by Scott Lynch
“Oh!” said the boy, who happened to be Calo Sanza. “A thousand pardons! I’m so clumsy; here, let me help you up…”
He grabbed Locke’s outstretched hand and yanked the smaller boy back to his feet. “Twelve gods! An initiate. Forgive me, forgive me. I simply did not see you standing there.” Clucking with concern, he brushed dirt from Locke’s white robe. “Are you well?”
“I am, I am.”
“Forgive my clumsiness; I meant no insult.”
“None is taken. Thank you for helping me back up.”
With that, Calo gave a mock bow and ran off into the crowd; in just a few seconds he was lost to sight. Locke made a show of dusting himself off while he slowly counted to thirty inside his head. At thirty-one, he sat down suddenly beside the cart, put his hooded head in his hands, and began to sniffle. Just a few seconds later he was sobbing loudly. Responding to the cue, Galdo came over and knelt beside him, placing one hand on his shoulder.
“Boys,” said Ambrosine Strollo. “Boys! What’s the matter? Are you hurt? Did that oaf jar something?”
Galdo made a show of muttering into Locke’s ear; Locke muttered back, and Galdo fell backward onto his own posterior. He reached up and tugged at his hood in an excellent imitation of frustration, and his eyes were wide. “No, Madam Strollo,” he said, “it’s worse than that.”
“Worse? What do you mean? What’s the trouble?”
“The silver,” Locke burbled, looking up to let her see the tears pouring down his cheeks and the artful curl of his lips. “He took my purse. Picked my p-pocket.”
“It was payment,” said Galdo, “from this man’s widow. Not just for the candles, but for his interment, our blessings, and his funeral. We were to bring it back to Father Chains along with the-”
“-with the b-body,” Locke burst out. “I’ve failed him!”
“Twelve,” the old lady muttered. “That incredible little bastard!” Leaning out over the counter of her shop window, she hollered in a voice of surprising strength: “Thief! Stop, Thief!” As Locke buried his head in his hands once again, she turned her head upward and shouted, “Lucrezia!”
“Yes, gran’mama!” came a voice from an open window. “What’s this about a thief?”
“Rouse your brothers, child. Get them down here now and tell them to bring their sticks!” She turned to regard Locke and Galdo. “Don’t cry, my dear boys. Don’t cry. We’ll make this right somehow.”
“What’s this about a thief?” A lanky sergeant of the watch ran up, truncheon out, mustard-yellow coat flapping behind him and two other yellowjackets at his heels.
“A fine constable you are, Vidrik, to let those little coat-charmer bastards from the Cauldron sneak in and rob customers right in front of my shop!”
“What? Here? Them?” The watch-sergeant took in the distraught boys, the furious old woman, and the covered corpse; his eyebrows attempted to leap straight up off his forehead. “Ah, that…I say, that man is dead…”
“Of course he’s dead, thimblebrains; these boys are taking him to the House of Perelandro for blessings and a funeral! That little cutpurse just stole the bag with his widow’s payment for it all!”
“Someone robbed the initiates of Perelandro? The boys who help that blind priest?” A florid man with an overachieving belly and an entire squad of spare chins wobbled up, with a walking stick in one hand and a wicked-looking hatchet in the other. “Pissant ratfucker bastards! Such an infamy! In the Videnza, in broad light of day!”
“I’m sorry,” Locke sobbed. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize…I should have held it tighter, I just didn’t realize…He was so quick…”
“Nonsense, boy, it was hardly your fault,” said Madam Strollo. The watch-sergeant began blowing his whistle; the fat man with the walking stick continued to spit vitriol, and a pair of young men appeared around the corner of the Strollo house, carrying curved truncheons shod with brass. There was more rapid shouting until they determined that their grandmother was unhurt; when they discovered the reason for her summons, they too began uttering threats and curses and promises of vengeance.
“Here,” said Madam Strollo, “here, boys. The candles will be my gift. This sort of thing doesn’t happen in the Videnza. We won’t stand for it.” She set the three solons Locke had given her back atop her counter. “How much was in the purse?”
