The Gentleman Bastard Series 3-Book Bundle: The Lies of Locke Lamora, Red Seas Under Red Skies, The Republic of Thieves (56 page)

One of the Berangias sisters kicked him back to the deck.

There was a tumult behind the fallen Capa; several Red Hands rushed forward, weapons
drawn, hollering incoherently. What happened next was a blurry, violent mystery to
Locke’s untrained eyes, but the two half-clothed Berangias dealt with half a dozen
armored men with a brutality the shark would have envied. Javelins flew, axes whirled,
throats opened, and blood spurted. The last Red Hand was slumping to the deck, his
face a jagged scarlet ruin, perhaps five seconds after the first had charged forward.

There was brawling on the balconies, now—Locke could see men pushing their way through
the crowds, men in heavy gray oilcloaks, armed with crossbows and long knives. Some
of Barsavi’s guards stood back and did nothing; some attempted to flee; others were
taken from behind by their cloaked assailants and killed out of hand. Crossbow strings
sang; bolts whirred through the air. There was a resounding bang to Locke’s left.
The great doors to the ballroom had slammed shut, seemingly of their own accord, and
the clockwork mechanisms within were whirring and clicking. People battered at them
uselessly.

One of Barsavi’s men pushed his way out of a crowd of panicking, shoving Right People
and raised a crossbow at the Berangias sisters, who stood over the wounded capa like
lionesses guarding a kill. A dark streak fell on him from out of the shadowy corners
of the ceiling; there was an inhuman screech, and the shot went far awry, hissing
above the sisters’ heads to strike the far wall. The guard batted furiously at the
brown shape that flapped back into the air on long curving wings—then he put a hand
to his neck, staggered, and fell flat on his face.

“Remain where you are,” boomed a voice with an air of assured command. “Remain where
you are and attend.”

The command had a greater effect than Locke would have expected. He even felt his
own fear dimming down, his own urge to flee vanishing.
The wailing and screaming of the crowd quieted; the pounding on the great doors ceased;
an eerie calm rapidly fell on what had been the exultant court of Capa Barsavi, not
two minutes earlier.

The hairs on the back of Locke’s neck stood up; the change in the crowd was not natural.
He might have missed it, but that he’d been under its influence before. There was
sorcery in the air. He shivered despite himself.
Gods, I hope coming here was as wise an idea as it seemed
.

The Gray King was suddenly there with them.

It was as though he’d stepped out of a door that opened from thin air, just beside
the capa’s chair. He wore his cloak and mantle, and he stepped with a hunter’s easy
assurance across the bodies of the Red Hands. At his side strode the Falconer, with
a gauntleted fist held up to the air. Vestris settled upon it, pulled in her wings,
and screeched triumphantly. There were gasps and murmurs in the crowd.

“No harm will come to you,” said the Gray King. “I’ve done what harm I came to do
tonight.” He stepped up between the Berangias sisters and looked down at Capa Barsavi,
who was writhing and moaning on the deck at his feet.

“Hello, Vencarlo. Gods, but you’ve looked better.”

Then the Gray King swept back his hood, and once again Locke saw those intense eyes,
the hard lines of the face, the dark hair with streaks of gray, the lean rugged countenance.
And he gasped, because he finally realized what had nagged him during his first meeting
with the Gray King, that odd familiarity.

All the pieces of that particular puzzle were before him. The Gray King stood between
the Berangias sisters, and it was now plain to Locke’s eye that they were siblings—very
nearly triplets.

“CAMORR,” SHOUTED the Gray King, “the reign of the Barsavi family is at an end!”

His people had taken firm control of the crowd; there were perhaps two dozen of them,
in addition to the Berangias sisters and the Falconer. The fingers of the mage’s left
hand curled and twisted and flexed, and he muttered under his breath as he gazed around
the room. Whatever spell he was weaving did its part to calm the crowd, but no doubt
the three black rings visible on his exposed wrist arrested the attention of the revelers
as well.

“In fact,” said the Gray King, “the Barsavi family is at an end. No more sons or daughters,
Vencarlo. I wanted you to know, before you died, that I had wiped the disease of your
loins from the face of the world.

