The Gentleman Bastard Series 3-Book Bundle: The Lies of Locke Lamora, Red Seas Under Red Skies, The Republic of Thieves (68 page)

“I regard your uninvited presence here,” said Doña Vorchenza after a moment of consideration,
“as nothing less.”

“I have displeased you,” said Raza, “and for that I apologize. But have you any means
to back that displeasure with force? Your servants sleep
peacefully; your Reynart and all of your Midnighters are elsewhere, prying into my
affairs. You are alone with us, Doña Vorchenza, so why not speak civilly? I have come
to be civil, and to speak in earnest.”

She stared coldly at him for several moments, and then waved a hand at one of the
solarium’s armchairs. “Have a seat, Master Revenge. I fear there’s no comfortable
chair for your associate.”

“It will be well,” said the Falconer. “I’m very fond of writing desks.” He settled
himself behind the little desk near the door, while Raza crossed the room and sat
down opposite Doña Vorchenza.

“Hmmm. Revenge, indeed. And have you had it?”

“I have,” said Capa Raza cheerfully. “I find it’s everything it’s been made out to
be.”

“You bore Capa Barsavi some grudge?”

“Ha! Some grudge, yes. It could be said that’s why I had his sons murdered while he
watched, and then fed him to the sharks he so loved.”

“Old business between the two of you?”

“I have dreamed of Vencarlo Barsavi’s ruin for twenty years,” said Raza. “And now
I’ve brought it about, and I’ve replaced him. I’m sorry if this affair has been … an
inconvenience for you. But that is all that I am sorry for.”

“Barsavi was not a kind man,” said Vorchenza. “He was a ruthless criminal. But he
was perceptive; he understood many things the lesser capas did not. The arrangement
I made with him bore fruit on both sides.”

“And it would be a shame to lose it,” said Raza. “I admire the Secret Peace very much,
Doña Vorchenza. My admiration for it is quite distinct from my loathing for Barsavi.
I should like to see the arrangement continued in full. I gave orders to that effect,
on the very night I took Barsavi’s place.”

“So my agents tell me,” said Doña Vorchenza. “But I must confess I had hoped to hear
it in your own words before now.”

“My delay was unavoidable,” said Raza. “But there we are; I have terrible manners,
to which I readily admit. Allow me to make it up to you.”

“How so?”

“I should greatly enjoy a chance to attend the duke’s Day of Changes feast; I am capable
of dressing and acting rather well. I could be introduced as a gentleman of independent
means—I assure you, no one in Raven’s Reach would recognize me. I gazed up at these
towers as a boy in Camorr. I should like to pay my proper respects to the peers of
Camorr
just once. I would not come without gifts; I have something rather lavish in mind.”

“That,” said Doña Vorchenza slowly, “may be too much to ask. Our worlds, Capa Raza,
are not meant to meet; I do not come to your thieves’ revels.”

“Yet your agents do,” he said cheerfully.

“No longer. Tell me, why did you order them exiled? The penalty for turncoating among
your people is death. So why didn’t they merit a knife across the throat?”

“Would you really prefer them dead, Doña Vorchenza?”

“Hardly. But I am curious about your motives.”

“I, for my part, thought they were transparent. I need to have a measure of security;
I simply cannot leave your agents lying about underfoot, as Barsavi did. Of course,
I didn’t want to antagonize you more than necessary, so I presumed letting them live
would be a friendly gesture.”

“Hmmm.”

“Doña Vorchenza,” said Raza, “I have every confidence that you will begin the work
of inserting new agents into the ranks of my people almost immediately. I welcome
it; may the most subtle planner win. But we have set aside the main point of this
conversation.”

“Capa Raza,” said the doña, “you do not seem to be a man who needs sentiments wrapped
in delicacy to salve his feelings, so let me be plain. It is one thing entirely for
the two of us to have a working relationship, to preserve the Secret Peace for the
good of all Camorr. I am even content to meet with you here, if I must, assuming you
are properly invited and escorted. But I simply cannot bring a man of your station
into the duke’s presence.”

