The Gentleman Bastard Series 3-Book Bundle: The Lies of Locke Lamora, Red Seas Under Red Skies, The Republic of Thieves (80 page)

Panting and shuddering, ignoring the wrenching pains of his own wounds, Jean turned
and began to run as fast as he could.

The body of the Gray King lay forgotten on the deck behind him, and the red light
shone on in the empty hall.

Father Chains sat on the roof of the House of Perelandro, staring down at the astonishingly
arrogant fourteen-year-old that had grown out of the little orphan he’d purchased
so many years before from the Thiefmaker of Shades’ Hill.

“Someday, Locke Lamora,” he said, “someday, you’re going to fuck up so magnificently,
so ambitiously, so
overwhelmingly
that the sky will light up and the moons will spin and the gods themselves will shit
comets with glee. And I just hope I’m still around to see it.”

“Oh, please,” said Locke. “It’ll never happen.”

THE EIGHTEENTH OF Parthis in the Seventy-eighth Year of Aza Guilla; wet Camorri summer.
The whole city had a hangover and the sky did, too.

Warm rain was falling in sheets, spattering and steaming in the glow of Falselight.
The water caught the Falselight glimmer like layers of shifting, translucent mirrors
and formed split-second works of art in the air, but men cursed it anyway, because
it made their heads wet.

“Watch-sergeant! Watch-sergeant Vidrik!”

The man yelling outside Vidrik’s station at the south end of the Narrows was another
watchman; Vidrik stuck his lean, weathered face out through the window beside the
shack’s door and was rewarded with a stream of runoff on his forehead. Thunder boomed
overhead. “What is it, son?”

The watchman approached out of the rain; it was Constanzo, the new lad just shifted
in from the North Corner. He was leading a Gentled donkey; behind the donkey was an
open-topped cart, with two more yellowjacketed watchmen at its rear. They huddled
in their oilcloaks and looked miserable, which meant they were sensible men.

“Found something, Sergeant,” said Constanzo. “Something pretty fucked.”

Teams of yellowjackets and blackjackets had been combing the south of Camorr since
the previous night; rumors were swirling of some sort of assassination attempt at
Raven’s Reach. Gods only knew what the Spider thought his boys should be doing turning
over stones in the Dregs and the Ashfall districts, but Vidrik was used to never hearing
the whys and the wherefores.

“Define ‘pretty fucked,’ ” he yelled as he slipped into his own oilcloak and threw
up the hood. He stepped out into the rain and crossed to the donkey-cart, waving to
the two men standing behind it. One of them owed him two barons from the previous
week’s dicing.

“Have a look,” said Constanzo, sweeping back the wet blanket that covered the donkey-cart’s
cargo. Beneath it was a man, youngish and very pale, balding, with a fuzz of stubble
on his cheeks. He was fairly well dressed, in a gray coat with red cuffs. It happened
to be spattered with blood.

The man was alive, but he lay in the cart with his fingerless hands pressed against
his cheeks, and he stared up at Vidrik without a speck of sane comprehension in his
eyes. “Mahhhhhh,” he moaned as the rain fell on his head, “mwaaaaaaaaah!”

His tongue had been cut out; a dark scar covered the stump at the bottom of his mouth,
oozing blood.

“Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!”

“Sweet fucking Perelandro,” said Vidrik, “tell me I don’t see what I see on his wrists.”

“It’s a bondsmage, Sergeant,” said Constanzo. “It is—or it was.”

He threw the soaked blanket back over the man’s face and reached inside his oilcloak.
“There’s more. Show it to you inside?”

Vidrik led Constanzo back into his shack; the two men swept their hoods back but didn’t
bother taking their cloaks off. Constanzo pulled out a piece of folded parchment.

“We found this fellow tied to a floor over in Ashfall,” he said. “Pretty gods-damned
weird. This parchment was on his chest.”

Vidrik took it and unfolded it to read:

“Gods,” he said. “A real Karthani bondsmage. Looks like he won’t be recommending Camorr
to his friends.”

“What do we do with him, Sergeant?”

Vidrik sighed, folded the letter, and passed it back to Constanzo.

“We pass the coin, lad,” he said. “We pass this fucking coin right up the chain of
command and we forget we ever saw it. Haul him to the Palace of Patience and let someone
else give it a ponder.”

