by Scott Lynch
Locke caught a flash of an elaborate, dark tattoo against the pale skin of Merrain’s upper arm—something like a grapevine entwined around a sword. Then she was off like a crossbow bolt, darting into the night, away from Jean and the false Eyes who chased her in vain for a few dozen steps before giving up and swearing loudly.
“Well what the—oh, hell,” said Locke, noticing for the first time that the false Eye Merrain had stabbed, along with Xandrin, was writhing on the ground with rivulets of foaming saliva trickling from the corners of his mouth. “Oh, shit, shit, hell,” Locke shouted, bending helplessly over the dying alchemist. The convulsions ceased in just a few seconds, and Locke stared down at the single vial of antidote in his hands, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.
“No,” said Jean from behind him. “Oh, gods, why did she do that?”
“I don’t know,” said Locke.
“What the hell do we do?”
“We…shit. Damned if I know that, either.”
“You should—”
“Nobody’s doing anything,” said Locke. “I’ll keep this safe. Once this is over, we’ll sit down with it, have dinner, talk it over. We’ll come up with something.”
“You can—”
“Time to go,” said Locke, lowering his voice to an urgent whisper. “Get what we came here for and go, before things get more complicated.” Before troops loyal to the archon notice that he’s having a bad night. Before Lyonis finds out that Requin is actually hunting for us as we speak. Before some other gods-damned surprise crawls out of the ground to bite us on the ass.
“Cordo,” he shouted, “where’s that bag you promised?”
Lyonis gestured to one of his surviving false Eyes, and the woman passed a heavy burlap sack to Locke. Locke shook it out—it was wider than he was, and nearly six feet long.
“Well, Maxilan,” he said, “I offered you the chance to forget all of this, and let us go, and keep what you had, but you had to be a fucking asshole, didn’t you?”
“Kosta,” said Stragos, at least seeming to rediscover his voice, “I…I can give you…”
“You can’t give me a gods-damned thing.” Stragos seemed to be thinking of making an attempt for Merrain’s dagger, so Locke gave it a hard kick. It skittered across the gravel and into the darkness of the gardens. “Those of us in our profession, those who hold with the Crooked Warden, have a little tradition we follow when someone close to us dies. In this case, someone who got killed as a result of this mad fucking scheme of yours.”
“Kosta, don’t throw away what I can offer—”
“We call it a death-offering,” said Locke. “Means we steal something of value, proportional to the life we lost. Except in this case I don’t think there’s anything in the world that qualifies. But we’re doing our best.”
Jean stepped up beside him and cracked his knuckles.
“Ezri Delmastro,” he said, very quietly, “I give you the archon of Tal Verrar.”
He punched Stragos so hard that the archon’s feet left the gravel. In a moment, he was stuffing the unconscious old man into the burlap sack. Another moment, and the sack was tied off, and slung over his shoulder like a bag of potatoes.
“Well, Lyonis,” said Locke, “best of luck with your revolution, or whatever the hell it is. We’re sneaking out of here before things have a chance to get any more interesting on us.”
“And Stragos—”
“You’ll never see him again,” said Locke.
“Good enough, then. Are you leaving the city?”
“Not half fast enough for our gods-damned taste.”
13
JEAN DUMPED him on the quarterdeck, under the eyes of Zamira and all the surviving crew. It had been a long and arduous trip back—first to retrieve their backpacks from Cordo’s little boat, and then to dutifully retrieve Drakasha’s ship’s boat, and then to row nearly out to sea—but it had all been worth it. The entire night had been worth it, Locke decided, just to see the expression on Stragos’ face when he found Zamira standing over him.
“Dr…r…akasha,” he mumbled, then spit one of his teeth onto the deck. Blood ran in several streams down his chin.
“Maxilan Stragos, former archon of Tal Verrar,” she said. “Final archon of Tal Verrar. Last time I saw you my perspective was somewhat different.”
“As was…mine.” He sighed. “What now?”
