by Scott Lynch
“It’s a rarer thing, to be sure, but there can be no doubt. I have never actually seen the original versions of these ten paintings, gentlemen, but there are critical incongruities in the pigments, brushstrokes, and general weathering of their surfaces. They are not genuine art objects of the Talathri Baroque.”
Jean absorbed this morosely, hands folded before him, saying nothing and ignoring his tea. Locke tasted bile in the back of his throat.
“Explain,” he said, struggling to keep his temper in check.
Krell sighed, his own aggravation clearly tempered by sympathy for their situation. “Look,” he said, carefully holding up one of the paintings they’d stolen, an image of Therin Throne nobles seated at a gladiatorial game, receiving the tribute of a mortally wounded fighter. “Whoever painted this is a master artisan, a fantastically patient and skillful individual. It would have required hundreds of hours per painting, and the work must have been done with full access to the originals. Obviously, the…gentleman from which you procured these objects had qualms about exposing the originals to danger. I’d wager my house and all of its gardens that they’re in his vault.”
“But the…incongruities. How can you know?”
“The master artists patronized by the last court of the Therin Throne had a secret means to distinguish their works from those produced by artists serving lesser patrons. A fact not known outside the emperor’s court until years after it fell. In their paintings, Talathri’s chosen masters and their associates would deliberately create a very slight visual flaw in one corner of the work, by using brushstrokes whose size and direction jarred with those immediately surrounding them. The imperfection that proclaims perfection, as it were. Like the beauty mark some Vadrans favor for their ladies.”
“And you can tell this at a glance?”
“I can tell well enough when I find no hint of it anywhere, on any of these ten works.”
“Damnation,” said Locke.
“It suggests to me,” said Krell, “that the artist who created these—or their employer—so genuinely admired the original works that they refused to counterfeit their hidden marks of distinction.”
“Well, that’s very heartwarming.”
“I can tell you require further proof, Master Fehrwight, and fortunately what remains is even clearer. First, the brightness of these pigments is impossible, given the state of alchemy four hundred years ago. The vibrancy of these hues bespeaks a contemporary origin. Lastly, and most damningly, there is no veneer of age upon these works. No fine cracks in the pigment, no discoloration from mold or sunlight, no intrusion of smoke into the overlying lacquers. The flesh of these works, as it were, is as distinct from the genuine article as my face would be from that of a ten-year-old boy.” Krell smiled sadly. “I have aged to a fine old state. These have not.”
“So what does this mean, for our arrangement?”
“I am aware,” said Krell, settling into the chair behind his desk and setting the painting down, “that you must have undergone extraordinary hardship in securing even these facsimiles from the…gentleman in Tal Verrar. You have my thanks, and my admiration.”
Jean snorted and stared at the wall.
“Your thanks,” said Locke, “and your admiration, however well meant—”
“Are not legal tender,” said Krell. “I’m not a simpleton, Master Fehrwight. For these ten paintings, I can still offer you two thousand solari.”
“Two?” Locke clutched the armrests of his chair and leaned forward. “The sum we originally discussed was thirty thousand, Master Krell!”
“And for originals,” said Krell, “I would have gladly paid that original sum; for genuine artifacts of the Last Flowering, I would have had buyers in distant locations completely unconcerned with the…potential displeasure of the gentleman in Tal Verrar.”
“Two,” muttered Locke. “Gods, we left more than that sitting at the Sinspire. Two thousand solari for two years is what you’re offering us.”
“No.” Krell steepled his spindly fingers. “Two thousand solari for ten paintings. However much I regret what you might have endured to recover these objects, there were no hardship clauses in our agreement. I am paying for goods, not the process required to retrieve them.”
“Three thousand,” said Locke.
“Twenty-five hundred,” said Krell, “and not a centira more. I can find buyers for these; each of them is still a unique object worth hundreds of solari, and well worth possessing or displaying. If pressed, after time passes, I can even attempt to sell them back to the gentleman in Tal Verrar, claiming that I procured them in some distant city. I don’t doubt that he would be generous. But if you don’t wish to accept my price…you are free to take them to a market square, or a tavern, perhaps.”
“Twenty-five hundred,” said Locke. “Damn it all to hell.”
“So I suspect we shall be, Master Fehrwight, in our own good time. But now I’d like a decision. Do you accept the offer?”
2
“TWENTY-FIVE HUNDRED,” said Locke for the fifteenth time as their carriage rattled toward Vel Virazzo’s marina. “I don’t fucking believe it.”
“It’s more than a lot of people have, I suppose,” muttered Jean.
“But it’s not what I promised,” said Locke. “I’m sorry, Jean. I fucked up again. Tens of thousands, I said. Huge score. Put us back at the top of our games. Lashani noblemen. Gods above.” He put his head in his hands. “Crooked Warden, why the hell do you ever listen to me?”
“It wasn’t your fault,” said Jean. “We did pull it off. We did get out with everything we planned. It’s just…it was the wrong everything. There was no way we could know.”
“Shit,” said Locke.
Their carriage slowed, then creaked to a halt. There was a clatter and a scrape as their footman placed a wooden step, and then the door opened into daylight. The smell of the sea flooded into the compartment, along with the sound of crying gulls.
