The Gentleman Bastard Series 3-Book Bundle: The Lies of Locke Lamora, Red Seas Under Red Skies, The Republic of Thieves (7 page)

“Jean is the gentlest soul in Camorr, and you wound him with your accusations,” said
Locke. “Now he’ll be up all night crying.”

“I would have been up all night anyway,” Jean added, “crying from the ache of rheumatism
and lighting candles to ward off evil vapors.”

“Which is not to say that our bones don’t creak by day, my cruel apprentice.” Locke
massaged his kneecaps. “We’re at least twice your age—which is prodigious for our
profession.”

“The Daughters of Aza Guilla have tried to perform a corpse-blessing on me six times
this week,” said Jean. “You’re lucky Locke and I are still spry enough to take you
with us when we run a game.”

To anyone beyond hearing range, Locke and Jean and Bug might have looked like the
crew of a for-hire barge, slacking their way toward a cargo pickup at the junction
of the Via Camorrazza and the Angevine River. As Bug poled them closer and closer
to the Shifting Market, the water was getting thicker with such barges, and with sleek
black cockleshell boats, and battered watercraft of every description, not all of
them doing a good job of staying afloat or under control.

“Speaking of our game,” said Locke, “how is our eager young apprentice’s understanding
of his place in the scheme of things?”

“I’ve been reciting it to Jean all morning,” said Bug.

“And the conclusion is?”

“I’ve got it down cold!” Bug heaved at the pole with all of his strength, driving
them between a pair of high-walled floating gardens with inches to spare on either
side. The scents of jasmine and oranges drifted down over them as their barge slipped
beneath the protruding branches of one of the gardens; a wary attendant peeked over
one garden-boat’s wall, staff in hand to fend them off if necessary. The big barges
were probably hauling transplants to some noble’s orchard upriver.

“Down cold, and I won’t screw it up. I promise! I know my place, and I know the signals.
I won’t screw it up!”

CALO WAS shaking Locke with real vigor, and Locke’s performance as his victim was
a virtuoso one, but still the moments dragged by. They were all trapped in their pantomime
like figures out of the richly inventive hells of Therin theology: a pair of thieves
destined to spend all eternity stuck in an alley, mugging victims that never passed
out or gave up their money.

“Are you as alarmed as I am?” Calo whispered.

“Just stay in character,” Locke hissed. “You can pray and strangle at the same time.”

There was a high-pitched scream from their right, echoing across the cobbles and walls
of the Temple District. It was followed by shouts and the
creaking tread of men in battle harness—but these sounds moved away from the mouth
of the alley, not toward it.

“That sounded like Bug,” said Locke.

“I hope he’s just arranging a distraction,” said Calo, his grip on the rope momentarily
slackening. At that instant, a dark shape darted across the gap of sky between the
alley’s high walls, its fluttering shadow briefly falling over them as it passed.

“Now what the hell was that, then?” Calo asked.

Off to their right, someone screamed again.

BUG HAD poled himself, Locke, and Jean from the Via Camorrazza into the Shifting Market
right on schedule, just as the vast Elderglass wind chime atop Westwatch was unlashed
to catch the breeze blowing in from the sea and ring out the eleventh hour of the
morning.

The Shifting Market was a lake of relatively placid water at the very heart of Camorr,
perhaps half a mile in circumference, protected from the rushing flow of the Angevine
and the surrounding canals by a series of stone breakwaters. The only real current
in the market was human-made, as hundreds upon hundreds of floating merchants slowly
and warily followed one another counterclockwise in their boats, jostling for prized
positions against the flat-topped breakwaters, which were crowded with buyers and
sightseers on foot.

City watchmen in their mustard-yellow tabards commanded sleek black cutters—each rowed
by a dozen shackled prisoners from the Palace of Patience—using long poles and harsh
language to maintain several rough channels through the drifting chaos of the market.
Through these channels passed the pleasure barges of the nobility, and heavily laden
freight barges, and empty ones like that containing the three Gentlemen Bastards,
who shopped with their eyes as they sliced through a sea of hope and avarice.

