Red Seas Under Red Skies (80 page)

“Well, you can't necessarily have it
tonight
. What, did you imagine I could give you some sort of writ, a polite request to Requin to allow you to carry out whatever your game is?”

“No,” said Locke, “but we're going over there right now to pull it on him, and until we're safely away with our swag, not another ship gets sunk in your waters at the hands of the
Poison Orchid
.”

“You
do not
dictate the terms of your employment to me—”

“I
do
, actually. Even if we are trusting you to give us our lives back when our enslavement to you is complete, we're no longer confident that the conditions in this city will allow us to pull our Sinspire scheme after you get your way. Think, Stragos. We certainly have been. If you mean to put the Priori squarely under your thumb, there could be chaos. Bloodshed and arrests. Requin's in bed with the Priori; his fortune needs to be intact if we're going to relieve him of any of it. So we want what's ours safely in our hands first, before we finish this affair for you.”

“You arrogant—”

“Yes,” Locke shouted. “Me. Arrogant. We still need our fucking antidote, Stragos. We still need it from your hands. And we
demand
another extension, if nothing else. Tonight. I want to see your alchemist standing beside you when we return here in a couple of hours.”

“Of all the bloody—what do you mean, when you return here?”

“There's only one way for us to walk away safely from the Sinspire, once Requin knows we've taken him for a ride,” said Locke. “We need to leave the Sinspire directly into the hands of your Eyes, who'll be waiting to arrest us.”

“Why, before all the gods, would I have them do that?”

“Because once we're safely back here,” said Locke, “we will slip out quietly, back to the
Poison Orchid
, and later this very night, we'll hit the Silver Marina itself. Drakasha has one hundred and fifty crewfolk, and we spent the afternoon taking two fishing boats to use as fire-craft. You wanted the crimson flag in sight of your city? By the gods, we'll put it in the
harbor
. Smash and burn as much as we can, and hit whatever's in reach on our way out. The Priori will be at your gates with bags of money, pleading for a savior. The people will riot if they don't get one. Is that immediate enough for you? We could do what you wanted. We could do it
tonight
. And a punitive raid for the Ghostwind Isles—well, how quickly can you pack your sea chest, Protector?”

“What are you taking from Requin?” asked Stragos, after a long, silent rumination.

“Nothing that can't be transported by one man in a serious hurry.”

“Requin's vault is impenetrable.”

“We know,” said Locke. “What we're after isn't in it.”

“How can I be sure you won't get yourselves uselessly killed while doing this?”

“I can assure you we will,” said Locke, “unless we find immediate safety in the public, legal custody of your Eyes. And then we vanish, whisked away for crimes against the Verrari state, on a matter of the archonate's privilege. A privilege which you will soon be at leisure to flaunt. Come on, admit that it's bloody beautiful.”

“You will leave the object of your desire with me,” said the archon. “Steal it. Fine. Transport it here. But since you'll need your poison neutralized anyway, I will keep it for you until we part.”

“That's—”

“A necessary comfort to myself,” said Stragos, his voice laden with threat. “Two men who knew themselves to be facing certain death could easily flee, and then drink, binge, and whore themselves in comfort for several weeks before the end, if they suddenly found a large sum of money in their hands, couldn't they?”

“I suppose you're right,” said Locke, feigning irritation. “Every single thing we leave with you—”

“Will be given scrupulous good care. Your investment of two years will be waiting for you at our parting of the ways.”

“I guess we have no choice, then. Agreed.”

“Then I will have a writ made out immediately for the arrest of Leocanto Kosta and Jerome de Ferra,” said Stragos. “And I will grant this request—and then, by the gods, you and that Syresti bitch had better deliver.”

“We will,” said Locke. “To the utmost of our ability. An oath has been sworn.”

“My soldiers—”

“Eyes,” said Locke. “Send Eyes. There have to be agents of the Priori among your regulars; I'm staking my life on the fact that you keep more of an eye on your Eyes, as it were. Plus they scare the shit out of people. This is a shock operation.”

