Authors: Scott Lynch
IT WAS well past the eighth hour of the evening before Locke set foot on the flagstones
beneath the Five Towers of Camorr once again. The journey north had been problematic.
Between bands of drunken revelers with
obliterated senses (and sensibilities) and the guards at the Alcegrante watch stations
(Locke finally managed to convince them that he was a lawscribe heading north to meet
an acquaintance leaving the duke’s feast; he also slipped them a “Midsummer-mark gift”
of gold tyrins from a little supply concealed up his sleeve), he felt himself fortunate
to make it at all. Falselight would rise within the next hour and a quarter; the sky
was already turning red in the west and dark blue in the east.
He made his way past the rows and rows of carriages in close array. Horses stamped
and whinnied; a great many of them had relieved themselves onto the lovely stones
of the largest courtyard in Camorr. Locke snorted; horses were not Verrari water-engines,
to be left standing decorating the place until needed. Footmen and guards and attendants
mingled in groups, sharing food and staring up at the Five Towers, where the glory
of the coming sunset painted strange, fresh colors on their Elderglass walls.
Locke was so busy considering what to say to the men at the elevator hoists that he
didn’t even see Conté until the taller, stronger man had one hand around the back
of Locke’s neck and one of his long knives jammed into Locke’s back.
“Well, well,” he said, “Master Fehrwight. The gods are kind. Don’t say a fucking thing,
just come with me.”
Conté half led and half hauled him to a nearby carriage; Locke recognized the one
he’d ridden to the feast in with Sofia and Lorenzo. It was an enclosed, black-lacquered
box with a window on the side opposite the door; that window’s curtains and shutters
were drawn tightly shut.
Locke was thrown onto one of the padded benches within the carriage; Conté bolted
the door behind him and sat down on the opposite bench, with his knife held at the
ready.
“Conté, please,” said Locke, not even bothering with his Fehrwight accent, “I need
to get back into Raven’s Reach; everyone inside is in terrible danger.”
Locke hadn’t known that someone could kick so hard from a sitting position; Conté
braced himself against the seat with his free hand and showed him that it was possible.
The bodyguard’s heavy boot knocked him back into his corner of the carriage; Locke
bit down hard on his tongue and tasted blood. His head rattled against the wooden
walls.
“Where’s the money, you little shit?”
“It’s been taken from me.”
“Not fucking likely. Sixteen thousand and five hundred full crowns?”
“Not quite; you’re forgetting the additional cost of meals and entertainment at the
Shifting—”
Conté’s boot lashed out again, and Locke went sprawling into the opposite corner of
his side of the carriage.
“For fuck’s sake, Conté! I don’t have it! It’s been taken from me! And it’s not important
at the moment.”
“Let me tell you something, Master Lukas-fucking-Fehrwight. I was at Godsgate Hill;
I was younger then than you are now.”
“Good for you, but I don’t give a sh—,” Locke said, and for that he ate another boot.
“I was at Godsgate Hill,” continued Conté, “too fucking young by far, the single most
scared-shitless runt of a pikeman Duke Nicovante had in that mess. I was in it bad;
my banneret was up to its neck in shit and Verrari and the Mad Count’s cavalry. Our
horse had withdrawn; my position was being overrun. Our peers of Camorr fell back
and saw to their own safety—with
one fucking exception.”
“This is the single most irrelevant thing I’ve ever—,” said Locke as he moved for
the door; Conté brought up his knife and convinced him back into his seat.
“Baron Ilandro Salvara,” said Conté. “He fought until his horse went down beneath
him; he fought until he took four wounds and had to be hauled from the field by his
legs. All the other peers treated us like garbage; Salvara nearly killed himself trying
to save us. When I got out of the duke’s service, I tried the city watch for a few
years; when that turned to shit, I begged for an audience with the old Don Salvara,
and I told him I’d seen him at Godsgate Hill. I told him he’d saved my fucking life,
and that I’d serve him for the rest of his, if he’d have me. He took me in. When he
passed away, I decided to stay on and serve Lorenzo.
Fucking
move for that door again and I will
bleed
some enthusiasm out of you.