“Fifteen solons before we paid you,” said Galdo. “So twelve got stolen. Chains is going to throw us out of the order.”
“Don’t be foolish,” said Madam Strollo. She added two more coins to the pile as the crowd around her shop began to swell.
“Hells yes!” cried the fat man. “We can’t let that little devil dishonor us like this! Madam Strollo, how much are you giving? I’ll give more!”
“Gods take you, you selfish old pig, this isn’t about showing me up-”
“I’ll give you a basket of oranges,” said one of the women in the crowd, “for you and for the Eyeless Priest.”
“I have a solon I can give,” said another merchant, pressing forward with the coin in his hand.
“Vidrik!” Madam Strollo turned from her argument with her florid neighbor. “Vidrik, this is your fault! You owe these initiates some copper, at the very least.”
“My fault? Now look here-”
“No, you look here! When they speak of the Videnza now they’ll say, ‘Ah, that’s where they rob priests, isn’t it?’ For the Twelve’s sake! Just like Catchfire! Or worse!” She spat. “You give something to make amends or I’ll harp on your captain and you’ll end up rowing a shitboat until your hair turns gray and your teeth come out at the roots.”
Grimacing, the watch-sergeant stepped forward and reached for his purse, but there was already a tight press around the two boys; they were helped to their feet, and Locke received too many comforting pats on the back to count. They were plied with coins, fruit, and small gifts; one merchant tossed his more valuable coins into a coat pocket and handed over his purse. Locke and Galdo adopted convincing expressions of bewilderment and surprise. As each gift was handed over to them, they protested as best they could, for form’s sake.
6
IT WAS the fourth hour of the afternoon before the body of Antrim One-Hand was safely stashed in the damp sanctuary of the House of Perelandro. The three white-robed boys (for Calo had rejoined them safely at the edge of the Temple District) padded down the steps and took their seats beside Father Chains, who sat in his usual spot with one burly arm thrown over the rim of his copper kettle.
“So,” he said. “Boys. Is Jessaline going to be sorry she saved my life?”
“Not at all,” said Locke.
“It’s a great corpse,” said Calo.
“Smells a bit,” said Galdo.
“Other than that,” said Calo, “it’s a fantastic corpse.”
“Hanged at noon,” said Locke. “Still fresh.”
“I’m very pleased. Very, very pleased. But I really must ask-why the hell have men and women been throwing money in my kettle for the past half hour, telling me they’re sorry for what happened in the Videnza?”
“It’s because they’re sorry for what happened in the Videnza,” said Galdo.
“It wasn’t a burning tavern, Benefactor’s own truth,” said Locke.
“What,” said Chains, speaking slowly as though to a misbehaving pet, “did you boys do with the corpse before you stashed it in the temple?”
“Made money.” Locke tossed the merchant’s donated purse into the kettle, where it hit with a heavy clang. “Twenty-three solons three, to be precise.”
“And a basket of oranges,” said Calo.
“Plus a packet of candles,” added Galdo, “two loaves of black pepper bread, a wax carton of small beer, and some glow-globes.”
Chains was silent for a moment, and then he actually peeked down into the kettle, pretending to readjust his blindfold by raising it just a bit at the bottom. Calo and Galdo began to confide the roughest outline of the scheme Locke
had prepared and executed with their help, giggling as they did so.
“Bugger me bloody with a boathook,” Chains said when they finished. “I don’t recall telling you that your leash was slipped enough for fucking street theater, Locke.”
“We had to get our money back somehow,” said Locke. “Cost us fifteen silvers to get the body from the Palace of Patience. Now we’re up some, plus candles and bread and beer.”
“Oranges,” said Calo.
“Glow-globes,” said Galdo. “Don’t forget those; they’re pretty.”
“Crooked Warden,” said Chains. “Just this morning I was suffering from the delusion that I was handing out the educations here.”
They sat in companionable silence for a few moments after that, while the sun settled into its downward arc in the west and long shadows began to creep across the face of the city.