“In the past,” he shouted, “you have known me as the Gray King. Well, now I am out
of the shadows. That name is not to be spoken again. Henceforth, you may call me … 
Capa Raza
.”

Raza, thought Locke. Throne Therin for “vengeance.” Not subtle.

Very little about the Gray King, he was learning to his sorrow, actually was.

Capa Raza, as he now styled himself, bent over Barsavi, who was weak with blood loss,
whimpering in pain. Raza reached down and pried the capa’s signature ring from his
remaining hand. He held this up for all the crowd to behold, then slid it onto the
fourth finger of his own left hand.

“Vencarlo,” said Capa Raza, “I have waited so many years to see you like this. Now
your children are dead, and your office is passed to me, along with your fortress
and your treasure. Every legacy you thought to leave to someone of
your
name is in my hands. I have erased you from history itself. Does that suit your fancy,
scholar? Like an errant chalk mark upon a slate. I have wiped you
clean away
.

“Do you remember the slow death of your wife? How she trusted your Berangias sisters
to the very end? How they would bring her meals to her? She didn’t die of stomach
tumors. It was black alchemy. I wanted to do something to whet my appetite, during
the long years I spent building this death for you.” Capa Raza grinned with demonic
mirth. “Lingered in pain, didn’t she? Well, it wasn’t an act of the gods, Vencarlo.
Like everyone else you loved, she died because of
you
.”

“Why?” Barsavi’s voice was weak and small.

Capa Raza knelt beside him, cradled his head almost tenderly, and whispered in his
ear for several long moments. Barsavi stared up at him when he was finished, jaw slack,
eyes wide with disbelief, and Raza nodded slowly.

He yanked Barsavi’s head up and backward by his beards. A stiletto fell into his other
hand from within his sleeve, and he rammed it into the underside of Vencarlo Barsavi’s
exposed chins, all the way to the hilt. Barsavi kicked weakly, just once.

Capa Raza stood up, withdrawing the blade. The Berangias sisters grabbed their former
master by his lapels and slid him into the dark water of the bay, which received his
body as readily as it had taken his victims and his enemies, over all the long years
of his rule.

“One capa rules Camorr,” said Raza, “and now it is me. Now it is me!” He raised the
bloody stiletto over his head and gazed around the room, as though inviting disagreement.
When none came forth, he continued.

“It is not my intention merely to remove Barsavi, but to replace him. My reasons are
my own. So now there is business between myself and all the rest of you, all the Right
People.” He gazed slowly around the room, his arms folded before him, his chin thrust
out like a conquering general in an old bronze sculpture.

“You must hear my words, and then come to a decision.”

“NOTHING THAT you have achieved shall be taken from you,” he continued. “Nothing that
you have worked or suffered for will be revoked. I admire the arrangements Barsavi
built, as much as I hated the man who built them. So this is my word.

“All remains as it was. All
garristas
and their gangs will control the same territories; they will pay the same tribute,
on the same day, once a week. The Secret Peace remains. As it was death to breach
under Barsavi’s rule, so shall it be death under mine.

“I claim all of Barsavi’s offices and powers. I claim all of his dues. In justice,
I must therefore claim his debts and his responsibilities. If any man can show that
he was owed by Barsavi, he will now be owed the same by Capa Raza. First among them
is Eymon Danzier.… Step forward, Eymon.”

There was a murmur and a ripple in the crowd to Capa Raza’s right; after a few moments,
the skinny man Locke remembered very well from the Echo Hole was pushed forward, obviously
terrified. His bony knees all but knocked together.

“Eymon, be at ease.” Raza held out his left hand, palm down, fingers splayed, as Barsavi
had once done for every single person watching. “Kneel to me and name me your capa.”

Shaking, Eymon dropped to one knee, took Raza’s hand, and kissed the ring. His lips
came away wet with Barsavi’s blood. “Capa Raza,” he said, in an almost pleading tone.

“You did a very brave thing at the Echo Hole, Eymon. A thing few men would have done
in your place. Barsavi was right to promise you much for it, and I will make good
on that promise. You will have a thousand crowns, and a suite of rooms, and such comforts
that men with many long years of life ahead of them will pray to the gods to put them
in your place.”

“I … I …” Tears were actually pouring out of the man’s eyes. “I wasn’t sure what you
would … thank you, Capa Raza. Thank you.”

