The Lies of Locke Lamora (25 page)

In the right-hand corner of the shop a burly, bored-looking young man with cheap brass on all of his fingers and greasy ringlets hanging in his eyes shifted his position on the tall wooden stool he occupied. An iron-studded club swung from a loop at his belt, and he nodded slowly at the visitors, unsmiling, as though they were too stupid to comprehend his function.

“Locke Lamora,” said Harza. “Perfume bottles and ladies’ smallclothes. Tableware and drinking goblets. Scraped and dented metal I can’t sell to anyone with any class ever again. You breakers and second-story boys think you’re
so
clever. You’d steal shit from a dog’s asshole if you had the right sort of bag to bring it home with you.”

“Funny you should say that, Harza, because this bag here”—Locke plucked the burlap sack from Bug’s hands and held it up—“happens to contain—”

“Something other than dogshit; I can hear it jingling. Give over and let’s see if you accidentally brought in anything worth buying.”

Harza’s nostrils flared as he opened the sack and slid it along a leather pad atop his shop counter, gently spilling the contents. The appraisal of stolen goods seemed to be the only form of sensual gratification left to the old man, and he dove into the task with enthusiasm, long crooked fingers wiggling.

“Crap.” He lifted the three lockets secured by Calo and Galdo. “Fucking alchemical paste and river agates. Not fit for goat feed. Two coppers apiece.”

“Harsh,” said Locke.

“Fair,” said Harza. “Yes or no?”

“Seven coppers for all three.”

“Two times three is six,” said Harza. “Say yes or go twist a shark’s balls, for all I care.”

“I suppose I’ll say yes, then.”

“Hmmm.” Harza perused the silver goblets Jean had selected from the Bullshit Box. “Dented, of course. You idiots never see a pretty silver thing you don’t want to stuff inside a scratchy fucking bag. I suppose I can polish them and send them upriver. One solon three coppers apiece.”

“One solon four per,” said Locke.

“Three solons one copper total.”

“Fine.”

“And this.” Harza picked up the bottle of opium milk, unscrewed the cap, sniffed, grunted to himself, and sealed the vial once again. “Worth more than your life, but I can’t hardly do much with it. Fussy bitches like to make their own or get an alchemist to do it for them; they never buy premixed from strangers. Maybe I can pass it off on some poor fucker that needs a vacation from grapes or Gaze. Three solons three barons.”

“Four solons two.”

“The gods wouldn’t get four and two from me. Morgante himself with a flaming sword and ten naked virgins yanking at my breeches might get four solons one. You get three and four and that’s final.”

“Fine. And only because we’re in a hurry.”

Harza was keeping a running total with a goose quill and a scrap of parchment; he ran his fingers over the small pile of cheap rings from Calo and Galdo and laughed. “You can’t be serious. This crap is as welcome as a pile of severed dog cocks.”

“Oh come on…”

“I could sell the dog cocks to the knackers, at least.” Harza flung the brass and copper rings at the Gentlemen Bastards one by one. “I’m serious. Don’t bring that crap around; I’ve got boxes on boxes of the fucking things I won’t sell this side of death.”

He came to the threaded gold and platinum ring with the diamond and obsidian chips. “Mmmm. This one signifies, at least. Five solons flat. Gold’s real, but the platinum’s cheap Verrari shit, genuine as a glass eye. And I crap bigger diamonds five or six times weekly.”

“Seven and three,” said Locke. “I went to pains to get that particular piece.”

“I have to pay extra because your ass and your brains switched places at birth? I think not; if that were the case I’d have heard about it before. Take your five and consider yourself lucky.”

“I can assure you, Harza, that nobody who comes to this shop considers himself particularly…”

And so it went—the apparently summary judgment, the two-way flow of abuse, the grudging assent from Locke, and the gnashing of the old man’s remaining teeth when he took each item and set it down behind the counter. In short order Harza was sweeping the last few things he had no interest in back into the burlap sack. “Well, sweetmeats, looks as though we’re quits at sixteen solons five. I suppose it beats driving a shit-wagon, doesn’t it?”

“Or running a pawnshop, yes,” said Locke.

“Very amusing!” cried the old man as he counted out sixteen tarnished silver coins and five smaller copper discs. “I give you the legendary lost treasure of Camorr. Grab your things and fuck off until next week. Assuming the Gray King doesn’t get you first.”