“There are too many debts riding on your carcass to buy them off with death,” said Zamira. “We thought long and hard about this. We’ve decided that we’re going to try to keep you around as long as we possibly can.”
She snapped her fingers, and Jabril stepped forward, carrying a mass of sturdy, if slightly rusted, iron chains and cuffs in his arms. He dropped them on the deck next to Stragos and laughed as the old man jumped. The hands of other crewfolk seized him, and he began to sob in disbelief as his legs and arms were clamped, and as the chains were draped around him.
“You’re going in the orlop, Stragos. You’re going into the dark. And we’re going to treat it as a special privilege, to carry you around with us wherever we go. In any weather, in any sea, in any heat. We’re going to haul you a mighty long way. You and your irons. Long after your clothes fall off, I guarantee, you’ll still have those to wear.”
“Drakasha, please…”
“Throw him as far down as we got,” she said, and half a dozen crewfolk began carrying him toward a main-deck hatch. “Chain him to the bulkhead. Then let him get cozy.”
“Drakasha,” he screamed, “you can’t! You can’t! I’ll go mad!”
“I know,” she said. “And you’ll scream. Gods, how you’ll wail down there. But that’s okay. We can always do with a bit of music at sea.”
Then he was carried below the Poison Orchid ’s deck, to the rest of his life.
“Well,” said Drakasha, turning to Locke and Jean. “You two delivered. I’ll be damned, but you got what you wanted.”
“No, Captain,” said Jean. “We got what we went after, mostly. But we didn’t get what we wanted. Not by a long gods-damned shot.”
“I’m sorry, Jerome,” she said.
“I hope nobody ever calls me that again,” said Jean. “The name is Jean.”
“Locke and Jean,” she said. “All right, then. Can I take you two somewhere?”
“Vel Virazzo, if you don’t mind,” said Locke. “We’ve got some business to transact.”
“And then you’ll be rich men?”
“We’ll be in funds, yes. Do you want some, for your—”
“No,” she said. “You went into Tal Verrar and did the stealing. Keep it. We’ve got swag enough from Salon Corbeau, and so few ways to split it now. We’ll be fine. So what will you do after that?”
“We had a plan,” said Locke. “Remember what you told me at the rail that night? If someone tries to draw lines around your ship, just…set more sail?”
Drakasha nodded.
“I guess you could say we’re going to give it a try,” said Locke.
“Will you need anything else, then?”
“Well,” said Locke, “for safety’s sake, given our past history…perhaps you’d let us consider borrowing one of your ship’s cats?”
14
THEY MET the next day, at Requin’s invitation, in what could only be described as the wreckage of his office. The main door was smashed off its hinges, the suite of chairs still lay broken across the floor, and of course almost all of the paintings on the walls had been sliced out of their frames. Requin seemed to derive a perverse pleasure in seating the seven Priori on fine chairs in the midst of the chaos and pretending that all was perfectly normal. Selendri paced the room behind the guests.
“Has everything gone more smoothly for you ladies and gentlemen since last night?” asked Requin.
“Fighting’s ended in the Sword Marina,” said Jacantha Tiga, youngest of the Inner Seven. “The navy is on the leash.”
“The Mon Magisteria is ours,” said Lyonis Cord
o, standing in for his father. “All of Stragos’ captains are in custody, except for two captains of intelligence—”
“We can’t have another fucking Ravelle incident,” said a middle-aged Priori.
“I’ve got people working on that issue myself,” said Requin. “They won’t go to ground within the city, I can promise that much.”
“The ambassadors from Talisham, Espara, and the Kingdom of the Seven Marrows have publicly expressed confidence in the leadership of the council,” said Tiga.
“I know,” said Requin, smiling. “I forgave them some rather substantial debts last night, and suggested that they might make themselves useful to the new regime. Now, what about the Eyes?”
“About half of them are alive and in custody,” said Cordo. “The rest are dead, with just a few thought to be trying to stir up resistance.”