“Now Lorenzo,” said Conté with undisguised pride, “he’s more a man of business than
his father was. But he’s made of the same stuff; he went into that alley with a blade
in his hand when he didn’t know you, when he thought you were being attacked for
real
, by real fucking bandits that meant you
harm
. Are you proud, you fucking pissant? Are you
proud
of what you’ve done to that man, who tried to save your fucking life?”
“I do what I do, Conté,” said Locke with a bitterness that surprised him. “I do what
I do. Is Lorenzo a saint of Perelandro? He’s a peer of Camorr; he profits from the
Secret Peace. His great-great-grandfather
probably slit someone’s throat to claim a peerage; Lorenzo benefits from that every
day. People make tea from ashes and piss in the Cauldron while Lorenzo and Sofia have
you to peel their grapes and wipe their chins for them. Don’t talk to me about what
I’ve
done. I need to get inside Raven’s Reach
now
.”
“Get serious about telling me where that money is,” said Conté, “or I’ll kick your
ass so hard every piece of shit that falls out of it for the rest of your life will
have my gods-damned heel print on it.”
“Conté,” said Locke, “everyone in Raven’s Reach is in danger. I need to get back up
there.”
“I don’t believe you,” said Conté. “I wouldn’t fucking believe you if you told me
my name was Conté. I wouldn’t believe you if you told me fire was hot and water was
wet. Whatever you want, you don’t get it.”
“Conté, please, I can’t fucking escape up there. Every gods-damned Midnighter in the
city is up there; the Spider is up there; the Nightglass Company is up there. Three
hundred peers of Camorr are up there! I’m unarmed; haul me up there yourself. But
for the love of the fucking gods, get me up there! If I don’t get up there before
Falselight, it’ll be too late.”
“Too late for what?”
“I don’t have the time to explain; listen to me babble to Vorchenza and it’ll all
fall together.”
“Why the hell,” said Conté, “do you need to talk to that fading old crone?”
“My mistake,” said Locke. “I seem to have more of the pulse of things than you do.
Look, I can’t fuck around anymore. Please,
please
, I’m begging you. I’m not Lukas Fehrwight; I’m a gods-damned thief. Tie my hands,
put your knife to my back; I don’t care what your terms are. Please just take me back
up into Raven’s Reach; I don’t care how. You tell me how we do it.”
“What’s your real name?”
“How is that important?”
“Spit it up,” said Conté, “and maybe I’ll tie your hands, and fetch some guards, and
I’ll try to get you up into Raven’s Reach.”
“My name,” said Locke with a sigh of resignation, “is Tavrin Callas.”
Conté looked hard at him for a moment, then grunted.
“Very well, Master Callas. Hold out your hands and don’t move; I’m going to tie you
up so tight I guarantee it’ll fucking hurt. Then we’ll take a walk.”
THERE WERE Nightglass soldiers near the chain elevator landings who’d been given his
description; naturally, they were delighted when Conté hauled him over with his hands
tied in front of him. They ascended once again; Locke with Conté at his back and a
blackjacket holding him by either arm.
“Please take me to Doña Vorchenza,” said Locke. “If you can’t find her, please find
one of the Salvaras. Or even a captain in your company named Reynart.”
“Shut up, you,” said one of the blackjackets. “You go where you go.”
The cage slid home into the locking mechanisms on the embarkation terrace; a milling
crowd of nobles and their guests turned their attention to Locke as he was carried
forward between the three men. As they passed the threshold into the first gallery
within the tower, Captain Reynart happened to be standing nearby with a plate of small
confectionary ships in his hands. His eyes grew wide; he took a last bite of marzipan
sail, wiped his mouth, and thrust his dish into the arms of a passing waiter, who
nearly toppled over in surprise.
“By the gods,” he said, “where did you find him?”
“We didn’t, sir,” said one of the blackjackets. “Man behind us says he’s in the service
of Lord and Lady Salvara.”
“I caught him by the carriages,” said Conté.
“Fantastic,” said Reynart. “Take him down a level, to the eastern wing of suites.
There’s an empty storeroom with no windows. Search him, strip him down to his breechclout,
and throw him in there. Two guards at all times. We’ll pull him out after midnight,
when the feast starts to break up.”
“Reynart, you can’t,” cried Locke, struggling uselessly against the men who held him.
“I came back on my own. On my own, do you understand? Everyone here is in danger.
Are you in on your adopted mother’s business? I need to talk to Vorchenza!”
