Red Seas Under Red Skies (81 page)

“Watch closely, Selendri, because I can only do this trick once,” he said, producing his deck of fraudulent playing cards and shuffling them theatrically. “Is there a liquor in the house? A very strong liquor, the sort that brings tears to a man's eyes and fire to his throat?” He feigned surprise at the presence of a brandy bottle on the shelf behind Requin's desk, next to a silver bowl filled with flowers.

Locke seized the bowl, tossed the flowers on the floor, and set the empty container atop the desk. He then opened the brandy bottle and poured the brown liquor into the bowl, to a depth of about three fingers.

“Now, as you can see, I hold nothing in my hands save this perfectly normal, perfectly ordinary deck of perfectly unremarkable playing cards. Or
do
I?” He gave the deck one last shuffle and then dropped it into the bowl. The alchemical cards softened, distended, and began to bubble and foam. Their pictures and symbols dissolved, first into a color-streaked white mess, then into an oily gray goo. Locke found a rounded buttering knife on a small plate at a corner of the desk, and he used it to vigorously stir the gray goo until all traces of the playing cards had vanished.

“What the hell are you doing?” Selendri asked.

“Making alchemical cement,” said Locke. “Little wafers of resin, painted to look like cards, formulated to react with strong liquor. Sweet gods above, you do
not
want to know what this cost me. Hell, I had no choice but to come rob you after I had it made.”

“What do you intend—”

“As I know from vivid personal experience,” said Locke, “this shit dries harder than steel.” He ran over to the spot on the wall where the climbing closet would emerge, and he began to slather the gray goo all over the faint cracks that marked its door. “So once I paint it all over this lovely concealed entrance, and then pour it into the lock of the main door, why—in about a minute, Requin's going to need a battering ram if he wants to see his office again this evening.”

Selendri tried to scream for help, but the damage to her throat was too much; it was a loud and eerie sound, but it didn't carry downstairs with the force she needed. Locke scampered down the iron stairs, closed the main doors to Requin's office, and hurriedly sealed the locking mechanism within a glob of already-firming cement.

“And now,” he said when he returned to the center of the office, “the next curiosity of the evening, concerning this
lovely
suite of chairs with which I furnished our esteemed host. It turns out that I do know what the Talathri Baroque is after all, and that there
is
a reason why someone in his right mind would build such a nice thing out of a wood as fundamentally weak as shear-crescent.”

Locke seized one of the chairs. He tore the seat cushion and its underlying panel off with his bare hands, exposing a shallow chamber within the seat packed tight with tools and equipment—knives, a leather climbing belt, clips and descenders, and assorted other implements. He shook these out onto the ground with a clatter, and then hoisted the chair above his head, grinning.

“It makes 'em so much easier to smash.”

And that he did, bringing the chair down hard on Requin's floor. It shattered at all the joints, but didn't fly apart, because its splintered chunks were held together by something threaded through the hollow cavities within its legs and back. Locke fumbled with the wreckage for a few moments before successfully extracting several long lengths of demi-silk line.

Locke took one of these, and with Jean's help soon had Selendri tied into the chair behind Requin's desk. She kicked and spat and even tried to bite them, but it was no use.

Once she was secured, Locke picked a knife out of the pile of tools on the ground while Jean got to work smashing the other three chairs and extracting their hidden contents. As Locke approached Selendri with the blade in his hand, she gave him a contemptuous stare.

“I can't tell you anything meaningful,” she said. “The vault is at the base of the tower, and you've just sealed yourselves up here. So frighten me all you like, Kosta, but I have no idea what you think you're doing.”

“Oh, you think this is for you?” Locke smiled. “Selendri. I thought we knew each other better than that. As for the vault, who the hell said anything about it?”

“Your work to find a way in—”

“I lied, Selendri. I've been known to do that. You think I was really experimenting on clockwork locks and keeping notes for Maxilan Stragos? Like hell. I was sipping brandies on your first and second floors, trying to pull myself back together after I nearly got cut to pieces. Your vault's fucking impenetrable, sweetheart. I never wanted to go anywhere near it.”

Locke glanced around, pretending to notice the room for the very first time.

“Requin sure does keep a lot of really expensive paintings on his walls, though, doesn't he?”

With a grin that felt even larger than it was, Locke stepped up to the closest one and began, ever so carefully, to cut it out of its surrounding frame.

7

LOCKE AND
Jean threw themselves backward from Requin's balcony ten minutes later, demi-silk lines leading from their leather belts to the perfect anchor-noose knots they'd tied on the railing. There hadn't been enough room in the chairs for belay lines, but sometimes you couldn't get anywhere in life without taking little risks.

Locke hollered as they slid rapidly down through the night air, past balcony after balcony, window after window of bored, satisfied, incurious, or jaded gamers. His glee had temporarily wrestled his sorrow down. He and Jean fell for twenty seconds, using their iron descenders to avoid a headlong plummet, and for those twenty seconds all was right with the world, Crooked Warden be praised. Ten of Requin's prized paintings—lovingly trimmed from their frames, rolled up, and stuffed into oilcloth carrying tubes—were slung over his shoulder. He'd had to leave two on the wall, for lack of carrying cases, but once again space in the chairs had been limited.

