The Gentleman Bastard Series 3-Book Bundle: The Lies of Locke Lamora, Red Seas Under Red Skies, The Republic of Thieves (190 page)

“Hold on,” said Locke. “I get one way to win and she gets two?”

“Perhaps you can try burning down the Goldenreach Bridge,” Sabetha said sweetly.

“Yes, she gets two,” said Chains, “and fortunately for Camorr, the bridge is made
of stone. Sabetha has a package to guard, and must, as I have said, move at a
leisurely
pace, with dignity. No running or climbing. Locke, you’ll be expected to cause no
scenes, but your freedom of movement will be less restricted.”

“Ah.”

“You’re not to physically touch one another. You may not simply cover up the silk
or the buttons. You may not have your opponent harmed or restrained in any fashion.
And neither of you may call upon any of the other Gentlemen Bastards for help.”

“Where do we get to be, then?” said Galdo.

“Safely at home,” said Chains, “sitting the steps in my place.”

“Oh, balls to that, we want to see what happens!”

“One thing the contest does not need,” said Chains, “is a chorus of gawkers stumbling
along for the duration. I’ll be nearby, watching everything, and I promise to give
you a very lively account upon my return. Now—” He produced two small leather bags
and tossed them to Locke and Sabetha. “Your operating funds.”

Locke opened his bag and counted ten silver solons.

“You’ve got all night to think about what you’re doing,” said Chains. “You may come
and go as you please. Don’t feel compelled to buy anything, but if you do, the coins
I’ve given you are your absolute limit.”

“What’s this all for?” said Locke.

“To put you on the spot, and thereby—”

“I think,” said Sabetha, “he meant to ask, what’s in it for the winner?”

“Ah,” said Chains. “Of course. Well, other than acquiring a vast sense of personal
satisfaction, the winner will hand their dinner chores over to the loser for three
nights. How’s that?”

Locke watched Sabetha, and when she nodded once, he did the
same. The girl already seemed to be lost in thought, and Locke felt a touch of apprehension
beneath his rising excitement. He had every confidence in his own skills, as they
had fetched him everything from coin purses to corpses without much difficulty, but
the full extent of Sabetha’s abilities was unknown to him. Her absences from the temple
had been lengthier than those of any of the boys, and out there in the wider world
she could have learned an infinite variety of nasty surprises.

SABETHA EXCUSED
herself a few minutes later and vanished into the night, off to make whatever arrangements
she thought were necessary. Locke followed in haste, throwing on the white robes of
an initiate of Perelandro, but by the time he reached the hot, smoky air of the Temple
District’s central plaza, she had long since vanished into the shadows. Might she
be waiting out there, watching, hoping to follow
him
and learn what he was up to? The thought gave him a brief pause, but the unhappy
fact was that he had no concrete plans at all, so it really didn’t matter whether
or not she dogged his heels all night.

Lacking any better ideas, he decided to tour Coin-Kisser’s Row and refresh his memory
of the district’s landmarks.

He hurried along with a brisk step, fingers interlaced within the sleeves of his robe,
pondering. He trusted his clerical guise to shield him from inconvenience and harm
(for he was keeping to better neighborhoods), and so he remained caught up in the
whirl of his own thoughts as his feet carried him down the full length of Coin-Kisser’s
Row, then back up again.

The great countinghouses were shuttered for the night, the bars and coffee shops all
but empty, and the reeking canal had little of its usual drunken pleasure traffic.
Locke stared at the monuments, the bridges, and the long-deserted plazas, but no fresh
inspiration fell out of the sky. When he returned home, somewhat discouraged, Sabetha
had not yet returned.

He fell asleep still waiting to hear her come back down the glass tunnel from the
temple above.

COIN-KISSER
’
S ROW
at noon lay sweltering beneath the molten bronze sun, but the upper classes of Camorr
had fortunes and appearances to maintain. The empty plazas of the previous night had
become a lively pageant of overdressed crowds, which Locke and Sabetha now prepared
to join.