“Do you still…want to do this?” Locke bit his lip at Jean’s lack of reaction. “I know…that she was meant to be here with us. We can just forget about it, leave it where it is, take carriages—”
“It’s fine,” said Jean. He pointed at the burlap bag on the seat beside Locke. The bag seemed to be undulating, possessed by a motive force within itself. “Besides, we went to the trouble of bringing a cat this time.”
“I suppose we did.” Locke poked the bag and smiled thinly at the resulting attack from inside. “But still, you—”
Jean was already rising to leave the carriage.
3
“MASTER FEHRWRIGHT! So pleased to finally make your acquaintance. And yours as well, Master—”
“Callas,” said Locke. “Tavrin Callas. Forgive my friend; he’s had a trying day. I’ll conduct our business.”
“Of course,” said the master of Vel Virazzo’s private yacht harbor. Here the pleasure barges and day-sailing vessels of Vel Virazzo’s notable families—who could be counted on two hands without using all the available fingers—were kept under constant guard.
The harbormaster led them to the end of one of his docks, where a sleek one-masted sailing vessel rocked gently on the swells. Forty feet long, lacquered teak and witchwood, trimmed with brass and silver. Her rigging was the finest new demi-silk, and her furled sails were the white of clean beach sand.
“Everything prepared according to your letters, Master Fehrwight,” said the harbormaster. “I apologize for the fact that it required four days rather than three—”
“No matter,” said Locke. He passed over a leather satchel containing solari he’d counted out in the carriage. “Balance of payment, in full, and the promised three-day bonus, for your work party. I’ve no reason to be stingy.”
“You are entirely too kind,” said the harbormaster, bowing as he accepted the heavy purse. Nearly eight hundred solari gone already.
“And the provisions?” asked Locke.
“Complete as specified,” said the harb
ormaster. “Rations and water for a week. The wines, the oilcloaks and other emergency gear—all there, and checked by myself.”
“Our dinner?”
“Coming,” said the harbormaster. “Coming. I expected a runner several minutes ago. Wait—here’s the boy now.”
Locke glanced back toward their carriage. A small boy had just appeared from behind it, jogging with a covered basket larger than his chest cradled in his arms. Locke smiled.
“Our dinner concludes our business,” he said as the boy approached and handed the basket up to Jean.
“Very good, Mater Fehrwight. Tell me, will you be putting out—”
“Immediately,” said Locke. “We have…a great many things to leave behind.”
“Will you require assistance?”
“We had expected a third,” said Locke quietly. “But the two of us will suffice.” He stared at their new boat, at the once-alien arrangement of sails, rigging, mast, tiller. “We’re always sufficient.”
It took them less than five minutes to load the boat with their baggage from the carriage; they had little to speak of. A few spare clothes, work tunics and breeches, weapons, and their little kit of thieves’ conveniences.
The sun was settling into the west as Jean began to untie them from the dock. Locke hopped down onto the stern deck, a room-sized space surrounded by raised gunwales, and as his last act before their departure he opened the burlap sack and released the contents onto the boat.
The black kitten looked up at him, stretched, and began to rub himself against Locke’s right boot, purring loudly.
“Welcome to your new home, kid. All that you survey is yours,” said Locke. “But this doesn’t mean I’m getting attached to you.”
4
THEY ANCHORED a hundred yards out from the last of Vel Virazzo’s lantern towers, and beneath their ruby light they had the dinner that Locke had promised.
They sat on the stern deck, legs folded, with a small table between them. They each pretended to be absorbed in their bread and chicken, in their shark fins and vinegar, in their grapes and black olives. Regal attempted to make war on their meal several times, and only accepted an honorable peace after Locke bribed him with a chicken wing nearly the size of his body.
They went through a bottle of wine, a nondescript Camorri white, the sort of thing that smooths a meal along without becoming its centerpiece. Locke tossed the empty bottle overboard and they started another, more slowly.
“It’s time,” Jean said at last, when the sun had moved so low in the west that it seemed to be sinking into the starboard gunwale. It was a red moment, all the world from sea to sky the color of a darkening rose petal, of a drop of blood not yet dry. The sea was calm and the air was still; they were without interruptions, without responsibilities, without a plan or an appointment anywhere in the world.
Locke sighed, removed a glass vial of clear liquid from his inner coat pocket, and set it on the table.
“We discussed splitting it,” he said.
“We did,” said Jean. “But that’s not what we’re doing.”
“Oh?”
“You’re going to drink it.” Jean set both of his hands on the table, palm down. “All of it.”
“No,” said Locke.
“You don’t have a choice,” said Jean.
“Who the hell do you think you are?”
“We can’t take the chance of splitting it,” said Jean, his voice reasonable and controlled in just the fashion that told Locke he was ready for instant action. “Better that one of us be cured for certain, than for both of us to linger on and…die like that.”
“I’ll take my chances with lingering on,” said Locke.
“I won’t,” said Jean. “Please drink it, Locke.”
“Or what?”
“Or you know what,” said Jean. “You can’t overpower me. The reverse is definitely not true.”
