don’t you dare go in there;
you’re in no condition to fight.” Locke turned to the Bondsmage. “Capa Raza—how is
he with a blade?”
“Deadly,” said the Falconer with a smile.
“Well, look, Jean. I’ll do what I can at Raven’s Reach; I’ll try to get to the Floating
Grave
somehow
. If I’m late, I’m late; we’ll follow Raza and we’ll find him somewhere else. But
if I’m not late, if he’s still there …”
“Locke, you can’t be serious. At least let me come with you. If Raza has any skill
with a blade at all, he’ll kick the shit out of you.”
“No more arguments, Jean; you’re hurt too badly to be of much use. I’m fit, and I’m
obviously crazy. Anything could happen. But I have to go, now.” Locke embraced Jean,
stepped to the doorway, and turned back. “Cut this bastard’s fucking tongue out.”
“You
promised
!” yelled the Falconer. “You
promised
!”
“I didn’t promise you shit. My dead friends, on the other hand—I made
them
certain promises I intend to keep.”
Locke whirled and went out through the curtain; behind him, Jean was setting the knife
over the oil flame once again. The Falconer’s screams followed him down the debris-strewn
street, and then faded into the distance as he turned north and began to jog for the
Hill of Whispers.