“Hmmm,” said Stragos. “The suggestion is reasonable.”

“Then please listen carefully,” said Locke.

5

IT FELT
good to be stripping down to nothing.

Emerging from a long spell of false-facing could be like coming up for air after nearly drowning, Locke thought. Now all the baggage of their multitiered lies and identities was peeling away, sloughing off behind them as they pounded up the stairs to the Golden Steps one last time. Now that they knew the source of their mystery assassins, they had no need to sham as priests and skulk about; they could run like simple thieves with the powers of the city close on their heels.

Which was exactly what they were.

He and Jean should have been loving it, laughing about it together, reveling in their usual breathless joy at crime well executed. Richer and cleverer than everyone else. But tonight Locke was doing all the talking; tonight Jean struggled to keep his composure until the moment he could lash out, and gods help whoever got in his way when he did.

Calo, Galdo, and Bug, Locke thought.
Ezri
. All he and Jean had ever wanted to do was steal as much as they could carry and laugh all the way to a safe distance. Why had it cost them so many loved ones? Why did some stupid motherfucker
always
have to imagine that you could cross a Camorri with impunity?

Because you can't, Locke thought, sucking air through gritted teeth as the Sinspire loomed overhead, throwing blue-and-red light into the dark sky. You can't. We proved it once and we'll prove it again tonight, before all the gods.

6

“STAY CLEAR
of the service entrance, you—oh, gods, it's you! Help!”

The bouncer who'd received Jean's painful ministrations to his ribs at their previous meeting recoiled as Locke and Jean ran across the service courtyard toward him. Locke saw that he was wearing some sort of stiff brace beneath the thin fabric of his tunic.

“Not here to hurt you,” panted Locke. “Fetch…Selendri. Fetch her now.”

“You're not dressed to speak with—”

“Fetch her now and earn a coin,” said Locke, wiping sweat from his brow, “or stand there for two more seconds and get your fucking ribs rebroken.”

Half a dozen Sinspire attendants gathered around in case of trouble, but they made no hostile moves. A few minutes after the injured bouncer had disappeared within the tower, Selendri came back out in his place.

“You two are supposed to be at sea—”

“No time to explain, Selendri. The archon has ordered us to be arrested. There's a squad of Eyes coming up to get us as we speak. They'll be here in minutes.”

“What?”

“He figured it out somehow,” said Locke. “He knows we've been plotting with you against him, and—”

“Don't speak of this here,” Selendri hissed.

“Hide us. Hide us, please!”

Locke could see panic, frustration, and calculation warring on the unscarred side of her face. Leave them here to their fate, and let them spill everything they knew to the archon's torturers? Kill them in the courtyard, before witnesses, without the plausible explanation of an “accidental” fall? No. She had to take them in. For the moment.

“Come,” she said. “Hurry. You and you, search them.”

Sinspire attendants patted Locke and Jean down, coming up with their daggers and coin purses. Selendri took them.

“This one has a deck of cards,” said an attendant after fishing in Locke's tunic pockets.

“He would,” said Selendri. “I don't give a damn. We're going to the ninth floor.”

Into the grandeur of Requin's shrine to avarice for one last time; through the crowds and the layers of smoke hanging like unquiet spirits in the air, up the wide spiraling stairs through the floors of increasing quality and risk.

Locke glanced about as they went up; was it his imagination, or were there no Priori preening in here tonight? Up to the fourth floor, up to the fifth—and there, naturally, he nearly walked into Maracosa Durenna, who gaped with a drink in her hand as Selendri and her guards dragged Locke and Jean past her. On Durenna's face, Locke could see more than bafflement or irritation—oh, gods. She was
pissed
.

Locke could only imagine how he and Jean looked to her—hairier, leaner, and burnt brown by the sun. Not to mention underdressed, sweaty, and clearly in a great deal of trouble with the house. He grinned and waved at Durenna as they ascended the stairs, and she passed out of view.

Up through the last floors, through the most rarefied layers of the house. Still no Priori—coincidence, or encouraging sign?