“They won’t get far,” said Tiga. “Loyalty to the old archonate won’t buy food or beer. I expect they’ll turn up dead here and there once they annoy the regulars too much.”
“We’ll have the rest quietly gotten rid of over the next few days,” said Cordo.
“Now, I wonder,” said Requin, “if that’s really so very wise. The Eyes of the Archon represent a significant pool of highly trained and committed people. Surely there’s got to be a better use for them than filling graves.”
“They were loyal to Stragos alone—”
“Or perhaps to Tal Verrar, were you to ask them.” Requin placed a hand over his heart. “My patriotic duty compels me to point this out.”
Cordo snorted. “They were his shock troops, his bodyguards, his torturers. They’re useless to us, if not actively seditious.”
“Perhaps, for all of his vaunted military understanding, our dear departed archon employed the Eyes inefficiently,” said Requin. “Perhaps the business with the faceless masks was too much. They might have been better off in plainclothes, as an enhancement to his intelligence apparatus, rather than terrorizing people as his enforcers.”
“Maybe for his sake,” said Tiga. “Had he done so, that intelligence apparatus might have foiled our move against him yesterday. It was a close thing.”
“Still,” said Cordo, “hard to keep a kingdom when you no longer have a king.”
“Yes,” said Tiga, “we’re all so very impressed, Cordo. Subtly mention your involvement in passing as often as you like, please.”
“At least I—”
“And more difficult still to keep a kingdom,” interrupted Requin, “when you discard perfectly good tools left behind by the king.”
“Forgive us our density,” said Saravelle Fioran, a woman nearly as old as Marius Cordo, “but what precisely are you driving at, Requin?”
“Merely that the Eyes, properly vetted and retrained, could be a significant asset to Tal Verrar, if used not as shock troops but as…a secret constabulary?”
“Says the man in charge of the very people such a force would be charged with hunting down,” scoffed Cordo.
“Younger Cordo,” said Requin, “those are also the ‘very people’ whose interference with your family business is kept to an acceptable minimum through my involvement. They are the very people who were instrumental in delivering our victory yesterday—carrying your messages, filling the streets to detain army reinforcements, distracting Stragos’ most loyal officers while some of you were allowed to approach this affair with the air of amateurs dabbling at lawn bowling.”
“Not I—,” said Cordo.
“No, not you. You did fight. But I flaunt my hypocrisy with a smile on my face, Lyonis. Don’t you dare pretend, here in our highest privacy, that your disdain somehow absolves you for your involvement with the likes of me. You don’t want to imagine a city with crime unregulated by the likes of me! As for the Eyes, I am not asking, I am telling. Those few who were true fanatics for Stragos can conveniently trip and land on swords, yes. The rest are too useful to throw away.”
“On what grounds,” said Tiga, “do you presume to lecture—”
“On the grounds that six of the seven people sitting here have seen fit to store goods and funds at the Sinspire vault. Items that, let us be frank, need not ever reappear in the event that I begin to feel anxious about our relationship.
“I have an investment in this city, the same as you. I would not take kindly to having a foreign power interrupt my affairs. To give Stragos his due, I cannot imagine that the army and navy in your hands will inspire a great deal of awe in our enemies, given what happened last time the Priori governed during a war. Therefore I see fit to hedge all of our bets.”
“Surely we could discuss this in just a few days,” said Lyonis.
“I think not. Inconveniences like our surviving Eyes have a habit of disappearing before arguments can broaden, don’t they? It’s a busy time. Messages might be lost, or misconstrued, and I’m sure there’d be a perfectly plausible reason for whatever happened.”
“So what do you want?” asked Fioran.
“If you’re going to take the Mon Magisteria as an administrative center for our shiny new government, I would imagine that a suite of offices would be a good start. Something nice and prestigious, before all the nice ones are gone. Plus I’ll expect a rudimentary operating budget by the end of the week; I’ll set down the rough finnicking myself. Salaries for the next year. Speaking of which, I will expect at least three or four positions within the hierarchy of this new organization to be placed entirely at my discretion. Salaries in the range of ten to fifteen solari per annum.”