“I give you the field,” said Chains, “upon which you two shall fight your mighty battle,
wherein one shall stand tall, and the other shall end up with the dishes.” Chains
was ascending the unforgiving heights of fashion in a black velvet coat and pearl-studded
doublet, with three silver-buckled belts taut against his belly. He wore a broad-brimmed
black hat over a curly brown wig, and he had enough sweat running down his face to
refill at least one of the city’s canals.

Locke was dressed far more comfortably, in a simple white doublet, black breeches,
and respectable shoes. Chains was holding Locke’s jacket, with its telltale number
of buttons, until Sabetha was sent on her way. For her part, Sabetha wore a linen
dress and a simple jacket, both of a darkish red that was nearly the color of cinnamon.
Her hair and face were concealed beneath a four-cornered hat with hanging gray veils—a
fashion that had come rapidly back into vogue in the heat and foulness of recent weeks.
Chains had carefully studied and approved these clothes. Locke and Sabetha could pass
for servants dressed moderately, or rich children dressed lazily, and would be able
to pursue their game without suspicion or interference so long as they behaved.

“Well, daylight’s burning,” said Chains, kneeling and pulling the two children toward
him. “Are you ready?”

“Of course,” said Sabetha. Locke merely nodded.

“Young lady first,” said Chains. “Twenty-second head start, then uncover your satchel
as we discussed. I’ll be moving along in the crowd beside you, looming over your performance
like a merciless god. Cheating will be dealt with in a thoroughly memorable fashion.
Go, go, go.”

Chains held fast to Locke’s upper right arm as Sabetha moved off into the crowd. After
a few moments, Chains spun Locke around,
lifted his arms, and slipped the coat onto him. Locke ran his fingers up and down
the right lapel, counting six buttons.

“I stretch forth my arm and cast you into the air.” Chains gave Locke a little shove.
“Now hunt, and let’s see whether you’re a hawk or a parakeet.”

Locke allowed the push to carry him into the flow of the crowd. His initial position
seemed good. Sabetha was about thirty yards away, headed north, and her cinnamon dress
was hard to miss. Furthermore, Locke couldn’t help but notice that the patrons of
Coin-Kisser’s Row formed an ideal crowd for this sort of work, tending to move together
in small, self-aware clusters rather than as a more sprawling chaos. He would be chasing
Sabetha down narrow avenues that would temporarily open and close around her, and
even if she made good time she wasn’t likely to be able to hide in the blink of an
eye.

Still, Locke was as uneasy as he was excited, feeling much more parakeet than hawk.
He had no plan beyond trusting to skill and circumstance, while Sabetha could have
arranged anything.… Or had she merely snuck off into the night for a few empty hours
to make him
think
that she could have arranged anything? “Gah,” he muttered in disgust, at least wise
enough to recognize the danger of second-guessing himself into a panic before she
even made her move.

The first few minutes of the chase were uneventful, though tense. Locke managed to
close the distance by a few strides, no mean feat considering Sabetha’s longer legs.
As he moved, the peculiar chatter of the Row enfolded him on all sides. Men and women
blathered about trade syndicates, ships departing or expected back, interest rates,
scandals, weather. It wasn’t all that different from the conversation of one of the
lower districts, in fact, save for more references to things like compound interest
rates. There was no shortage of talk about handball and who was fucking whom.

Locke hurried on through the din. If Sabetha noticed him creeping up on her, she didn’t
speed up. Perhaps she couldn’t, not while staying “dignified,” though she did sidestep
here and there, gradually moving herself farther and farther away from the canal side
of the district and closer to the steps of the countinghouses, on Locke’s left.

Locke could see her satchel from time to time, hanging casually
from her right shoulder, and it seemed that with perfectly innocent little gestures
she was managing to keep it mostly forward of her right hip, conveniently out of sight.
Was that the game, then? Without using his arms or hands to directly conceal his row
of brass buttons, Locke began making sure that his various twists and turns in the
crowd were always made with his left shoulder turned forward.

If Chains (occasionally visible as a large lurking shape somewhere to Locke’s right)
had any objection to this sort of mild rules-bending, he wasn’t yet leaping out of
the crowd to end the contest. Squinting, Locke spared a few seconds to glance around
for unexpected hazards, then returned his gaze to Sabetha just in time to catch her
causing a commotion.