Up into Requin's office, where the master of the 'Spire was standing before a mirror, pulling on a long-tailed black evening coat trimmed in cloth-of-silver. He bared his teeth at the sight of Locke and Jean, the malice in his eyes easily a match for the fiery alchemical glare of his optics.

“Eyes of the Archon,” said Selendri. “On their way to arrest Kosta and de Ferra.”

Requin growled, lunged forward like a fencer, and backhanded Locke with astonishing force. Locke slid across the floor on his ass and slammed into Requin's desk. Knickknacks rattled alarmingly above him, and a metal plate clattered to the tiles.

Jean moved forward, but the two burly Sinspire attendants grabbed him by the arms, and with a well-oiled click Selendri had her concealed blades out to dissuade him.

“What did you do, Kosta?” roared Requin. He kicked Locke in the stomach, knocking him back against the desk once again. A wineglass fell from the desktop and shattered against the floor.

“Nothing,” gasped Locke. “Nothing. He just
knew
, Requin; he knew we were conspiring against him. We had to run. Eyes on our heels.”

“Eyes coming to my 'Spire,” Requin growled. “Eyes that may be about to violate a rather important tradition of the Golden Steps. You've put me in a very tenuous situation, Kosta. You've fucked everything up, haven't you?”

“I'm sorry,” said Locke, crawling to his hands and knees. “I'm sorry, there was nowhere else to run. If he…if he got his hands on us—”

“Quite,” said Requin. “I'm going down to deal with your pursuers. You two will remain here. We'll discuss this the moment I get back.”

When you come back, thought Locke, you'll have more of your attendants with you. And Jean and I will “slip” out the window.

It was time to do it.

Requin's boot heels echoed first against tile, then against the iron of his little staircase as he descended to the level below. The two attendants holding Jean released him, but kept their eyes on him, while Selendri leaned back atop Requin's desk with her blades out. She stared coldly at Locke as he got back to his feet, wincing.

“No more sweet nothings to mutter in my ear, Kosta?”

“Selendri, I—”

“Did you know he was planning to kill you, Master de Ferra? That his dealings with us these past few months hinged on our
allowing
that to happen?”

“Selendri, listen, please—”

“I knew you were a poor investment,” she said. “I just never realized the situation would turn so quickly.”

“Yes, you were right. I was a bad investment, and I don't doubt that Requin will listen more closely to you in the future. Because I never wanted to kill Jerome de Ferra. Jerome de Ferra isn't a real person. Neither is Calo Callas.

“In fact,” he said, grinning broadly, “you have just delivered us to
exactly
where we need to be, for the payoff to two long years of hard work, so we can
rob the fucking hell
out of you and your boss.”

The next sound in the room was that of a Sinspire attendant hitting the wall, with the impression of one of Jean's fists reddening an entire side of his face.

Selendri acted with remarkable speed, but Locke was ready for her; not to fight, but simply to duck and weave, and to stay away from that bladed hand of hers. He vaulted over the desk, scattering papers, and laughed as the two of them feinted from side to side, dancing to see who would stumble past its protective bulk first.

“You die, then, Kosta,” she said.

“Oh, and you were planning to spare us. Please. By the way—Leocanto Kosta's not real, either. So many little things you just
do not know
, eh?”

Behind them, Jean grappled with the second attendant. Jean slammed his forehead into the man's face, breaking his nose, and the man fell to his knees, burbling. Jean stepped behind him and drove his elbow down on the back of the man's neck with all of his upper body behind it. Involved as he was in avoiding Selendri, Locke winced at the noise the attendant's skull made as it struck the floor.

A moment later, Jean loomed behind Selendri, blood from the attendant's broken nose streaming down his face. She slashed with her blades, but Jean's anger had him in a rare, vicious form. He caught her brass forearm, folded her in half with a punch to the stomach, whirled her around, and held her by the arms. She writhed and fought for breath.

“This is a nice office,” said Jean quietly, as though he'd just shaken hands with Selendri and her attendants rather than beaten the hell out of them. Locke frowned, but went on with the scheme—time was of the essence.