by Scott Lynch
At least he had room to maneuver now.
Without a word between them, the Berangias sisters took to their heels and rushed at him, four knives gleaming. It was their own professionalism that saved Jean this time. He knew before it happened that one would feint and one would strike home. The sister on his left, the one with the broken nose, attacked a split second before the one on his right. With his left-hand hatchet raised as a guard, he stepped directly into the path of the one on his left. The other sister, eyes wide in surprise, lunged at the space he’d just slipped out of, and Jean swung his right-hand hatchet in a backhand arc, ball first, that caught her directly atop her skull. There was a wet crack, and she hit the floor hard, knives falling from her nerveless fingers.
The remaining sister screamed, and Jean’s own mistake caught up with him at that moment; a feint can become a killing strike once more with very little effort. Her blades slashed out just as he was raising his right-hand hatchet once again; he caught and deflected one with his raised hatchet, but the other slid agonizingly across his ribs just beneath his right breast, laying open skin and fat and muscle. He gasped, and she kicked him in the stomach, staggering him. He toppled onto his back.
She was right on top of him, blood streaming down her face and neck, eyes full of white-hot hate. As she lunged down, he kicked out with both of his legs. The air exploded out of her lungs and she flew back, but there was a sharp pain in his right biceps, and a line of fire seemed to erupt on his left thigh. Damn, she’d had her blades in him when he pushed her back! She’d slashed open a ragged line along the top of his thigh, with his help. He groaned. This had to end quickly, or blood loss would do for him as surely as the blades of the surviving sister.
She was back on her feet already; gods, she was fast. Jean heaved himself up to his knees, feeling a tearing pain across his right ribs. He could feel warm wetness cascading down his stomach and his legs; that wetness was time, running out. She was charging at him again; red light gleamed on steel, and Jean made his last move.
His right arm didn’t feel strong enough for a proper throw, so he tossed his right-hand hatchet at her, underhand, directly into her face. It didn’t have the speed to injure, let alone kill, but she flinched for a second, and that was long enough. Jean whipped his left-hand hatchet sideways and into her right knee; it broke with the most satisfying noise Jean could recall hearing in his life. She staggered; a rapid yank and a backhand whirl, and his blade bit deep into the front of her other knee. Her blades came down at him then, and he threw himself sideways. Steel whistled just past his ears as its wielder toppled forward, unable to bear weight on her legs any longer. She screamed once again.
Jean rolled several times to his right-a wise decision. When he stumbled up to his feet, clutching at his right side, he saw the surviving sister dragging herself toward him, one blade still held tightly in her right hand.
“You’re bleeding hard, Tannen. You won’t live out the night, you fucking bastard.”
“That’s Gentleman Bastard,” he said. “And there’s a chance I won’t. But you know what? Calo and Galdo Sanza are laughing at you, bitch.”
He wound up with his left arm and let his remaining hatchet fly, a true throw this time, with all the strength and hatred he could put behind it. The blade struck home right between the Berangias sister’s eyes. With the most incredible expression of surprise on her face she fell forward and sprawled like a rag doll.
Jean wasted no time in reflection. He gathered his hatchets and threw on one of the sisters’ oilcloaks, putting up the hood. His head was swimming; he recognized all the signs of blood loss, which he’d had the misfortune to experience before. Leaving the bodies of the Berangias sisters in the light of the fallen glow-globes, he stumbled back out into the night. He would avoid the Cauldron, where some sort of trouble was sure to lurk, and make a straight run across the north of the Wooden Waste. If he could just make it to the Ashfall hovel, Ibelius would be there, and Ibelius would have some trick up his sleeves.
If the dog-leech attempted to use a poultice on him, however, Jean was likely to break his fingers.
