by Scott Lynch
Jean nodded sagely and slipped his takings into his coat pocket.
The next night, after making inquiries, he sauntered into a north-side dive called the Sign of the Brimming Cup. The only thing the tavern was brimming with was thugs, a good seven or eight of them, all with dirty black cloths tied around the arms of their jackets and tunics. They were the only customers, and they looked up with suspicion as he closed the door behind him and carefully slid home the wooden bolt.
“Good evening!” He smiled and cracked his knuckles. “I’m curious. Who’s the biggest, meanest motherfucker in the Black Sleeves?”
The day after that, he collected his taxes from the Brass Coves with the bruised knuckles of his right hand wrapped in a poultice. For the first time, most of the boys paid enthusiastically. A few even started to call him “Tav.”
4
BUT LOCKE did not exercise his wounds, as he’d promised.
Locke’s thin supply of coins was parceled out for wine; his poison of choice was a particularly cheap local slop. More purple than red, with a bouquet like turpentine, its scent soon saturated the room he shared with Jean at the Silver Lantern. Locke took it constantly “for the pain”; Jean remarked one evening that his pain must be increasing as the days went on, for the empty skins and bottles were multiplying proportionally. They quarreled—or more accurately rekindled their ongoing quarrel—and Jean stomped off into the night, for neither the first nor the last time.
Those first few days in Vel Virazzo, Locke would totter down the steps to the common room some nights, where he would play a few desultory hands of cards with some of the locals. He conned them mirthlessly with whatever fast-fingers tricks he could manage with just one good hand. Soon enough they began to shun his games and his bad attitude, and he retreated back to the third floor, to drink alone in silence. Food and cleanliness remained afterthoughts. Jean tried to get a dog-leech in to examine Locke’s wounds, but Locke drove the man out with a string of invective that made Jean (whose speech could be colorful enough to strike fire from damp tinder) blush.
“Of your friend, I can find no trace,” said the man. “He seems to have been eaten by one of the thin hairless apes from the Okanti isles; all it does is screech at me. What became of the last leech to take a look at him?”
“We left him in Talisham,” said Jean. “I’m afraid my friend’s attitude moved him to bring an early end to his own sea voyage.”
“Well, I might have done the same. I waive my fee, in profound sympathy. Keep your silver—you shall need it for wine. Or poison.”
More and more, Jean found himself spending time with the Brass Coves for no better reason than to avoid Locke. A week passed, then another. “Tavrin Callas” was becoming a known and solidly respected figure in Vel Virazzo’s crooked fraternity. Jean’s arguments with Locke became more circular, more frustrating, more pointless. Jean instinctively recognized the downward arc of terminal self-pity, but had never dreamed that he’d have to drag Locke, of all people, out of it. He avoided the problem by training the Coves.
At first, he passed on just a few hints—how to use simple hand signals around strangers, how to set distractions before picking pockets, how to tell real gems from paste and avoid stealing the latter. Inevitably, he began to receive respectful entreaties to “show them a thing or two” of the tricks he’d used to pound four Coves into the ground. First in line with these requests were the four who’d been pounded.
A week after that, the alchemy was fully under way. Half a dozen boys were rolling around in the dust of the tannery floor while Jean coached them on all the essentials—leverage, initiative, situational awareness. He began to demonstrate the tricks, both merciful and cruel, that had kept him alive over half a lifetime spent making his points with his fists and hatchets.
Under Jean’s influence, the boys began to take more of an interest in the state of their old tannery. He explicitly encouraged them to start viewing it as a headquarters, which demanded certain comforts. Alchemical lanterns appeared hanging from the rafters. Fresh oilpaper was nailed up over the broken windows, and new planks and straw were raised up to the roof to plug holes. The boys stole cushions, cheap tapestries, and portable shelves.
“Find me a hearthstone,” said Jean. “Steal me a big one, and I’ll teach you poor little bastards how to cook, too. You can’t beat Camorr for chefs; even the thieves are chefs back there. I had years of training.”
