by Scott Lynch
“You’d probably be less inclined to enchantment if you didn’t have a pair of hatchets stuffed up the back of your coat.”
“Mmm.”
They walked on for another few minutes. Locke rubbed his stomach and muttered to himself.
“Jean—are you hungry, by chance?”
“I usually am. Need some more ballast for that liquor?”
“I think it might be a good idea. Damn that carousel. Another losing hand and I might have proposed marriage to that gods-damned smoking dragoness. Or just fallen out of my chair.”
“Well, let’s raid the Night Market.”
On the topmost tier of the Great Gallery, toward the northeastern end of the covered district, Locke could see the flickering light of barrel fires and lanterns, and the shadowy shapes of several people. Commerce never truly ground to a halt in Tal Verrar; with thousands of people coming and going from the Golden Steps, there was enough coin floating around for a few dozen nocturnal stall-keepers to stake out a spot just after sunset every evening. The Night Market could be a great convenience, and it was invariably more eccentric than its daytime counterpart.
As Locke and Jean strolled toward the bazaar with the night breeze blowing against them, they had a fine view of the inner harbor with its dark forest of ships’ masts. Beyond that, the rest of the city’s islands lay sensibly sleeping, dotted here and there with specks of light rather than the profligate glow of the Golden Steps. At the heart of the city, the three crescent islands of the Great Guilds (Alchemists, Artificers, and Merchants) curled around the base of the high, rocky Castellana like slumbering beasts. And atop the Castellana, like a looming stone hill planted in a field of mansions, was the dim outline of the Mon Magisteria, the fortress of the archon.
Tal Verrar was supposedly ruled by the Priori, but in reality a significant degree of power rested in the man who resided in that palace, the city’s master of arms. The office of the archon had been created following Tal Verrar’s early disgraces in the Thousand-Day War against Camorr, to take command of the army and navy out of the hands of the bickering merchant councils. But the trouble with creating military dictators, Locke reflected, was getting rid of them after the immediate crisis was past. The first archon had “declined” retirement, and his successor was, if anything, even more interested in interfering with civic affairs. Outside guarded bastions of frivolity like the Golden Steps and expatriate havens like the Savrola, the disagreements between archon and Priori kept the city on edge.
“Gentlemen!” came a voice from their left, breaking into Locke’s chain of thought. “Honored sirs. A walk across the Great Gallery cannot possibly be complete without refreshment.” Locke and Jean had reached the fringes of the Night Market; there were no other customers in sight, and the faces of at least a dozen merchants stared keenly out at them from within their little circles of fire or lamplight.
The first Verrari to throw his pitch against the gates of their good judgment was a one-armed man getting on in years, with long white hair braided down to his waist. He waved a wooden ladle at them, indicating four small casks set atop a portable counter not unlike a flat-topped wheelbarrow.
“What’s your fare?”
“Delicacies from the table of Iono himself, the sweetest taste the sea has to offer. Sharks’ eyes in brine; all fresh plucked. Crisp the shells, soft the humors, sweet the juices.”
“Sharks’ eyes? Gods, no.” Locke grimaced. “Have you more common flesh? Liver? Gills? A gill pie would be welcome.”
“Gills? Sir, gills have none of the virtues of the eyes; it is the eyes that tone the muscles, prevent cholera, and firm up a man’s mechanisms for certain, ah, marital duties.”
“I have no need of any mechanism-firming in that respect,” said Locke. “And I’m afraid my stomach is too unsettled for the splendor of sharks’ eyes at just the moment.”
“A pity, sir. For your sake, I wish I had some bit of gill to offer you, but it’s the eyes that I get, and little else. Yet I do have several types—scythe sharks, wolf sharks, blue widower….”
“We must pass, friend,” said Jean as he and Locke walked on.
“Fruit, worthy masters?” The next merchant along was a slender young woman comfortably ensconced in a cream-colored frock coat several sizes too large for her; she also wore a four-cornered hat with a small alchemical globe dangling on a chain, hanging down just above her left shoulder. She stood watch over a number of woven baskets. “Alchemical fruit, fresh hybrids. Have you ever seen the Sofia Orange of Camorr? It makes its own liquor, very sweet and powerful.”