“I wish you much pleasure, for the service you have given me.”

“Then … it wasn’t … it wasn’t you, at the Echo Hole, if I may ask, Capa Raza.”

“Oh, no, Eymon.” Raza laughed, a deep and pleasant sound. “No, that was but an illusion.”

In the far corner of the Floating Grave’s ballroom, that particular illusion fumed
silently to himself, clenching and unclenching his fists.

“Tonight you have seen me with blood on my hands,” Raza shouted, “and you have seen
them open in what I hope will be seen as true generosity. I am not a difficult man
to get along with; I want us to prosper together. Serve me as you served Barsavi,
and I know it will be so. I ask you,
garristas
, who will bend the knee and kiss my ring as your capa?”

“The Rum Hounds,” shouted a short, slender woman at the front of the crowd on the
ballroom floor.

“The Falselight Cutters,” cried another man. “The Falselight Cutters say aye!”

That doesn’t make any gods-damned sense
, thought Locke. The Gray King murdered their old
garristas
. Are they playing some sort of game with him?

“The Wise Mongrels!”

“The Catchfire Barons.”

“The Black Eyes.”

“The Full Crowns,” came another voice, and an echoing chorus of affirmations. “The
Full Crowns stand with Capa Raza!”

Suddenly Locke wanted to laugh out loud. He put a fist to his mouth and turned the
noise into a stifled cough. It was suddenly obvious. The Gray King hadn’t just been
knocking off Barsavi’s most loyal
garristas
. He must have been cutting deals with their subordinates, beforehand.

Gods, there had been more Gray King’s men in the room
out
of costume than in … waiting for the evening’s real show to commence.

A half dozen men and women stepped forward and knelt before Raza at the edge of the
pool, wherein the shark hadn’t shown so much as a fin since forcibly relieving Barsavi
of his arm.

The damned Bondsmage certainly has a way with animals
, Locke thought, with mixed anger and jealousy. He found himself feeling very small
indeed before each display of the Falconer’s arts.

One by one the
garristas
knelt and made their obeisance to the Capa,
kissing his ring and saying “Capa Raza” with real enthusiasm. Five more stepped forward
to kneel directly afterward, apparently giving in to the direction they felt events
to be slipping. Locke calculated rapidly. With just the pledges he’d already received,
Raza could now call three or four hundred Right People his own. His overt powers of
enforcement had increased substantially.

“Then we are introduced,” said Raza to the entire crowd. “We are met, and you know
my intentions. You are free to return to your business.”

The Falconer made a few gestures with his free hand. The clockwork mechanisms within
the doors to the hall clattered in reverse, and the doors clicked open.

“I give the undecided three nights,” Capa Raza shouted. “Three nights to come to me
here and bend the knee, and swear to me as they did to Barsavi. I devoutly wish to
be lenient—but I warn you, now is not the time to anger me. You have seen my work;
you know I have resources Barsavi lacked. You know I can be merciless when I am moved
to displeasure. If you are not content serving beneath me, if you think it might be
wiser or more exciting to oppose me, I will make one suggestion: pack what fortune
you have and leave the city by the landward gates. If you wish to part ways, no harm
will come to you from my people. For three nights, I give you my leave and my parole.

“After that,” he said, lowering his voice, “I will make what examples I must. Go now,
and speak to your
pezon
. Speak to your friends, and to other
garristas
. Tell them what I have said; tell them I wait to receive their pledges.”

Some of the crowd began to disperse out the doors; others, wiser perhaps, began to
line up before Capa Raza. The former Gray King took each pledge at the bloody heart
of a circle of corpses.

Locke waited for several minutes until the press had lessened, until the solid torrent
of hot, smelly humanity had decreased to a few thick streams, and then he moved toward
the entrance. His feet felt as heavy as his head; fatigue seemed to be catching up
with him.

There were corpses here and there on the floor—Barsavi’s guards, the loyal ones. Locke
could see them now as the crowds continued to thin. Just beside the tall doors to
the hall lay Bernell, who’d grown old in Capa Barsavi’s service. His throat was slashed;
he lay in a pool of his own blood, and his fighting knives remained in their sheaths.
He’d not had time to pull them.