FALSELIGHT GLIMMERED on the rain-rippled water of Camorr Bay as Doña Angiavesta Vorchenza,
dowager countess of Amberglass, stood on the dock, huddled in a fur-lined oilcloak,
while teams of men with wooden poles prowled through a barge full of rain-sodden shit
beneath her. The smell was attention-grabbing.

“I’m sorry, my lady,” said the watch-sergeant at her left hand. “We’re positive there’s
nothing on the other two barges, and we’ve been at this one for six hours. I sincerely
doubt that anything will turn up. We will, of course, continue our efforts.”

Doña Vorchenza sighed deeply and turned to look at the carriage that stood on the
dock behind her, drawn by four black stallions and framed with alchemical running
lights in the Vorchenza colors. The door was open; Don and Doña Salvara sat inside
peering out at her, along with Captain Reynart. She beckoned to them.

Reynart was the first to reach her side; as usual he wore no oilcloak and he bore
the heavy rain with stiff-necked stoicism. The Salvaras were sensibly covered up against
the downpour; Lorenzo held up a silk parasol to shield his wife even further.

“Let me guess,” said Reynart. “They’re full of shit.”

“I’m afraid so,” said Doña Vorchenza. “Thank you for your time, Watch-sergeant; you
are dismissed. You may call your men out of the barge, as well. I don’t believe we’ll
be needing them anymore.”

As the greatly relieved yellowjackets filed away down the dock, wooden poles held
very carefully on their shoulders, Doña Vorchenza seemed to shudder and gasp. She
put her hands to her face and bent forward.

“Doña Vorchenza,” cried Sofia, rushing forward to grab her by the shoulders. As they
all bent close around her, she suddenly straightened up and cackled, gasping in air
between bursts of dry-sounding laughter. She shook with it; her tiny fists punched
the air before her.

“Oh, gods,” she gasped. “This is too much.”

“What? Doña Vorchenza, what’s the matter?” Reynart grabbed her by the arm and peered
at her.

“The money, Stephen.” She chuckled. “The money was never anywhere near this place.
The little bastard had us digging through shit-barges purely for his own amusement.
The money was on board the
Satisfaction
.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Isn’t it plain? It’s all striking me from so many directions at once. Capa Raza assisted
with the charitable contributions to the plague ship, yes?”

“He did.”

“Not from any sense of charitable duty. But because he needed a means to move his
fortune out to the frigate!”

“Out to a plague ship?” said Doña Sofia. “That wouldn’t do him any good.”

“It would if there was no plague,” said Doña Vorchenza. “The plague was a lie.”

“But,” said Don Lorenzo, “why was Lukas so adamant about sinking that ship? Was it
simple pique? If he couldn’t have it, no one could?”

“His name was Callas, Lorenzo dear—Tavrin Callas.”

“Whichever, darling,” said Lorenzo. “Forty-five thousand crowns, plus whatever Barsavi’s
fortune came to. That’s a great deal of money to put out of
everyone’s
grasp, forever.”

“Yes,” said Doña Vorchenza. “And he told us why he was doing it while he stood there.
Damn me for a fool.”

“I fear,” said Doña Sofia, “I speak for the rest of us when I say we don’t follow.”

“The Thorn said he was a priest of the Thirteenth,” she said. “The heresy of the Nameless
Thirteenth, the Crooked Warden, the god of thieves and malefactors. ‘For
propriety’s
sake,’ he said. ‘For
propriety’s
sake.’ He said that on purpose.”

She laughed again, biting down on her knuckles to contain herself.

“Oh, gods. Anatolius killed three of his friends. So don’t you see? There was no danger
on that ship; he didn’t want it sunk to save Camorr. It was a death-offering, Stephen,
a
death-offering
.”

Reynart slapped one hand against his forehead; water flew.

“Yes,” said Doña Vorchenza. “And I sank it for him, in sixty fathoms of shark-infested
water, neat as you please.”

“So …,” said Don Lorenzo, “all of our money is three hundred and sixty feet down on
the bottom of Old Harbor?”

“I’m afraid so,” said Doña Vorchenza.

“Ah … what do we do now?”

Doña Vorchenza sighed and meditated for a few moments. “First,” she said when she
looked back up at the Salvaras, “all the truths behind this affair will be declared
state secrets of the Duchy of Camorr; I bind you all to silence concerning them. The
Thorn of Camorr is a myth; the money he allegedly stole never existed; the duke’s
Spider never took any formal interest in the matter.”