“We are…acquainted,” said Locke. “And more liquor is not what I had in mind. Anything to recommend for an unsettled stomach?”
“Pears, sir. The world would have no unsettled stomachs if only we were all wise enough to eat several every day.”
She took up one basket, about half-full, and held it up before him. Locke sifted through the pears, which seemed firm and fresh enough, and drew out three. “Five centira,” said the fruit seller.
“A full volani?” Locke feigned outrage. “Not if the archon’s favorite whore held them between her legs and wiggled for me. One centira is too much for the lot.”
“One centira wouldn’t buy you the stems. At least I won’t lose money for four.”
“It would be an act of supreme pity,” said Locke, “for me to give you two. Fortunately for you I’m brimming with largesse; the bounty is yours.”
“Two would be an insult to the men and women who grew those, in the hot glass gardens of the Blackhands Crescent. But surely we can meet at three?”
“Three,” said Locke with a smile. “I have never been robbed in Tal Verrar before, but I’m just hungry enough to allow you the honor.” He passed two of the pears to Jean without looking while fumbling in one of his coat pockets for copper. When he tossed three coins to the fruit seller, she nodded.
“A good evening to you, Master Lamora.”
Locke froze and fixed his eyes on her. “I beg your pardon?”
“A good evening to you, is all I said, worthy master.”
“You didn’t…”
“Didn’t what?”
“Ah, nothing.” Locke sighed nervously. “I had a bit much to drink, is all. A fair evening to you, as well.”
He and Jean strolled away, and Locke took a tentative bite of his pear. It was in a fine state, neither too firm and dry nor too ripe and sticky. “Jean,” he said between bites, “did you hear what she said to me, just now?”
“I’m afraid I heard nothing but the death cry of this unfortunate pear. Listen closely: ‘Noooo, don’t eat me, please, nooo….’” Jean had already reduced his first pear to its core; as Locke watched, he popped this into his mouth, crunched it loudly, and swallowed it all but for the stem, which he flicked away.
“Thirteen gods,” said Locke, “must you do that?”
“I like the cores,” said Jean sulkily. “All the little crunchy bits.”
“Goats eat the gods-damned crunchy bits.”
“You’re not my mother.”
“Well, true. Your mother would be ugly. Oh, don’t give me that look. Go on, eat your other core; it’s got a nice juicy pear wrapped around it.”
“What did the woman say?”
“She said…oh, gods, she said nothing. I’m tipsy, is all.”
“Alchemical lanterns, sirs?” A bearded man held his arm out toward them; at least half a dozen little lanterns in ornamental gilt frames hung from it. “A pair of well-dressed gentlemen should not be without light; only scrubs scuttle about in darkness with no way to see! You’ll find no better lanterns in all the Gallery, not by night or day.”
Jean waved the man off while he and Locke finished their pears. Locke carelessly tossed his core over his shoulder, while Jean popped his into his mouth, taking pains to ensure that Locke was watching when he did.
“Mmmmmm,” he muttered with a half-full mouth, “ambrosial. But you’ll never know, you and all your fellow
culinary cowards.”
“Gentlemen. Scorpions?”
That brought Locke and Jean up short. The speaker was a cloaked, baldheaded man with the coffee-colored skin of an Okanti islander; the man was several thousand miles from home. His well-kept white teeth stood out as he smiled and bowed slightly over his wares. He stood over a dozen small wooden cages; dark shapes could be seen moving about in several of them.
“Scorpions? Real scorpions? Live ones?” Locke bent down to get a better look at the cages, but kept his distance. “What on earth for?”
“Why, you must be fresh visitors here.” The man’s Therin had a slight accent. “Many on the Sea of Brass are only too familiar with the gray rock scorpion. Can you be Karthani? Camorri?”
“Talishani,” said Jean. “These are gray rock scorpions, from here?”