He stared around at the increasingly well-maintained tannery, at the increasingly eager band of young thieves living in it, and he spoke wistfully to himself. “We all did.”
He’d tried to interest Locke in the project of the Brass Coves, but had been rebuffed. That night he tried again, explaining about their ever-increasing nightly take, their headquarters, the tips and training he was giving them. Locke stared at him for a long time, sitting on the bed with a chipped glass half-full of purple wine in his hands.
“Well,” he said at last. “Well, I can see you’ve found your replacements, haven’t you?”
Jean was too startled to say anything. Locke drained his glass and continued, his voice flat and humorless.
“That was certainly quick. Quicker than I expected. A new gang, a new burrow. Not a glass one, but you can probably fix that if you look around long enough. So here you are, playing Father Chains, lighting a fire under that kettle of happy horse-shit all over again.”
Jean exploded across the room and slapped the empty glass out of Locke’s hand; it shattered against the wall and showered half the room with glittering fragments, but Locke didn’t even blink. Instead, he leaned back against his sweat-stained pillows and sighed.
“Got any twins yet? How about a new Sabetha? A new me?”
“To hell with you!” Jean clenched his fists until he could feel the warm, slick blood seeping out beneath his nails. “To hell with you, Locke! I didn’t save your gods-damned life so you could sulk in this gods-damned hovel and pretend you’re the man who invented grief. You’re not that gods-damned special!”
“Why did you save me then, Saint Jean?”
“Of all the stupid fucking questions—”
“Why?” Locke heaved himself up off the bed and shook his fists at Jean; the effect would have been comical, but all the murder in the world was in his eyes. “I told you to leave me! Am I supposed to be grateful for this? This bloody room?”
“I didn’t make this room your whole world, Locke. You did.”
“This is what I was rescued for? Three weeks sick at sea, and now Vel Virazzo, asshole of Tal Verrar? It’s the joke of the gods, and I’m the punch-line. Dying with the Gray King was better. I told you to fucking leave me there!
“And I miss them,” he said, his voice nearly a whisper. “Gods, I miss them. It’s my fault they’re dead. I can’t … I can’t stand it.…”
“Don’t you dare,” growled Jean.
He shoved Locke in the chest, forcefully. Locke fell backward across his bed and hit the wall of the room hard enough to rattle the window shutters.
“Don’t you dare use them as an excuse for what you’re doing to yourself! Don’t you fucking dare.”
Without another word, Jean spun on his heels, walked out the door, and slammed it behind him.
5
LOCKE SANK down against the bed, put his face in his hands, and listened to the creak of Jean’s footsteps recede from the hall outside.
To his surprise, that creak returned a few minutes later, growing steadily louder. Jean threw the door open, face grim, and marched directly over to Locke with a tall wooden bucket of water in his hands. Without warning, he threw this all over Locke, who gasped in surprise and fell backward against the wall again. He shook his head like a dog and pushed his sopping hair out of his eyes.
“Jean, are you out of your fucking—”
“You needed a bath,” Jean interrupted. “You were covered in self-pity.”
He threw the bucket down and moved around the room, plucking up any bottle or
wineskin that still contained liquid. He was finished before Locke realized what he was doing; he then swiped Locke’s coin purse from the room’s little table and tossed a thin leather package down in its place.
“Hey, Jean, Jean, you can’t—that’s mine!”
“Used to be ‘ours,’ ” said Jean coldly. “I liked that better.”
When Locke tried to jump up from the bed again, Jean pushed him back down effortlessly. He then stormed out once more, and pulled the door shut behind him. There was a curious clicking noise, and then nothing—not even a creak on the floorboards. Jean was waiting right outside the door.
Snarling, Locke moved across the room and tried to pull the door open, but it held fast in its frame. He frowned in puzzlement and rattled it a few more times. The bolt was on this side, and it wasn’t shot.
“It’s a curious fact,” Jean said through the door, “that the rooms of the Silver Lantern can be locked from the outside with a special key only the innkeeper has. In case he wants to keep an unruly guest at bay while he calls for the watch, you see.”