THE RAIN had faded back to a drizzle when they emerged from Harza’s shop, giggling to themselves. “Chains used to claim that there’s no freedom quite like the freedom of being constantly underestimated,” said Locke.

“Gods, yes.” Calo rolled his eyes and stuck out his tongue. “If we were any freer we’d float away into the sky and fly like the birds.”

From the northern edge of the Wooden Waste, a long, high wooden bridge, wide enough for two people, ran straight out to the capa’s water-bound fortress. There were four men on guard at the shore, standing around in the open with weapons clearly visible under their lightweight oilcloaks. Locke surmised there would be at least as many concealed nearby, within easy crossbow shot. He made the month’s proper hand signs as he approached with his gang behind him; everyone here knew each other, but the formalities were nonnegotiable, especially at a time like this.

“Hullo, Lamora.” The oldest man in the guard detail, a wiry old fellow with faded shark tattoos running up his neck and his cheeks all the way to his temples, reached out; they grasped left forearms. “Heard about Tesso?”

“Yeah, hullo yourself, Bernell. One of the Gray Faces told us on the way down. So it’s true? Nailed up, balls, the whole bit?”

“Balls, the whole bit. You can imagine how the boss feels about it. Speaking of which, Nazca left orders. Just this morning—next time you came by she wanted to see you. Said not to let you pay your taxes until she’d had a word. You are here for taxes, right?”

Locke shook a little gray purse; Jean’s twenty solons plus Harza’s sixteen and change. “Here to do our civic duty, indeed.”

“Good. Not passing many folks for any other reason. Look, I know you’ve got the distance and Nazca’s a friend and all, but maybe you want to take it
real
easy today, right? Lots of
pezon
around, obvious and not so obvious. Tight as it’s ever been. Capa’s making inquiries with some of the Full Crowns right now, as regards their whereabouts last night.”

“Inquiries?”

“In the grand old fashion. So mind your manners and don’t make any sudden moves, right?”

“Savvy,” said Locke. “Thanks for the warning.”

“No trouble. Crossbow bolts cost money. Shame to waste them on the likes of you.”

Bernell waved them through, and they strolled down the wooden walkway, which was about a hundred yards long. It led to the stern of the wide, motionless vessel, where the timbers of the outer hull had been cut away and replaced with a pair of iron-reinforced witchwood doors. Another pair of guards stood here, one male and one female, the dark circles under their eyes plainly evident. The woman knocked four times at their approach, and the doors swung inward just a few seconds later. Stifling a yawn, the female guard leaned back against the outer wall and pulled the hood of her oilcloak up over her head. The dark clouds were sweeping in from the north, and the heat of the sun was starting to fade.

The reception hall of the Floating Grave was nearly four times Locke’s height, as the cramped horizontal decks of the old galleon had been torn out long ago, save for the upper castle and waist decks, which now served as roofs. The floor and walls were coffee-colored hardwood; the bulkheads were hung with black and red tapestries on which shark’s-teeth border patterns were embroidered in gold and silver thread.

A half dozen bravos stood facing the Gentlemen Bastards, crossbows leveled. These men and women wore leather bracers and leather doublets over silk tunics reinforced with light metal bands; their necks were girded with stiff leather collars. A more genteel foyer would have been decorated with glow-lamps and flower arrangements; the walls of this one held wicker baskets of crossbow quarrels and racks of spare blades.

“Ease up,” said a young woman standing behind the gaggle of guards. “I know they’re suspicious as hell, but I don’t see a Gray King among ’em.”

She wore men’s breeches and a loose black silk blouse with billowing sleeves, under a ribbed leather dueling harness that looked to have seen more use than storage. Her iron-shod boots (a taste she had never lost) clicked against the floor as she stepped between the sentries. Her welcoming smile didn’t quite reach all the way to her eyes, which darted nervously behind the lenses of her plain, black-rimmed optics.

“My apologies for the reception, loves,” said Nazca Barsavi, addressing all the Bastards but placing a hand on Locke’s left shoulder. She was a full two inches taller than he was. “And I know it’s cramped in here, but I need the four of you to wait around.
Garristas
only. Papa’s in a mood.”

There was a muffled scream from behind the doors that led to the inner chambers of the Floating Grave, followed by the faint murmur of raised voices—shouts, cursing, another scream.