“From the mainland,” said the merchant. “And their use is primarily, ahh, recreational.”
“Recreational? Are they pets?”
“Oh no, not really. The sting, you see—the sting of the gray rock scorpion is a complex thing. First there is pain, sharp and hot, as you might expect. But after a few minutes, there is a pleasant numbness, a dreamy sort of fever. It is not unlike some of the powders smoked by Jeremites. After a few stings, a body grows more used to it. The pain lessens and the dreams deepen.”
“Astonishing!”
“Commonplace,” said the merchant. “Quite a few men and women in Tal Verrar keep one close at hand, even if they don’t speak of it in public. The effect is as pleasing as liquor, yet ultimately far less costly.”
“Hmmm.” Locke scratched his chin. “Never had to stab myself with a bottle of wine, though. And this isn’t just some ruse, some amusement for visitors who wouldn’t know any better?”
The merchant’s smile broadened. He extended his right arm and pulled back the sleeve of his cloak; the dark skin of his slender forearm was dotted with little circular scars. “I would never offer a product for which I was not prepared to vouch myself.”
“Admirable,” said Locke. “And fascinating, but…perhaps there are some customs of Tal Verrar best left unexplored.”
“To your own tastes be true.” Still smiling, the man pulled his cloak sleeve back up and folded his hands before him. “After all, a scorpion hawk was never to your liking, Master Lamora.”
Locke felt a sudden cold pressure in his chest. He flicked a glance at Jean, and found the larger man instantly tense as well. Struggling to maintain his outward calm, Locke cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon?”
“I’m sorry.” The merchant blinked at him guilelessly. “I merely wished you a pleasant night, gentlemen.”
“Right.” Locke eyed him for a moment or two longer, then stepped back, turned on his heel, and began to walk across the Night Market once more. Jean was at his side immediately.
“You heard that,” whispered Locke.
“Very clearly,” said Jean. “I wonder who our friendly scorpion merchant works for?”
“It’s not just him,” muttered Locke. “The fruit seller called me ‘Lamora’ as well. You didn’t hear that one, but I damn well did.”
“Shit. Want to double back and grab one of them?”
“Going somewhere, Master Lamora?”
Locke almost whirled on the middle-aged female merchant who stepped toward them from their right; he managed to keep the six-inch stiletto concealed up his coat sleeve from flying reflexively into his hand. Jean put one arm beneath the back of his coat.
“You seem to be mistaken, madam,” said Locke. “My name is Leocanto Kosta.”
The woman made no further move toward them; she merely smiled and chuckled. “Lamora…Locke Lamora.”
“Jean Tannen,” said the scorpion merchant, who had stepped out from behind his little cage-covered table. Other merchants were moving slowly behind them, staring fixedly at Locke and Jean.
“There seems to be a, ah, misunderstanding afoot,” said Jean. He slid his right hand back out from under his coat; Locke knew from long experience that the head of one of his hatchets would be cupped in his palm, with the handle concealed up his sleeve.
“No misunderstanding,” said the scorpion merchant.
“Thorn of Camorr…,” said a little girl who stepped out to block their progress toward the Savrola side of the Great Gallery.
“Thorn of Camorr…,” said the middle-aged woman.
“Gentlemen Bastards,” said the scorpion merchant. “Far from home.”
Locke glanced around, his heart hammering in his chest. Deciding that the time for discretion was past, he let his stiletto fall into his itching fingers. All the merchants in the Night Market seemed to have taken an interest in them; they were surrounded, and the merchants were slowly tightening the circle. They cast long dark shadows upon the stones at Locke and Jean’s feet. Was Locke imagining things, or were some of the lights dimming? Already the Night Gallery seemed darker—damn, some of the lanterns were indeed going out right before his eyes.
“That is far enough.” Jean let his hatchet fall visibly into his right hand; he and Locke pressed their backs against one another.
“No closer,” shouted Locke. “Cut the weird shit, or there’s going to be blood!”
“There has already been blood…,” said the little girl.
“Locke Lamora…,” muttered a soft chorus of the people surrounding them.