5
IN HER solarium atop Amberglass tower, Doña Vorchenza spent the midnight hour in her favorite chair, peering at the evening’s notes. There were reports of the ongoing strife from the Gray King’s ascension to Barsavi’s seat; more thieves found lying in abandoned buildings with their throats slashed. Vorchenza shook her head; this mess was really the last thing she needed with the affair of the Thorn finally coming to a head. Raza had identified and exiled half a dozen of her spies among the gangs; that in itself was deeply troubling. None of them had been aware of one another, as agents. So either all of her agents were clumsier than she’d suspected, or Raza was fantastically observant. Or there was a breach in her trust at some level above the spies on the street.
Damnation. And why had the man exiled them, rather than slaying them outright? Was he trying to avoid antagonizing her? He’d certainly not succeeded. It was time to send him a very clear message of her own-to summon this Capa Raza to a meeting with Stephen, with forty or fifty blackjackets to emphasize her points.
The elaborate locks to her solarium door clicked, and the door slid open. She hadn’t been expecting Stephen to return this evening; what a fortunate coincidence. She could give him her thoughts on the Raza situation…
The man that entered her solarium wasn’t Stephen Reynart.
He was a rugged man, lean-cheeked and dark-eyed; his black hair was slashed with gray at his temples, and he strolled into her most private chamber as though he belonged there. He wore a gray coat, gray breeches, gray hose, and gray shoes; his gloves and vest were gray, and only the silk neck-cloths tied casually above his chest had color; they were bloodred.
Doña Vorchenza’s heart hammered; she put a hand to her chest and stared in disbelief. Not only had the intruder managed to open the door, and done so without taking a crossbow bolt in the back, but there was another man behind him-a younger man, bright-eyed and balding, dressed in a similar gray fashion, with only the bright scarlet cuffs of his coat to set him apart.
“Who the hell are you?” she bellowed, and for a moment that age-weakened voice rose to something like its old power. She rose from her seat, fists clenched. “How did you get up here?”
“We are your servants, my lady Vorchenza; your servants come to pay you our proper respects at last. You must forgive us our previous discourtesy; things have been so busy of late in my little kingdom.”
“You speak as though I should know you, sir. I asked your name.”
“I have several,” said the older man, “but now I am called Capa Raza. This is my associate, who styles himself the Falconer. And as for how we came to your truly lovely solarium…”
He gestured to the Falconer, who held up his left hand, palm spread toward Doña Vorchenza. The coat sleeve fell away, revealing three thick black lines tattooed at his wrist.
“Gods,” Vorchenza whispered. “A Bondsmage.”
“Indeed,” said Capa Raza, “for which, forgive me, but his arts seemed the only way to ensure that your servants would haul us up here, and the only way to ensure we could enter your sanctum without disturbing you beforehand.”
“I am disturbed now,” she spat. “What is your meaning here?”
“It is past time,” said Raza, “for my associate and I to have a conversation with the duke’s Spider.”
“What are you speaking of? This is my tower; other than my servants, there is no one else here.”
“True,” said Capa Raza, “so there is no need to maintain your little fiction before us, my lady.”
“You,” said Doña Vorchenza coldly and levelly, “are greatly mistaken.”
“Those files behind you, what are they? Recipes? Those notes beside your chair-does Stephen Reynart give you regular reports on the cuts and colors of this year’s new dresses, fresh off the docks? Come, my lady. I have very unusual means of gathering information, and I am no
dullard. I would construe any further dissembling on your part as a deliberate insult.”
“I regard your uninvited presence here,” said Doña Vorchenza after a moment of consideration, “as nothing less.”
“I have displeased you,” said Raza, “and for that I apologize. But have you any means to back that displeasure with force? Your servants sleep peacefully; your Reynart and all of your Midnighters are elsewhere, prying into my affairs. You are alone with us, Doña Vorchenza, so why not speak civilly? I have come to be civil, and to speak in earnest.”
She stared coldly at him for several moments, and then waved a hand at one of the solarium’s armchairs. “Have a seat, Master Revenge. I fear there’s no comfortable chair for your associate.”
“It will be well,” said the Falconer. “I’m very fond of writing desks.” He settled himself behind the little desk near the door, while Raza crossed the room and sat down opposite Doña Vorchenza.
“Hmmm. Revenge, indeed. And have you had it?”