“That is disappointing,” said Capa Raza. “Yet he can have Giancana Meraggio as a guest,
can he not? A man who utilized my predecessor’s services on many occasions? And many
other captains of shipping and finance who profited from arrangements with Barsavi’s
gangs? The Secret Peace enriches every peer of Camorr; I am, in effect, their servant.
My forbearance keeps money in their pockets. Am I truly so base a creature that I
cannot stand by the refreshment tables a while and merely enjoy the sights of the
affair? Wander the Sky Garden and satisfy my curiosity?”

“Capa Raza,” said Doña Vorchenza, “you are plucking at strings of conscience that
will yield no sound; I am not the duke’s Spider because I have a soft heart. I mean
you no insult, truly, but let me frame it in these terms;
you have been Capa now for barely one week. I have only begun to form my opinion of
you. You remain a stranger, sir; if you rule a year from now, and you maintain stability
among the Right People, and preserve the Secret Peace, well then—perhaps some consideration
could
be given to what you propose.”

“And that is how it must be?”

“That is how it must be—for now.”

“Alas,” said Capa Raza. “This refusal pains me more than you could know; I have gifts
that I simply cannot wait until next year to reveal to all the peers of this fair
city. I must, with all apologies, refuse your refusal.”

“What on earth do you mean?”

“Falconer …”

The Bondsmage stood up at Doña Vorchenza’s writing desk; he’d taken a quill in his
hands and set one of her sheets of parchment out before him. “Doña Vorchenza,” he
said as he wrote in a bold, looping script; “Angiavesta Vorchenza, is it not? What
a lovely name … what a very lovely, very
true
name …”

In his left hand the silver thread wove back and forth; his fingers flew, and on the
page a strange silver-blue glow began to arise;
ANGIAVESTA VORCHENZA
was outlined in that fire, and across the room the Doña moaned and clutched her head.

“I am sorry to press my case by less than amiable means, Doña Vorchenza,” said Capa
Raza, “but can you not see that it would be to the duke’s very great advantage to
have me as his guest? Surely you would not want to deny him those gifts which I would
place at his feet, with all due respect.”

“I … I cannot say …”

“Yes,” said the Falconer. “Oh yes, you would be very pleased to accept this idea;
to ensure that Capa Raza was invited to the Day of Changes feast, in the most cordial
spirit of good fellowship.”

The words on the parchment in his hands glowed more brightly.

“Capa Raza,” said Doña Vorchenza slowly, “you must … of course … accept the duke’s
hospitality.”

“You will not be denied,” said the Falconer. “Capa Raza
must
agree to accept your invitation; you simply will not settle for a refusal.”

“I will not … take no … for an answer.”

“And I will not give it,” said Raza. “You are most kind, Doña Vorchenza. Most kind.
And my gifts? I have four exquisite sculptures I should like to give to the duke.
I have no need to intrude on his affairs; my men can simply
leave them somewhere at the feast, with your cooperation. We can bring them to his
attention when he is less pressed for time.”

“How lovely,” said the Falconer. “You are very fond of this suggestion.”

“Nothing … would please me more … Capa Raza. Very … proper of you.”

“Yes,” said Capa Raza, “it is
very
proper of me. It is only just.” He chuckled, then rose from his seat and waved to
the Falconer.

“Doña Vorchenza,” said the Bondsmage, “this conversation has pleased you greatly.
You will look forward to seeing Capa Raza at the Day of Changes, and to lending him
every assistance in bringing his important gifts into Raven’s Reach.” He folded the
parchment and slipped it into a waistcoat pocket, then made a few more gestures with
his silver thread.

Doña Vorchenza blinked several times, and breathed deeply. “Capa Raza,” she said,
“must you really go? It has made for a pleasant diversion, speaking to you this evening.”

“And I, for my part, have found you the most charming of hostesses, my lady Vorchenza.”
He bowed from the waist, right foot forward in perfect courtly fashion. “But business
is pressing everywhere; I must be about mine, and leave you to yours.”

“So be it, dear boy.” She began to rise, and he gestured for her to stay seated.

“No, no; don’t trouble yourself on our account. We can find our way back down your
lovely tower on our own; pray return to whatever you were doing before I interrupted.”

“It was hardly an interruption,” said Doña Vorchenza. “I shall see you, then, on the
Day of Changes? You will accept the invitation?”