Nazca rubbed her temples, pushed back a few stray curls of her black hair, and sighed. “He’s making a vigorous case for…full disclosure from some of the Full Crowns. He’s got Sage Kindness in there with him.”

“Thirteen gods,” said Calo. “We’re happy to wait.”

“Indeed.” Galdo reached into his coat and pulled out a slightly soggy deck of playing cards. “We can certainly keep ourselves entertained out here. Indefinitely, if need be.”

At the sight of a Sanza brother offering cards, every guard in the room took a step back; some of them visibly struggled with the idea of raising their crossbows again.

“Oh, not you bastards, too,” said Galdo. “Look, those stories are all bullshit. Everyone else at that table was just having a very unlucky night….”

Past the wide, heavy doors was a short passage, unguarded and empty. Nazca slid the foyer doors closed behind herself and Locke, then turned to him. She reached and slicked back his wet hair. The corners of her mouth were turned down. “Hello,
pezon
. I see you haven’t been eating.”

“I eat regular meals.”

“You should try eating for quantity as well as consistency. I believe I once mentioned that you looked like a skeleton.”

“And I believe I’d never before seen a seven-year-old girl pushy drunk in public.”

“Well. Perhaps I was pushy drunk then, but today I’m just pushy. Papa’s in a bad way, Locke. I wanted to see you before you saw him—he has some…things he wishes to discuss with you. I want you to know that whatever he asks, I don’t want you to…for my sake…well, please just agree. Please him, do you understand?”

“No
garrista
who loves life has ever tried to do otherwise. You think I’m inclined to walk in on a day like today and deliberately twist his breeches? If your father says ‘bark like a dog,’ I say ‘What breed, Your Honor?’”

“I know. Forgive me. But my point is this. He’s not himself. He’s
afraid
now, Locke. Absolutely, genuinely afraid. He was
morose
when Mother died, but damn, now he’s…he’s crying out in his sleep. Taking wine and laudanum every day to keep his temper in check. Used to be I was the only one not allowed to leave the Grave, but now he wants Anjais and Pachero to stay here, too. Fifty guards on duty at all times. The duke’s life is more carefree. Papa and my brothers were up shouting about it all night.”

“Well, ah…look, I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can help you with that. But just what is it you think he’s going to ask me?”

Nazca stared at him, mouth half-open as though she were preparing to speak; then she seemed to think better of it, and her lips compressed back into a frown.

“Dammit, Nazca, I’d jump in the bay and try to blackjack a shark if you wanted, really, but you’d have to tell me how
big
it was and how
hungry
it was first. Savvy?”

“Yes, look, I just…it’ll be less awkward if he does it himself. Just remember what I said. Hear him. Please him, and you and I can sort things out later. If we get a later.”

“What do you mean, ‘If we get a later’? Nazca, you’re worrying me.”

“This is it, Locke. This is the
bad
one. The Gray King is finally getting to Papa. Tesso had sixty knives, any ten of which were with him all the time. Tesso was
deep
into Papa’s good graces; there were big plans for him in the near future. But Papa’s had things his way for so long I…I can’t rightly say if he knows what to do about this. So he just wants to fold everything up and hide us here. Siege mentality.”

“Hmmmm.” Locke sighed. “I can’t say that what he’s done so far is imprudent, Nazca. He’s—”

“Papa’s
mad
if he thinks he can just keep us all here, locked up in this fortress forever! He used to be at the Last Mistake half the nights of the week. He used to walk the docks, walk the Mara, walk the Narrows any time he pleased. He used to throw out coppers at the Procession of the Shades. The duke of Camorr can lock himself in his privy and rule legitimately; the capa of Camorr cannot. He needs to be
seen
.”

“And risk assassination by the Gray King?”

“Locke, I’ve been stuck inside this fucking wooden tub for two months, and I tell you—we’re
no safer
here than we would be bathing naked at the dirtiest fountain in the darkest courtyard in the Cauldron.” Nazca had folded her arms beneath her breasts so tightly that her leather cuirass creaked. “Who is this Gray King? Where is he? Who are his men? We don’t have a
single
idea—and yet this man reaches out and kills our people at leisure, however he sees fit. Something is
wrong
. He has resources we don’t understand.”

“He’s clever and he’s lucky. Neither of those things lasts forever; trust me.”