“I have,” said Capa Raza cheerfully. “I find it’s everything it’s been made out to be.”
“You bore Capa Barsavi some grudge?”
“Ha! Some grudge, yes. It could be said that’s why I had his sons murdered while he watched, and then fed him to the sharks he so loved.”
“Old business between the two of you?”
“I have dreamed of Vencarlo Barsavi’s ruin for twenty years,” said Raza. “And now I’ve brought it about, and I’ve replaced him. I’m sorry if this affair has been…an inconvenience for you. But that is all that I am sorry for.”
“Barsavi was not a kind man,” said Vorchenza. “He was a ruthless criminal. But he was perceptive; he understood many things the lesser capas did not. The arrangement I made with him bore fruit on both sides.”
“And it would be a shame to lose it,” said Raza. “I admire the Secret Peace very much, Doña Vorchenza. My admiration for it is quite distinct from my loathing for Barsavi. I should like to see the arrangement continued in full. I gave orders to that effect, on the very night I took Barsavi’s place.”
“So my agents tell me,” said Doña Vorchenza. “But I must confess I had hoped to hear it in your own words before now.”
“My delay was unavoidable,” said Raza. “But there we are; I have terrible manners, to which I readily admit. Allow me to make it up to you.”
“How so?”
“I should greatly enjoy a chance to attend the duke’s Day of Changes feast; I am capable of dressing and acting rather well. I could be introduced as a gentleman of independent means-I assure you, no one in Raven’s Reach would recognize me. I gazed up at these towers as a boy in Camorr. I should like to pay my proper respects to the peers of Camorr just once. I would not come without gifts; I have something rather lavish in mind.”
“That,” said Doña Vorchenza slowly, “may be too much to ask. Our worlds, Capa Raza, are not meant to meet; I do not come to your thieves’ revels.”
“Yet your agents do,” he said cheerfully.
“No longer. Tell me, why did you order them exiled? The penalty for turncoating among your people is death. So why didn’t they merit a knife across the throat?”
“Would you really prefer them dead, Doña Vorchenza?”
“Hardly. But I am curious about your motives.”
“I, for my part, thought they were transparent. I need to have a measure of security; I simply cannot leave your agents lying about underfoot, as Barsavi did. Of course, I didn’t want to antagonize you more than necessary, so I presumed letting them live would be a friendly gesture.”
“Hmmm.”
“Doña Vorchenza,” said Raza, “I have every confidence that you will begin the work of inserting new agents into the ranks of my people almost immediately. I welcome it; may the most subtle planner win. But we have set aside the main point of this conversation.”
“Capa Raza,” said the doña, “you do not seem to be a man who needs sentiments wrapped in delicacy to salve his feelings, so let me be plain. It is one thing entirely for the two of us to have a working relationship, to preserve the Secret Peace for the good of all Camorr. I am even content to meet with you here, if I must, assuming you are properly invited and escorted. But I simply cannot bring a man of your station into the duke’s presence.”
“That is disappointing,” said Capa Raza. “Yet he can have Giancana Meraggio as a guest, can he not? A man who utilized my predecessor’s services on many occasions? And many other captains of shipping and finance who profited from arrangements with Barsavi’s gangs? The Secret Peace enriches every peer of Camorr; I am, in effect, their servant. My forbearance keeps money in their pockets. Am I truly so base a creature that I cannot stand by the refreshment tables a while and merely enjoy the sights of the affair? Wander the Sky Garden and satisfy my curiosity?”
“Capa Raza,” said Doña Vorchenza, “you are plucking at strings of conscience that will yield no sound; I am not the duke’s Spider because I have a soft heart. I mean you no insult, truly, but let me frame it in these terms; you have been Capa now for barely one week. I have only begun to form my opinion of you. You remain a stranger, sir; if you rule a year from now, and you maintain stability among the Right People, and preserve the Secret Peace, well then-perhaps some consideration could be given to what you propose.”
“And that is how it must be?”
“That is how it must be-for now.”