In just a few lengths of Bug’s poling, they passed a family of trinket dealers in
ill-kept brown cockleshells, a spice merchant with his wares on a triangular rack
in the middle of an awkward circular raft of the sort called a
vertola
, and a Canal Tree bobbing and swaying on the leather-bladder pontoon raft that supported
its roots. These roots trailed in the water, drinking up the piss and effluvia of
the busy city; the canopy of rustling emerald leaves cast thousands of punctuated
shadows down on the Gentlemen
Bastards as they passed, along with the perfume of citrus. The tree (an alchemical
hybrid that grew both limes and lemons) was tended by a middle-aged woman and three
small children, who scuttled around in the branches throwing down fruit in response
to orders from passing boats.

Above the watercraft of the Shifting Market rose a field of flags and pennants and
billowing silk standards, all competing through gaudy colors and symbols to impress
their messages on watchful buyers. There were flags adorned with the crude outlines
of fish or fowl or both; flags adorned with ale mugs and wine bottles and loaves of
bread, boots and trousers and threaded tailors’ needles, fruits and kitchen instruments
and carpenters’ tools and a hundred other goods and services. Here and there, small
clusters of chicken-flagged boats or shoe-flagged rafts were locked in close combat,
their owners loudly proclaiming the superiority of their respective goods or inferring
the bastardy of one another’s children, while the watch-boats stood off at a mindful
distance, in case anyone should sink or commence a boarding action.

“It’s a pain sometimes, this pretending to be poor.” Locke gazed around in reverie,
the sort Bug would have been indulging in if the boy hadn’t been concentrating on
avoiding collision. A barge packed with dozens of yowling housecats in wooden slat
cages cut their wake, flagged with a blue pennant on which an artfully rendered dead
mouse bled rich scarlet threads through a gaping hole in its throat. “There’s just
something about this place. I could almost convince myself that I really did have
a pressing need for a pound of fish, some bowstrings, old shoes, and a new shovel.”

“Fortunately for our credibility,” said Jean, “we’re coming up on the next major landmark
on our way to a fat pile of Don Salvara’s money.” He pointed past the northeastern
breakwater of the market, beyond which a row of prosperous-looking waterfront inns
and taverns stood between the market and the Temple District.

“Right as always, Jean. Greed before imagination. Keep us on track.” Locke added an
enthusiastic but superfluous finger to the direction Jean was already pointing. “Bug!
Get us out onto the river, then veer right. One of the twins is going to be waiting
for us at the Tumblehome, third inn down on the south bank.”

Bug pushed them north, straining to reach the bottom of the market’s basin—which was
easily half again as deep as the surrounding canals—with each thrust. They evaded
overzealous purveyors of grapefruits and sausage rolls and alchemical light-sticks,
and Locke and Jean amused themselves with a favorite game, trying to spot the little
pickpockets
among the crowds on the breakwaters. The inattention of Camorr’s busy thousands still
managed to feed the doddering old Thiefmaker in his dank warren under Shades’ Hill,
nearly twenty years since Locke or Jean had last set foot inside the place.

Once they escaped from the market and onto the river itself, Bug and Jean wordlessly
switched places. The fast waters of the Angevine would be better matched against Jean’s
muscle, and Bug would need to rest his arms for his part in the game to come. As Bug
collapsed in Jean’s former place at the bow, Locke produced a cinnamon-lemon apparently
from thin air and tossed it to the boy. Bug ate it in six bites, dry skin and all,
masticating the reddish yellow pulp as grotesquely as possible between his bright,
crooked teeth. He grinned.

“They don’t make fish poison from those things, right?”

“No,” Locke said. “They only make fish poison from things that Jean eats.”

Jean harrumphed. “A little fish poison puts hair on your chest. Excepting if you’re
a fish.”

Jean kept them nearly against the southern bank of the Angevine, clear of the depths
where the pole couldn’t reach. Shafts of hot, pearl-white light flashed down on them
as Eldgerglass bridges passed directly between their barge and the still-rising sun.
The river was two hundred yards wide, sweating its wetness up into the air along with
the smell of fish and silt.

To the north, rippling under the heat-haze, were the orderly slopes of the Alcegrante
islands, home to the city’s greater commoners and minor nobles. It was a place of
walled gardens, elaborate water sculptures, and white stone villas, well off-limits
to anyone dressed as Locke and Jean and Bug were. With the sun approaching its zenith,
the vast shadows of the Five Towers had withdrawn into the Upper City and were currently
nothing more than a rosy stained-glass glow that spilled just over the northern edges
of the Alcegrante.