“Jean, open this fucking door!”
“No. You open it.”
“I can’t! You told me yourself you’ve got the special key!”
“The Locke Lamora I used to know would spit on you,” said Jean. “Priest of the Crooked Warden. Garrista of the Gentlemen Bastards. Student of Father Chains. Brother to Calo, Galdo, and Bug! Tell me, what would Sabetha think of you?”
“You … you bastard! Open this door!”
“Look at yourself, Locke. You’re a fucking disgrace. Open it yourself.”
“You. Have. The. Godsdamnedmotherfuckingkey.”
“You know how to charm a lock, right? I left you some picks on the table. You want your wine back, you work the bloody door yourself.”
“You son of a bitch!”
“My mother was a saint,” said Jean. “The sweetest jewel Camorr ever produced. The city didn’t deserve her. I can wait out here all night, you know. It’ll be easy. I’ve got all your wine and all your money.”
“Gaaaaaaaaaaah!”
Locke snatched the little leather wallet off the table; he wiggled the fingers of his good right hand and regarded his left hand more dubiously; the broken wrist was mending, but it ached constantly.
He bent over the lock mechanism by the door, scowled, and went to work. He was surprised at how quickly the muscles of his back began to protest his uncomfortable posture. He stopped long enough to pull the room’s chair over so he could sit on it while he worked.
As his picks rattled around inside the lock and he bit his tongue in concentration, he heard the heavy creak of movement outside the door and a series of loud thumps.
“Jean?”
“Still here, Locke,” came Jean’s voice, now cheerful. “Gods, you’re taking your sweet time. Oh, I’m sorry—have you even started yet?”
“When I get this door open, you’re dead, Jean!”
“When you get that door open? I look forward to many long years of life, then.”
Locke redoubled his concentration, falling back into the rhythm he’d learned over so many painstaking hours as a boy—moving the picks slightly, feeling for sensations. That damn creaking and thumping had started up on the other side of the door again! What was Jean playing at now? Locke closed his eyes and tried to block the sound out of his mind … tried to let his world narrow down to the message of the picks against his fingers.
The mechanism clicked open. Locke stumbled up from his chair, jubilant and furious, and yanked the door open.
Jean had vanished, and the narrow corridor outside the room was packed wall to wall with wooden crates and barrels—an impassable barrier about three feet from Locke’s face.
“Jean, what the hell is this?”
“I’m sorry, Locke.” Jean was obviously standing directly behind his makeshift wall. “I borrowed a few things from the keeper’s larder, and got a few of the boys you cheated at cards last week to help me carry it all up here.”
Locke gave the wall a good shove, but it didn’t budge; Jean was probably putting his full weight against it. There was a faint chorus of laughter from somewhere on the other side, probably down in the common room. Locke ground his teeth together and beat the flat of his good hand against a barrel.
“What the hell’s the matter with you, Jean? You’re making a gods-damned scene!”
“Not really. Last week I told the keeper you were a Camorri don traveling incognito, trying to recover from a bout of madness. Just now I set an awful lot of silver on his bar. You do remember silver, don’t you? How we used to steal it from people, back when you were pleasant company?”
“This has ceased to amuse me, Jean! Give me back my gods-damned wine!”
“Gods-damned, it is. And I’m afraid that if you want it, you’re going to have to climb out your window.”
Locke took a step back and stared at the makeshift wall, dumbfounded.
“Jean, you can’t be serious.”
“I’ve never been more serious.”
“Go to hell. Go to hell! I can’t climb out a bloody window. My wrist—”
“You fought the Gray King with one arm nearly cut off. You climbed out a window five hundred feet up in Raven’s Reach. And here you are, three stories off the ground, helpless as a kitten in a grease barrel. Crybaby. Pissant.”
“You are deliberately trying to provoke me!”
“No shit,” said Jean. “Sharp as a cudgel, you are.”