“Alas,” said Capa Raza. “This refusal pains me more than you could know; I have gifts that I simply cannot wait until next year to reveal to all the peers of this fair city. I must, with all apologies, refuse your refusal.”
“What on earth do you mean?”
“Falconer…”
The Bondsmage stood up at Doña Vorchenza’s writing desk; he’d taken a quill in his hands and set one of her sheets of parchment out before him. “Doña Vorchenza,” he said as he wrote in a bold, looping script; “Angiavesta Vorchenza, is it not? What a lovely name…what a very lovely, very true name…”
In his left hand the silver thread wove back and forth; his fingers flew, and on the page a strange silver-blue glow began to arise; ANGIAVESTA VORCHENZA was outlined in that fire, and across the room the Doña moaned and clutched her head.
“I am sorry to press my case by less than amiable means, Doña Vorchenza,” said Capa Raza, “but can you not see that it would be to the duke’s very great advantage to have me as his guest? Surely you would not want to deny him those gifts which I would place at his feet, with all due respect.”
“I…I cannot say…”
“Yes,” said the Falconer. “Oh yes, you would be very pleased to accept this idea; to ensure that Capa Raza was invited to the Day of Changes feast, in the most cordial spirit of good fellowship.”
The words on the parchment in his hands glowed more brightly.
“Capa Raza,” said Doña Vorchenza slowly, “you must…of course…accept the duke’s hospitality.”
“You will not be denied,” said the Falconer. “Capa Raza must agree to accept your invitation; you simply will not settle for a refusal.”
“I will not…take no…for an answer.”
“And I will not give it,” said Raza. “You are most kind, Doña Vorchenza. Most kind. And my gifts? I have four exquisite sculptures I should like to give to the duke. I have no need to intrude on his affairs; my men can simply leave them somewhere at the feast, with your cooperation. We can bring them to his attention when he is less pressed for time.”
“How lovely,” said the Falconer. “You are very fond of this suggestion.”
“Nothing…would please me more…Capa Raza. Very…proper of you.”
“Yes,” said Capa Raza, “it is very proper of me. It is only just.” He chuckled, then rose from his seat and waved to the Falconer.
“Doña Vorchenza,” said the Bondsmage, “this conversation has pleased you greatly. You will look forward to seeing Capa Raza at the Day of Changes, and to lending him e
very assistance in bringing his important gifts into Raven’s Reach.” He folded the parchment and slipped it into a waistcoat pocket, then made a few more gestures with his silver thread.
Doña Vorchenza blinked several times, and breathed deeply. “Capa Raza,” she said, “must you really go? It has made for a pleasant diversion, speaking to you this evening.”
“And I, for my part, have found you the most charming of hostesses, my lady Vorchenza.” He bowed from the waist, right foot forward in perfect courtly fashion. “But business is pressing everywhere; I must be about mine, and leave you to yours.”
“So be it, dear boy.” She began to rise, and he gestured for her to stay seated.
“No, no; don’t trouble yourself on our account. We can find our way back down your lovely tower on our own; pray return to whatever you were doing before I interrupted.”
“It was hardly an interruption,” said Doña Vorchenza. “I shall see you, then, on the Day of Changes? You will accept the invitation?”
“Yes,” said Capa Raza. He turned and favored her with a smile before he stepped out through the solarium door. “I gladly accept your invitation. And I shall see you on the Day of Changes, at Raven’s Reach.”
INTERLUDE
The Daughters of Camorr
The first true revolution in Camorr’s criminal affairs came long before Capa Barsavi. It predated his rise by nearly fifty years, in fact, and it came about entirely as the result of a certain lack of self-control on the part of a pimp called Rude Trevor Vargas.
Rude Trevor had a great many other nicknames, most of them used privately in his little stable of whores. To say that he was an intemperate, murderous lunatic would wound the feelings of most intemperate, murderous lunatics. As was often the case, he was a greater danger to his own whores than the marks they plied for coppers and silvers. The only protection he really offered them was protection from his own fists, which could be had by giving him all but a tiny fraction of the money they worked for.