“I’ve been warned to develop selective hearing when it comes to you.” Reynart gestured
at the blackjackets. “Storeroom, now.”
“Reynart, no! The sculptures, Reynart! Look in the fucking sculptures!”
Locke was shouting; guests and nobles were taking an intense interest, so Reynart
clapped a hand over his mouth. More blackjackets appeared out of the crowd.
“Keep making a fuss,” said Reynart, “and these lords and ladies might just see blood.”
He withdrew his hand.
“I know who she is, Reynart! I know who Vorchenza is. I’ll shout it across all of
these galleries; I’ll go kicking and screaming, but before I’m in that room everyone
will know! Now, look at the gods-damned sculptures, please.”
“What about the sculptures?”
“There’s something in them, damn it. It’s a plot. They’re from Capa Raza.”
“They were a gift to the duke,” said Reynart. “My superiors cleared them personally.”
“Your superiors,” said Locke, “have been interfered with. Capa Raza hired the services
of a Bondsmage. I’ve seen what he can do to someone’s mind.”
“This is ridiculous,” said Reynart. “I can’t believe I’m letting you conjure another
fairy tale. Get him downstairs, but first let me gag him.” Reynart plucked a linen
napkin from another nearby waiter’s tray and began to wad it up.
“Reynart, please, take me to Vorchenza. Why the hell would I come back if it wasn’t
important? Everyone here is going to fucking die if you throw me in that storeroom.
I’m tied up and under guard;
please
take me to Vorchenza.”
Stephen stared coldly at him, then set the napkin down. He put his finger in Locke’s
face. “So be it. I’ll take you to see the doña. But if you utter so much as a single
word while we’re hauling you over to her, I will gag you, beat you senseless, and
put you in the storeroom. Is that clear?”
Locke nodded vigorously.
Reynart gestured for more blackjackets to join his procession; Locke was led across
the gallery and down two sets of stairs with six soldiers at his side and Conté scowling
just behind him. Reynart led him back to the very same hall and the very same chamber
where he’d first met Doña Vorchenza. She was sitting in her chair, knitting discarded
at her feet, holding a wet cloth to her lips while Doña Salvara knelt beside her.
Don Salvara stood staring out the window with his leg up on the sill; all three of
them looked very surprised indeed when Reynart thrust Locke into the room before him.
“This room is closed,” said Reynart to his guards. “Sorry, you, too,” he said when
Conté tried to pass.
“Let the Salvaras’ man come in, Stephen,” said Doña Vorchenza. “He already knows most
of it; he might as well know the rest.”
Conté stepped in, bowed to Vorchenza, and grabbed Locke by the right arm while Reynart
locked the door behind them. The Salvaras gave Locke a matching pair of scowls.
“Hello, Sofia. Hey, Lorenzo. Nice to see you two again,” said Locke, in his natural
voice.
Doña Vorchenza rose from her chair, closed the distance between herself and Locke
with two steps, and punched him in his own mouth, a straight-arm blow with the flat
of her palm. His head whirled to the right, and spikes of pain shot through his neck.
“Ow,” he said. “What the
fuck
is it with you, anyway?”
“A debt to be repaid, Master Thorn.”
“You stuck a gods-damned poisoned needle in my neck!”
“You most certainly deserved it,” said Doña Vorchenza.
“Well, I for one would dis—”
Reynart grabbed him by his left shoulder, spun him around, and slammed his own fist
into Locke’s jaw. Vorchenza was rather impressive for someone of her age and build,
but
Reynart
could really hit. The room seemed to go away for a few seconds; when it returned,
Locke was sprawled in a corner, lying on his side. Small blacksmiths seemed to be
pounding on anvils inconveniently located just above his eyes; Locke wondered how
they’d gotten in there.
“I told you Doña Vorchenza was my adoptive mother,” said Reynart.
“Oh my,” said Conté, chuckling. “Now this is my sort of private party.”
“Has it occurred to any of you,” said Locke, crawling back to his feet, “to ask why
the
fuck
I came all the way back to Raven’s Reach when I’d already made it clean away?”
“You jumped from one of the outside ledges,” said Doña Vorchenza, “and you grabbed
one of the elevator cages as it went past, didn’t you?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, all the other ways to the ground were too unhealthy to
consider.”
“You see? I told you, Stephen.”