“Well, what the hell.” Chains rattled his manacles a few times to keep up his circulation. “I’ll take back what I gave you to spend. Of the extra, Calo, you and Galdo can have a silver apiece to do as you please. Locke, you can have the rest to put toward your…dues. It was fairly stolen.”
At that moment, a well-dressed man in a forest-green coat and a four-cornered hat walked up to the temple steps. He threw a handful of coins into the kettle; they sounded like mingled silver and copper as they clattered. The man tipped his hat to the three boys and said, “I’m from the Videnza. I want you to know that I’m furious about what happened.”
“One hundred years of health for you and your children,” said Locke, “and the blessings of the Lord of the Overlooked.”
CHAPTER FIVE. THE GRAY KING
1
“YOU SEEM TO be spending a great deal of our money very quickly, Lukas,” said Doña Sofia Salvara.
“Circumstance has blessed us, Doña Sofia.” Locke gave a smile that was a measure of great triumph by Fehrwight standards, a tight-lipped little thing that might have been a grimace of pain from anyone else. “Everything is proceeding with the most agreeable speed. Ships and men and cargo, and soon all we’ll need to do is pack your wardrobe for a short voyage!”
“Indeed, indeed.” Were those dark circles under her eyes? Was there the slightest hint of wariness in her attitude toward him? She certainly wasn’t at ease. Locke made a mental note to avoid pushing her too far, too fast. It was a delicate dance, playing straight lines and smiles with someone who knew he was a mummer but didn’t know that he knew she knew.
With the slightest sigh, Doña Sofia pressed her personal sigil down into the warm blue wax at the bottom of the parchment she was contemplating. She added a few flowing lines of ink above the seal, her signature in the curving Therin script that had become something of a fad among literate nobles in the past few years. “If you say you require another four thousand today, another four thousand it must be.”
“I am most sincerely grateful, my lady.”
“Well, you’ll certainly pay for it soon enough,” she said. “Many times over, if our hopes play out.” At that she smiled, with genuine good humor that crinkled the edges of her eyes, and held out the fresh promissory note.
Oh-ho, thought Locke. Much better. The more in control the mark thinks they are, the more easily they respond to real control. Another one of Father Chains’ old maxims, proven in Locke’s experience too many times to count.
“Please give my warmest regards to your husband when he returns from his business in the city, my lady,” said Locke, taking the wax-sealed parchment in hand. “Now, I fear, I must go see some men about…payments that will not appear on any official ledger.”
“Of course. I quite understand. Conté can show you out.”
The gruff, weathered man-at-arms was paler than usual, and it seemed to Locke that there was a slight but obvious hitch in his stride. Yes-the poor fellow was clearly favoring a certain badly bruised portion of his anatomy. Locke’s stomach turned in unconscious sympathy at his own memory of that night.
“I say, Conté,” he began politely, “are you feeling quite well? You seem…forgive me for saying so…troubled this past day or two.”
“I’m well for the most part, Master Fehrwight.” There was a slight hardening of the lines at the edges of the man’s mouth. “Perhaps a bit under the weather.”
“Nothing serious?”
“A minor ague, perhaps. They happen, this time of year.”
“Ah. One of the tricks of your climate. I’ve not yet felt such a thing, myself.”
“Well,” said Conté, with an absolute lack of expression on his face, “mind yourself then, Master Fehrwight. Camorr can be a very dangerous place in the most unlooked-for ways.”
Oh-ho-HO, Locke thought. So they’d let him in on the secret, as well. And the man had a proud streak at least as wide as Sofia’s, to drop even the slightest hint of a threat. Worth noting, that.
“I’m the very soul of caution, my dear Conté.” Locke tucked the promissory note within his black waistcoat and adjusted his cascading cravats as they approached the front door of the Salvara manor. “I keep my chambers very well illuminated, to ward off miasmas, and I wear copper rings after Falselight. Just the thing for your hot-and-cold fevers. I would wager that a few days at sea will put you right.”
“No doubt,” said Conté. “The voyage. I do look forward to the…voyage.”