“Yes,” said Capa Raza. He turned and favored her with a smile before he stepped out
through the solarium door. “I gladly accept your invitation. And I shall see you on
the Day of Changes, at Raven’s Reach.”

The first true revolution in Camorr’s criminal affairs came long before Capa Barsavi.
It predated his rise by nearly fifty years, in fact, and it came about entirely as
the result of a certain lack of self-control on the part of a pimp called Rude Trevor
Vargas.

Rude Trevor had a great many other nicknames, most of them used privately in his little
stable of whores. To say that he was an intemperate, murderous lunatic would wound
the feelings of most intemperate, murderous lunatics. As was often the case, he was
a greater danger to his own whores than the marks they plied for coppers and silvers.
The only protection he really offered them was protection from his own fists, which
could be had by giving him all but a tiny fraction of the money they worked for.

One night, a particularly put-upon whore found herself unwilling to participate in
his preferred evening diversion, which was to take his pleasure from her mouth while
pulling on her hair until she screamed in pain. Her bodice dagger was out before she
realized it; she planted it just to the left of Trevor’s manhood, in the joint of
his thigh, and slashed to his right. There was an
awful
lot of blood, not to mention screaming, but Trevor’s attempts to first fight back
and then to flee were greatly hampered by the speed with which his life was gushing
out between his legs. His (former) whore pulled him to the ground and sat on his back
to keep him from
crawling out of the room. His strength ebbed, and he died in very short order, mourned
by exactly no one.

The next night, Trevor’s capa sent another man around to take over Trevor’s duties.
The women in Trevor’s old stable welcomed him with smiling faces, and offered him
a chance to try out their services for free. Because he had a small pile of broken
bricks where most people kept their brains, he accepted. When he was neatly undressed
and separated from his weapons, he was stabbed to death from several directions at
once. That
really
caught the attention of Trevor’s old capa. The next night, he sent five or six men
to straighten the situation out.

But a curious thing had happened. Another two or three packs of whores had gotten
rid of their pimps; a growing nucleus of women claimed a warehouse in the northern
Snare as their headquarters. The capa’s men found not six or seven frightened whores,
as they’d been told, but nearly two dozen angry women, who’d seen fit to arm themselves
using all the coin they could muster.

Crossbows are quite an equalizer, especially at close range, with the advantage of
surprise. Those five or six men were never seen again.

So the war began in earnest. Those capas who had lost pimps and whores attempted to
correct the situation, while with every passing day the number of women joining the
rebellion grew. They hired several other gangs to serve as their own protection; they
established houses of pleasure to their own standards, and began to work out of them.
The service they offered, in comfortable and well-appointed chambers, was greatly
superior to that which could be had from the gangs of whores still run by men, and
prospective customers began to weigh in with their coin on the side of the ladies.

There was a great deal of blood. Dozens of whores were brutally murdered, and several
of their bordellos were burnt to the ground. But for every lady of the night that
fell, some capa’s man would get the same. The ladies gave like for like as viciously
as any capa in Camorr’s history. Less than a year after Rude Trevor’s death, the last
few pimps clinging brutally to their livelihood were convinced (convinced to death,
in most cases) to give up their fight. An uneasy truce fell into place between the
capas and the city’s whores.

Eventually, this truce grew into a stable and mutually beneficial arrangement.

The whores of the city split amiably into two groups, defined by territory. The Docksies
took the west side of Camorr, while the Guilded Lilies
ruled in the east; and both organizations mingled comfortably in the Snare, where
business was most plentiful. They continued to prosper; they hired loyal muscle of
their own and ceased renting cutthroats from other gangs. While their lives could
not be deemed pleasant, in light of their trade, at least they were now firmly in
control of their own affairs, and free to enforce certain rules of decorum on their
customers.

They built and preserved a monopoly, and in exchange for promising not to become involved
in any other forms of crime, they secured the right to mercilessly crush any attempt
to pimp women outside the purview of their two gangs. Naturally, some men didn’t pay
close attention to the rules the women set; they attempted to slap their whores around,
or renege on their payments for services, or ignore the standards the ladies set concerning
cleanliness and drunkenness.