“So you can pass out sinecures to some of your jumped-up thieves,” said Lyonis.
“So I can aid them in their transition to life as respectable citizens and defenders of Tal Verrar, yes,” said Requin.
“Will this be your own transition to life as a respectable citizen?” asked Tiga.
“Here I thought I already was,” said Requin. “Gods, no. I have no desire to turn away from the responsibilities I currently enjoy. But it just so happens that I have an ideal candidate in mind to head our new organization. Someone who shares my qualms about the manner in which Stragos employed his Eyes, and should be taken all the more seriously for the fact that she used to be one.”
Selendri couldn’t help smiling as the Priori turned in their seats to stare at her.
“Now, Requin, hold on,” said Cordo.
“I see no need,” said Requin. “I don’t believe your six fellows are actually going to deny me this very minor and very patriotic request, are they?”
Cordo looked around, and Selendri knew what he was seeing on the faces of the other Priori; if he formally tried to stop this, he would be alone, and he would weaken not only his father’s borrowed position but his own future prospects.
“I think her starting compensation should be something handsome, rather handsome,” said Requin cheerfully. “And of course she’ll require use of official carriages and barges. An official residence; Stragos had dozens of houses and manors at his disposal. Oh, and I think her office at the Mon Magisteria should be the nicest and most prestigious of all. Don’t you?”
They kissed one another for a very long time, alone in the office once the Priori had left in various states of bemusement, worry, and aggravation. As he usually did, Requin removed his gloves to run the brown, pocked skin of his hands over her, over the matching scar tissue on her left-hand side as well as the healthy flesh on her right.
“There you are, my dear,” he said. “I know you’ve been chafing here for some time, running up and down these tower steps, fetching and bowing for drunkards of quality.”
“I’m still sorry for my failure to—”
“Our failure was entirely shared,” said Requin. “In fact, I fell for Kosta and de Ferra’s line of bullshit harder than you did—you retained your suspicion the whole way. Left to your own devices, you would have thrown them out the window early on and avoided the entire mess at the end, I’m sure.”
She smiled.
“And those smirking P
riori assume I’m inflicting one last grand sinecure on them where you’re concerned.” Requin ran his fingers through her hair. “Gods, are they in for a surprise. I can’t wait to see you in action. You’ll build something that will make my little coteries of felantozzi look tawdry.”
Selendri stared around at the wreckage of the office. Requin laughed. “I suppose,” he said, “that I have to admire the audacious little shits. To spend two years planning such a thing, and then the business with the chairs…and with my seal! My, Lyonis was throwing a fit….”
“I’d have thought you’d be furious,” said Selendri.
“Furious? I suppose I am. I was rather fond of that suite of chairs.”
“I know how long you worked to acquire those paintings—”
“Ah, the paintings, yes.” Requin grinned mischievously. “Well, as for that…the walls have been left somewhat underdecorated. How would you like to go down to the vault with me to start fetching out the real ones?”
“What do you mean, the real ones?”
EPILOGUE
RED SEAS UNDER RED SKIES
1
“What the hell do you mean, ‘reproductions’?”
Locke sat in a comfortable, high-backed wooden chair in the study of Acastus Krell, Fine Diversions dealer of Vel Virazzo. He wrapped both hands around his slender glass of lukewarm tea to avoid spilling it.
“Surely you can’t be unfamiliar with the term, Master Fehrwight,” said Krell. The old man would have been sticklike if not for the grace of his movements; he paced his study like a dancer in a stage production, manipulated his magnifying lenses like a duelist striking a pose. He wore a loose brocaded gown of twilight-blue silk, and as he looked up now the hairless gleam of his head emphasized the eerily penetrating nature of his stare. This study was Krell’s lair, the center of his existence. It lent him an air of authority.
“I am,” said Locke, “in the matter of furniture, but as for paintings—”