“Then we are of one mind!” Locke waited for the don’s man to open the wide glass-and-iron door for him, and as he stepped out into the moist air of Falselight, he nodded stiffly but affably. “I shall pray for your health tomorrow, my good fellow.”
“Too kind, Master Fehrwight.” The ex-soldier had set one hand on the hilt of one of his knives, perhaps unconsciously. “I shall most assuredly offer prayers concerning yours.”
2
LOCKE BEGAN walking south at a leisurely pace, crossing from the Isla Durona to Twosilver Green as he and Calo had just a few nights previously. The Hangman’s Wind was stronger than usual, and as he walked through the park in the washed-out light of the city’s glowing Elderglass, the hiss and rustle of leaves was like the sighing of vast creatures hiding in the greenery all around him.
Just under seventeen thousand crowns in half a week; the Don Salvara game was well ahead of their original plans, which had called for a two-week span between first touch and final blow-off. Locke was certain he could get one more touch out of the don in perfect safety, push the total up over twenty-two or maybe twenty-three thousand, and then pull a vanish. Go to ground, take it easy for a few weeks, stay alert and let the Gray King mess sort itself out.
And then, as a bonus miracle, somehow convince Capa Barsavi to disengage him from Nazca, and do so without twisting the old man’s breeches. Locke sighed.
When Falselight died and true night fell, the glow never seemed to simply fade so much as recede, as though it were being drawn back within the glass, a loan reclaimed by a jealous creditor. Shadows widened and blackened until finally the whole park was swallowed by them from below. Emerald lanterns flickered to life here and there in the trees, their light soft and eerie and strangely relaxing. They offered just enough illumination to see the crushed stone paths that wound their way through the walls of trees and hedges. Locke felt as though the spring of tension within him was unwinding itself ever so slightly; he listened to the muted crunch of his own footsteps on gravel, and for a few moments he was surprised to find himself possessed by something perilously close to contentment.
He was alive, he was rich, he had made the decision not to skulk and cringe from the troubles that gnawed at his Gentlemen Bastards. And for one brief moment, in the middle of eighty-eight thousand people and all the heaving, stinking, ever-flowing noise and commerce and machinery of their city, he was alone with the gently swaying trees of Twosilver Green.
Alone.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and the old cold fear, the constant companion of anyone raised on the streets, was suddenly alive within him. It was a summer night in Twosilver
Green, the safest open park in the city, patrolled at any given time by two or three squads of yellowjackets with their night-lanterns waving on poles. Filled, sometimes to the point of comedy, with the strolling sons and daughters of the wealthy classes, holding hands and swatting insects and seeking the privacy of nooks and shadows.
Locke gazed quickly up and down the curving paths around him; he was truly alone. There was no sound in the park but for the sighing of the leaves and the buzzing of the insects; no voices or footsteps that he could hear. He twisted his right forearm, and a thin stiletto of blackened steel fell from his coat sleeve into his palm, pommel-down. He carried it straight against his arm, rendering it invisible from any distance, and hurried toward the southern gate of the park.
A mist was rising, seeping up as though the grass were pouring gray vapors into the night; Locke shivered despite the warm, heavy air. A mist was perfectly natural, wasn’t it? The whole city was blanketed in the stuff two nights out of three; a man could lose track of the end of his own nose in it sometimes. But why-
The southern gate of the park. He was standing before the southern gate of the park, staring out across an empty cobbled lane, at a mist-shrouded bridge. That bridge was the Eldren Arch, its red lanterns soft and ominous in the fog.
The Eldren Arch leading north to the Isla Durona.
He’d gotten turned around. How was that possible? His heart was beating so fast, and then-Doña Sofia. That cunning, cunning bitch. She’d done something to him…slipped him some alchemical mischief on the parchment. The ink? The wax? Was it a poison, drawing some cloud around his senses before it did its work? Was it some other drug, intended to make him ill? Petty, perfectly deniable revenge to sate her for the time being? He fumbled for the parchment, missing his inner coat pocket, aware that he was moving a bit too slowly and clumsily for the confusion to be entirely in his imagination.