“So you’ll—”
“Awake or unconscious,” said Jean, “it’s yours. I don’t care. Drink the fucking antidote, for the Crooked Warden’s sake.”
“I can’t,” said Locke.
“Then you force me to—”
“You don’t understand,” said Locke. “I didn’t say ‘won’t.’ I ‘can’t’.”
“What—”
“That’s just water in a vial I picked up in town.” Locke reached once more into his pocket, withdrew an empty glass vial, and slowly set it down beside the fake. “I have to say, knowing me the way you do, I’m surprised you agreed to let me pour your wine.”
5
“YOU BASTARD,” Jean roared, leaping to his feet.
“Gentleman Bastard.”
“You miserable fucking son of a bitch!” Jean was a blur as he moved, and Locke flinched backward in alarm. Jean snatched up the table and flung it into the sea, scattering the remnants of their dinner across the boat’s deck. “How could you? How could you do that to me?”
“I can’t watch you die,” said Locke flatly. “I can’t. You couldn’t ask me to—”
“So you didn’t even give me a choice!”
“You were going to fucking force-feed it to me!” Locke stood up, brushing crumbs and chicken-bone fragments from his tunic. “I knew you’d try something like that. Do you blame me for doing it first?”
“Now I get to watch you die, is that it? Her, and now you? And this is a favor?”
Jean collapsed onto the deck, buried his face in his hands, and began to sob. Locke knelt beside him and wrapped his arms around his shoulders.
“It is a favor,” said Locke. “A favor to me. You save my life all the time because you’re an idiot and you don’t know any better. Let me…let me do it for you, just once. Because you actually deserve it.”
“I don’t understand any of this,” Jean whispered. “You son of a fucking bitch, how can you do this? I want to hug you. And I want to tear your gods-damned head off. Both at once.”
“Ah,” said Locke. “Near as I can tell, that’s the definition of ‘family’ right there.”
“But you’ll die,” whispered Jean.
“It was always going to happen,” said Locke. “It was always going to happen, and the only reason it didn’t happen before now…is…you, actually.”
“I hate this,” said Jean.
“I do too. But it’s done. I suppose I have to feel okay about it.”
I feel calm, he thought. I guess I can say that. I feel calm.
“What do we do now?”
“Same as we planned,” said Locke. “Somewhere, anywhere, laziest possible speed. Up the coast, just roaming. No one after us. No one in the way, no one to rob. We’ve never really done this sort of thing before.” Locke grinned. “Hell, I honestly don’t know if we’ll be any good at it.”
“And what if you—”
“When I do I do,” said Locke. “Forgive me.”
“Yes,” said Jean. “And no. Never.”
“I understand, I think,” said Locke. “Get up and give me a hand with the anchor, would you?”
“What do you have in mind?”
“This coast is so gods-damned old,” said Locke. “Falling apart. Seen it, seen everywhere like it. Let’s see if we can’t get this thing pointed somewhere else.”
He stood up, keeping one of his hands on Jean’s shoulder.
“Somewhere new.”
AFTERWORD
Nautical enthusiasts, of both the armchair and the hands-on persuasion, are bound to have noticed that a great deal of folding, spindling, and mutilating has taken place within Red Seas Under Red Skies where the jargon of the sea is concerned.
In some instances I can claim the honorable excuses: that I have abstracted for the sake of reader comprehension or adjusted for the cultural and technological peculiarities of Locke’s world. Others can only be explained by that most traditional affliction of authors—that I have screwed up somewhere and have no idea what I’m talking about. Things always work out best for the both of us, dear reader, when you
can’t tell the difference. Toward that end, my fingers are crossed.
This, then, concludes the second volume of the Gentleman Bastard sequence.
Scott Lynch
New Richmond, Wisconsin
January 26, 2007
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Once more to the amazing Jenny, for being so many things over the years—girlfriend, best friend, first reader, constructive critic, and, at long last, wife.
To Anne Groell, Gillian Redfearn, and Simon Spanton, not only for being generally and specifically brilliant, but for not murdering me.
To Jo Fletcher, again with the not murdering me. Cheers!
To everyone at Orion Books who made my first (one can only hope) trip to England a joy, and tolerated me despite my wretched state of illness; especially to Jon Weir, faithful whip-cracker and guide.
To all the UK booksellers who bent over backward promoting and talking up The Lies of Locke Lamora when it was just a newborn baby book, not yet walking on its own two feet, so many thanks.
To Desiree, Jeff, and Cleo.
To Deanna Hoak, Lisa Rogers, Josh Pasternak, John Joseph Adams, Elizabeth Bear, Sarah Monette, Jason McCray, Joe Abercrombie, Tom Lloyd, Jay Lake, GRRM, and so many others.
To Loki, Valkyrie, Peepit, Artemis, and Thor, the best contingent of small household mammals ever assembled.
Also by Scott Lynch
THE LIES OF LOCKE LAMORA
RED SEAS UNDER RED SKIES
A Bantam Spectra Book / August 2007
Published by Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2007 by Scott Lynch
Maps by Robert Bull
Bantam Books, the rooster colophon, Spectra, and the portrayal of a boxed “s” are trademarks of Random House, Inc.