“Gods, I love this place,” Locke said, drumming his fingers against his thighs. “Sometimes
I think this whole city was put here simply because the gods must adore crime. Pickpockets
rob the common folk, merchants rob anyone they can dupe, Capa Barsavi robs the robbers
and
the common folk, the lesser nobles rob nearly everyone, and Duke Nicovante occasionally
runs off with his army and robs the shit out of Tal Verrar or Jerem,
not to mention
what he does to his own nobles and his common folk.”

“So that makes us robbers of robbers,” said Bug, “who pretend to be robbers working
for a robber of other robbers.”

“Yes, we do sort of screw the pretty picture up, don’t we?” Locke thought for a few
seconds, clicking his tongue against the insides of his cheeks. “Think of what we
do as, ah, a sort of secret tax on nobles with more money than prudence. Hey! Here
we are.”

Beneath the Tumblehome Inn was a wide and well-kept quay with half a dozen mooring
posts, none of them currently occupied. The smooth gray embankment was about ten feet
high here; broad stone steps led up to street level, as did a cobbled ramp for cargo
and horses. Calo Sanza was waiting for them at the edge of the quay, dressed only
slightly better than his fellows, with a Gentled horse standing placidly behind him.
Locke waved.

“What’s the news?” Locke cried. Jean’s poling was skilled and graceful; the quay was
twenty yards away, then ten, and then they were sliding up alongside it with a gentle
scraping noise.

“Galdo got all the stuff packed into the room—it’s the Bowsprit Suite on the first
floor,” Calo whispered in response, bending down to Locke and Bug as he picked up
the barge’s mooring rope.

Calo had dark liquor-colored skin and hair like an inky slice of night; the tautness
of the flesh around his dark eyes was broken only by a fine network of laugh-lines
(though anyone who knew the Sanza twins would more readily describe them as smirk-lines).
An improbably sharp and hooked nose preceded his good looks like a dagger held at
guard position.

Once he had made the barge fast to a mooring post, Calo tossed to Locke a heavy iron
key attached to a long tassel of braided red and black silk. At a quality rooming
house like the Tumblehome, each private suite’s door was guarded by a clockwork lockbox
(removable only by some cunning means known to the owners) that could be swapped out
from a niche in the door. Each rented room received a random new box and its attendant
key. With hundreds of such identical-looking boxes stored behind the polished counter
in the reception hall, the inn could pretty much guarantee that copying keys for later
break-ins was a practical waste of a thief’s time.

This courtesy would also give Locke and Jean guaranteed privacy for the rapid transformation
that was about to take place.

“Wonderful!” Locke leaped up onto the quay as spryly as he had entered the boat; Jean
passed the steering pole back to Bug, then made the barge shudder with his own leap.
“Let’s go on in and fetch out our guests from Emberlain.”

As Locke and Jean padded up the steps toward the Tumblehome, Calo motioned for Bug
to give him a hand with the horse. The white-eyed creature
was utterly without fear or personal initiative, but that same lack of self-preservation
instincts might lead it to damage the barge very easily. After a few minutes of careful
pushing and pulling, they had it positioned in the center of the barge, as calm as
a statue that just happened to have lungs.

“Lovely creature,” said Calo. “I’ve named him Impediment. You could use him as a table.
Or a flying buttress.”

“Gentled animals give me the bloody creeps.”

“Whereas,” said Calo, “they give me the
fucking
creeps. But tenderfoots and softies prefer Gentled packhorses, and that’s our master
merchant of Emberlain in a nutshell.”

Several more minutes passed, and Calo and Bug stood in amiable silence under the punishing
sun, looking the part of an unremarkable barge crew waiting to receive a passenger
of consequence from the bosom of the Tumblehome Inn. Soon enough, that passenger descended
the stairs and coughed twice to get their attention.

It was Locke, of course, but changed. His hair was slicked back with rose oil, the
bones of his face seemed to shadow slightly deeper hollows in his cheeks, and his
eyes were half concealed behind a pair of optics rimmed with black pearl and flashing
silver in the sun.