With smooth falseness that was readily apparent to Locke’s practiced eye, Sabetha
“tripped” into a huge merchant, rebounding lightly off the massive silk-clad hemispheres
of his posterior. As the man whirled around, Sabetha was already turning in profile
to Locke—curtsying in apology, concealing her satchel on the far side of her body,
and no doubt peering straight at Locke from under her veils. Forewarned, he turned
in unison with her, the other way, giving her a fine view of his buttonless left side
as he pretended to scan to his right for something terribly important. Perfect stalemate.

Locke was just too far away to hear what Sabetha said to the fat merchant, but her
words brought rapid satisfaction, and she was hurrying off to the north again before
he’d even finished turning back to his own business. Locke followed instantly, flush
with much more than the day’s stifling heat. He realized they’d covered nearly half
the southern district of Coin-Kisser’s Row; a quarter of the field was already used
up. Even worse, he realized that Sabetha was indulging him if she even bothered trying
to count his buttons. All she really had to do was keep him stymied until she could
dash across the final bridge to Twosilver Green.

She continued veering to the left, closer and closer to a tall countinghouse, a many-gabled
structure fronted by square columns carved with dozens of different representations
of round-bellied Gandolo, Filler of Vaults, god of commerce. Sabetha moved up the
building’s steps and ducked behind one of those pillars.

Another trap to try and eyeball his jacket? Tautly alert, carefully
keeping his precious buttons turned away from Sabetha’s last known position, he hurried
toward the pillars. Might she be attempting to reach the inside of the countinghouse?
No, there she was—

Two of her! Two identical figures in cinnamon-colored dresses and long dark veils,
with little bags slung over their right shoulders, stepped back out into the sunlight.

“She
couldn’t
have,” Locke whispered. Yet clearly she had. During the night, while he’d been fretting
up and down the dark streets, she’d arranged help and a set of matching costumes.
Sabetha and her double strolled away from the carvings of the fat god, headed north
toward the Bridge of the Seven Lanterns, the halfway point of their little contest.
For all the opportunities he’d already seized in his short life to dwell upon Sabetha’s
every feature, both of the girls looked exactly alike to him.

“Tricky,” said Locke under his breath. There had to be some difference, if he could
only spot it. The bags were probably his best chance; surely they would be the hardest
elements of the costumes to synchronize.

“Blood for rain!” boomed a deep voice as Locke reentered the crowd. Bearing down on
him came a procession of men in black-and-gray robes. Their mantles bore emblems of
crossed hammers and trowels, marking them as divines of Morgante, the City Father,
the god of order, hierarchies, and harsh consequences. While none of the Therin gods
were ever called enemies, Morgante and his followers were undeniably the least hospitable
to the semi-heresy of the Nameless Thirteenth. Morgante ruled executioners, constables,
and judges, and no thief would willingly set foot in one of his temples.

The black-robed procession, a dozen strong, was pushing along an open-topped wagon
holding an iron cage. A slender man was chained upright inside it, his body covered
with wet red gouges. Behind the cage stood a priest holding a wooden switch topped
with a claw-like blade about the size of a finger.

“Blood for rain!” hollered the leader of the priests once again, and initiates behind
him held baskets out to the passing crowd. It was a mobile sacrifice, then. For every
coin tossed into a basket, the caged prisoner would receive another painful but carefully
measured slash. That man would be a resident of the Palace of Patience, worming his
way out of something harsh (judicial amputation, most likely) by offering his body
up for this cruel use. Locke had no further thoughts to spare the poor fellow, for
the two girls in dark red dresses were vanishing around the far left side of the procession.
He ducked wide around the opposite side, just in case another ambush was in the offing.

The girls weren’t troubling themselves; they were headed straight for the Bridge of
the Seven Lanterns, and were close enough that Locke dared not close the gap. While
the bridge was wide enough for two wagons to pass without grinding wheel-rims, it
was narrow indeed compared to the plaza, with nowhere to duck and dodge if the girls
tried anything clever. Locke matched their pace and trailed them like a kite, fading
back to a distance of about thirty yards. Halfway to the end of the contest, and he
hadn’t actually gained a foot!