Locke stomped back into the room, fuming. He stared at the shuttered window, bit his tongue, and stormed back to Jean’s wall.
“Please let me out,” he said, as evenly as he could manage. “Your point is driven home.”
“I’d drive it home with a blackened steel pike if I had one,” said Jean. “Why are you talking to me when you should be climbing out the window?”
“Gods damn you!”
Back to the room; Locke paced furiously. He swung his arms about tentatively; the cuts on his left arm ached, and the deep wound on his shoulder still twinged cruelly. His battered left wrist felt as though it might almost serve. Pain or no pain … he curled his left-hand fingers into a fist, stared down at them, and then looked up at the window with narrowed eyes.
“Fuck it,” he said. “I’ll show you a thing or three, you son of a bloody silk merchant.”
Locke tore his bedding apart, knotting sheet-ends to blankets, inviting twinges from his injuries. The pain only seemed to drive him on faster. He tightened his last knot, threw open the shutters, and tossed his makeshift rope out the window. He tied the end in his hands to his bed frame. It wasn’t a terribly sturdy piece of furniture, but then, he didn’t weigh all that much.
Out the window he went.
Vel Virazzo was an old, low city; Locke’s impressions as he swung there, three stories above the faintly misted street, came in flashes. Flat-topped, sagging buildings of stone and plaster … reefed sails on black masts in the harbor … white moonlight gleaming on dark water … red lights burning atop glass pylons, in a line receding out toward the horizon. Locke shut his eyes, clung to his sheets, and bit his tongue to avoid throwing up.
It seemed easiest to simply let himself slide downward; he did so in fits and starts, letting his palms grow warm against the sheets and blankets before stopping. Down ten feet … twenty … he balanced precariously on the top sill of the inn’s common-room window and gasped in a few deep breaths before continuing. Warm as the night was, he was getting chilly from the soaking he’d received.
The last end of the last sheet ended about six feet off the ground; Locke slid down as far as he could, then let himself drop. His heels slapped against the cobblestones, and he found that Jean Tannen was already waiting for him, with a cheap gray cloak in his hands. Before Locke could move, Jean flung the cloak around his shoulders.
“You son of a bitch,” cried Locke, pulling the cloak around himself with both hands. “You snake-souled, dirty-minded son of a bitch!
I hope a shark tries to suck your cock!”
“Why, Master Lamora, look at you,” said Jean. “Charming a lock, climbing out a window. Almost as though you used to be a thief.”
“I was pulling off hanging offenses when you were still teeth-on-tits in your mother’s arms!”
“And I’ve been pulling off hanging offenses while you’ve been sulking in your room, drinking away your skills.”
“I’m the best thief in Vel Virazzo,” growled Locke, “drunk or sober, awake or asleep, and you damn well know it.”
“I might have believed that once,” said Jean. “But that was a man I knew in Camorr, and he hasn’t been with me for some time.”
“Gods damn your ugly face,” yelled Locke as he stepped up to Jean and punched him in the stomach. More surprised than hurt, Jean gave him a solid shove. Locke flew backward, cloak whirling as he tried to keep his balance—until he collided with a man who’d been coming down the street.
“Mind your fucking step!” The stranger, a middle-aged man in a long orange coat and the prim clothes of a clerk or a lawscribe, wrestled for a few seconds with Locke, who clutched at him for support.
“A thousand pardons,” said Locke, “A thousand pardons, sir. My friend and I were merely having a discussion; the fault is all mine.”
“I daresay it is,” said the stranger, at last succeeding in prying Locke from his coat lapels and thrusting him away. “You have breath like a wine cask! Bloody Camorri.”
Locke watched until the man was a good twenty or thirty yards down the street, then whirled back toward Jean, dangling a little black leather purse in the air before him. It jingled with a healthy supply of heavy coins.
“Ha! What do you say to that, hmmm?”
“I say it was bloody child’s play. Doesn’t mean a gods-damned thing.”
“Child’s play? Die screaming, Jean, that was—”