“There has already been blood, Locke Lamora,” said the middle-aged woman.
The last alchemical lanterns within the periphery of the Night Market dimmed; the last few fires banked down, and now Locke and Jean faced the circle of merchants solely by the wan light coming from the inner harbor, and from the eerie flicker of distant lamps beneath the vast, deserted Gallery, much too far away for comfort.
The little girl took one last step toward them, her eyes gray and unblinking.
“Master Lamora, Master Tannen,” she said in her clear, soft voice, “the Falconer of Karthain sends his regards.”
6
LOCKE STARED at the little girl, jaw half-open. She glided forward like an apparition, until just two paces separated them. Locke felt a pang of foolishness at holding a stiletto on a girl not yet three feet high, but then she smiled coldly in the near darkness, and the malice behind that smile steadied his hand on the hilt of the blade. The little girl reached up to touch her chin.
“Though he cannot speak,” she said.
“Though he cannot speak for himself…,” chorused the circle of merchants, now motionless in the darkness.
“Though he is mad,” said the girl, slowly spreading her hands toward Locke and Jean, palms out.
“Mad beyond measure…,” whispered the circle.
“His friends remain,” said the girl. “His friends remember.”
Jean moved beside Locke, and then both of his hatchets were out, blackened steel heads naked to the night. “These people are puppets. There are Bondsmagi somewhere around us,” he hissed.
“Show yourselves, you fucking cowards!” said Locke, speaking to the girl.
“We show our power,” she replied.
“What more do you need?” whispered the chorus in their ragged circle, their eyes empty as reflecting pools.
“What more do you need to see, Master Lamora?” The little girl gave a sinister parody of a curtsy.
“Whatever you want,” said Locke, “leave these people out of it. Just fucking talk to us. We don’t want to hurt these people.”
“Of course, Master Lamora….”
“Of course…,” whispered the circle.
“Of course, that’s the point,” said the girl. “So you must hear what we have to say.”
“State your gods-damned business, then.”
“You must answer,” said the girl.
“Answer for the Falconer,” said the chorus.
“You must answer. Both of you.”
“Of all the…fuck you!” said Locke, his voice rising to a shout. “We did answer for the Falconer
. Our answer was ten lost fingers and a lost tongue, for three dead friends. You got him back alive and it was more than he deserved!”
“Not for you to judge,” hissed the girl.
“…judge the Magi of Karthain…,” whispered the circle.
“Not for you to judge, nor for you to presume a grasp of our laws,” said the girl.
“All the world knows it’s death to slay a Bondsmage,” said Jean. “That, and little else. We let him live and took pains to return him to you. Our business is ended. If you wanted a more complicated treatment than that, you should have sent a fucking letter.”
“This is not business,” said the girl.
“But personal,” said the circle.
“Personal,” repeated the girl. “A brother has been blooded; we cannot let this stand unanswered.”
“You sons of bitches,” said Locke. “You really think you’re fucking gods, don’t you? I didn’t mug the Falconer in an alley and take his purse. He helped murder my friends! I’m not sorry he’s mad and I’m not sorry for the rest of you! Kill us and get on with your business, or piss off and let these people go free.”
“No,” said the scorpion merchant. A whispered chorus of “no” came from around the circle.
“Cowards. Pissants!” Jean pointed one of his hatchets at the little girl as he spoke. “You can’t scare us with this penny-theater bullshit!”
“If you force us to,” said Locke, “we’ll fight you with the weapons in our hands, all the way to Karthain. You bleed like the rest of us. Seems to me all you can do is kill us.”
“No,” said the girl, giggling.
“We can do worse,” said the fruit seller.
“We can let you live,” said the scorpion merchant.
“Live, uncertain,” said the girl.
“Uncertain…,” said the chorus of merchants as they began to step backward, widening their circle.
“Watched,” said the girl.
“Followed,” said the circle.
“Now wait,” said the girl. “Run your little games, and chase your little fortunes….”
“And wait,” whispered the chorus. “Wait for our answer.”