“But,” said Doña Sofia, “they
told
Lorenzo that’s how the Thorn guarantees his own secrecy! When they stole into our
house dressed as Midnighters!”

“Yes,” said her husband, “one of the false Midnighters specifically told me that the
Thorn relied on the embarrassment of his victims to keep his thefts secret from other
potential victims, and I don’t think that part was a lie.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t,” said Doña Vorchenza. “But nonetheless, that’s just what we’re
going to do. In time, you’ll come to understand that a state like ours cannot afford
to offer up a show of weakness for honesty’s sake; Duke Nicovante charges me with
vouchsafing his security, not his conscience.”

The Salvaras stared at her, saying nothing.

“Oh, don’t look so glum,” she said. “Your real punishment for getting involved in
this mess has not yet begun. Come back to Amberglass with me, and let’s talk about
the penalty.”

“Our punishment, Doña Vorchenza?” said Lorenzo hotly. “Our punishment was nearly seventeen
thousand crowns! Haven’t we been punished enough?”

“Not nearly,” said Doña Vorchenza. “I’ve decided who’s to inherit the title of Countess
Amberglass when it’s my time to pass on.” She paused for just a moment before continuing.
“Or, should I say, Count
and
Countess Amberglass.”

“What?” Sofia squeaked like a girl of eight. A particularly squeaky girl of eight,
much accustomed to squeaking, loudly.

“It’s no blessing,” said Doña Vorchenza. “It comes with a job.”

“You can’t be serious,” said Don Lorenzo. “There are two dozen families on the Alcegrante
with more rank and honor than ourselves; the duke would
never
name us to Amberglass before them.”

“I believe I know Nicovante somewhat better than you do, young man,” said Doña Vorchenza.
“And I believe the inheritance is mine to dictate.”

“But … the job,” said Doña Salvara. “You can’t mean …”

“Of course I do, Sofia. I can’t live forever. Each time something like this affair
lands in my lap, I suddenly recall that I don’t
want
to live forever. Let
someone else play the Spider; we’ve deceived everyone for all these years letting
them think the office was held by a man. Now let’s deceive them further by passing
it on to
two
individuals.”

She put her arm through Reynart’s and allowed him to help her back toward the carriage.

“You’ll have Stephen to help you, and to run your operations; he’ll serve as the link
between you and the Midnighters. You both have acceptably malleable wits. Given just
a few more years, I’m sure I can whip the two of you into something resembling the
shape I require.”

“And then?” asked Doña Sofia.

“And then, my dear, all these gods-damned crises will be
yours
to deal with.” Doña Vorchenza sighed. “Old sins will never be buried so deep that
they cannot rise again when least expected. And so you’ll pay for the good of Camorr
with the coin of your own conscience, parceled out year after year, until that purse
is empty at last.”

“MASTER LAMORA,” cried Ibelius, “this is
entirely
unacceptable!”

The sea at Falselight was a surging field of gray and green; the waves rolled and
crashed around the galleon
Golden Gain
—one of only two vessels that had bothered to put out from Camorr that evening, bound
for Talisham and thence to Tal Verrar. The wind wailed in the shrouds and sails of
the elderly vessel, and sailors in oilcloaks hurried here and there on the decks,
muttering private prayers to Iono, Lord of the Grasping Waters.

Locke Lamora lay on a pile of tarp-covered crates on the galleon’s raised stern deck,
bundled in blankets within oilcloths within tarps, like a sausage roll. Nothing of
him was visible but his abnormally pale (and heavily bruised) face, poking out of
the layers around him. Jean Tannen sat at his side, bundled against the rain, but
not to the point of immobility.

“Master Ibelius,” said Locke in a weak voice, made nasal by his broken nose, “each
time I have left Camorr, I have done it by land. This is something new.… I wanted
to see it, one last time.”

“You are very near death, Master Lamora,” said Ibelius. “It is foolish for you to
be larking about on deck in this weather.”

“Ibelius,” said Jean, “if what Locke is doing were larking about, corpses could get
jobs as acrobats. Can we have a moment’s peace?”

“From the attentions that have sustained his life this past day? By all means, young
masters. Enjoy your sea view, and on your heads be it!”

Ibelius stomped off across the rolling deck, sliding in this direction and that, quite
unaccustomed to life at sea.