After Locke had conceived the idea of going after Requin's fairly well-known art collection, he'd nosed around for a potential buyer among the antiquities and diversions merchants of several cities. The price he'd eventually been offered for his hypothetical acquisition of “the art objects” had been gratifying, to say the least.

Their slide ended on the stones of Requin's courtyard, where the ends of their lines hung three inches above the ground. Their landing disturbed several drunk couples strolling the perimeter of the yard. No sooner were they shrugging out of their lines and harnesses than they heard the rush of heavily booted feet and the clatter of arms and armor. A squad of eight Eyes ran toward them from the street side of the Sinspire.

“Stand where you are,” the Eye in the lead bellowed. “As an officer of archon and Council, I place you under arrest for crimes against Tal Verrar. Raise your hands and offer no struggle, or no quarter will be given.”

8

THE LONG,
shallow-draft boat drew up against the archon's private landing, and Locke found his heart hammering. Now came the delicate part, the ever-so-delicate part.

He and Jean were thrust from the boat by the Eyes surrounding them. Their hands were tied behind their backs, and they'd been relieved of their paintings. Those were carried, very carefully, by the last of the arresting Eyes to step off the boat.

The arresting officer stepped up to the Eye in command of the landing and saluted. “We're to take the prisoners to see the Protector immediately, Sword-prefect.”

“I know,” said the landing officer, an unmistakable note of satisfaction in his voice. “Well done, Sergeant.”

“Thank you, sir. The gardens?”

“Yes.”

Locke and Jean were marched through the Mon Magisteria, through empty hallways and past silent ballrooms, through the smells of weapon oil and dusty corners. At last they emerged into the archon's gardens.

Their feet crunched on the gravel of the path as they made their way through the deeply scented night, past the faint glow of silver creeper and the stuttering luminescence of lantern beetles.

Maxilan Stragos sat waiting for them near his boathouse, on a chair brought out for the occasion. With him were Merrain and—oh, how Locke's heart quickened—the bald alchemist, as well as two more Eyes. The arresting Eyes, led by their sergeant, saluted the archon.

“On their knees,” said Stragos casually, and Locke and Jean were forced down to the gravel before him. Locke winced, and tried to take in the details of the scene. Merrain wore a long-sleeved tunic and a dark skirt; from his angle Locke could see that her boots weren't courtly fripperies, but black, flat-soled field boots, good for running and fighting. Interesting. Stragos' alchemist stood with a large gray satchel, looking nervous. Locke's pulse quickened once again at the thought of what might be in that bag.

“Stragos,” said Locke, pretending that he didn't know exactly what was on the archon's mind, “another garden party? Your armored jackasses can untie us now; I doubt there are agents of the Priori lurking in the trees.”

“I have sometimes wondered to myself,” said Stragos, “precisely what it would take to humble you.” He beckoned the Eye at his right side forward. “I have regretfully concluded that it's probably impossible.”

The Eye kicked Locke in the chest, knocking him backward. Gravel slid beneath him as he tried to squirm away; the Eye reached down and yanked him back up by his tunic collar.

“Do you see my alchemist? Here, as you requested?” said Stragos.

“Yes,” said Locke.

“That's what you get. All you will
ever
get. I have kept my word. Enjoy your useless glimpse.”

“Stragos, you bastard, we still have work to do for—”

“I think not,” said the archon. “I think your work is already done. And at long last, I think I can see precisely why you so aggravated the Bondsmagi that they passed you into my care.”

“Stragos, if we don't get back to the
Poison Orchid
—”

“My spotters have reported a ship answering that description anchored to the north of the city. I'll be out to fetch her soon enough, with half the galleys in my fleet. And then I'll have another pirate to parade through the streets, and a crew to drop into the Midden Deep one by one while all of Tal Verrar cheers me on.”

“But we—”

“You have given me what I need,” said Stragos, “if not in the manner in which you intended. Sergeant, did you encounter any difficulty in securing these prisoners from the Sinspire?”

“Requin refused to allow us entry to the structure, Protector.”

“Requin refused to allow you entry to the structure,” said Stragos, clearly savoring each word. “Thereby treating an informal tradition as though it had any precedence over my legal authority. Thereby giving me cause to send my troops in platoons, and do what the bought-and-paid-for constables won't—throw that bastard in a box, until we find out just how long he's willing to stay quiet about the activities of his good friends the Priori. Now I have my fighting chance. There's no need for you two to cause further violence in my waters.”

“Stragos, you motherfucker—”

“In fact,” said the archon, “there's no need for you two, at all.”

“We had a deal!”

“And I would have kept to it, had you not scorned me in the one matter which could brook no disobedience!” Stragos rose from his chair, shaking with anger. “My instructions were to leave the men and women at Windward Rock alive!
Alive!
”

“But we—,” began Locke, absolutely mystified. “We used the witfrost, and we did leave them—”

“With their throats cut,” said Stragos. “Only the two on the roof lived; I presume you were too lazy to climb up and finish them off.”

“We didn't—”

“Who else was raiding my island that night, Kosta? It's not exactly a shrine for pilgrims, is it? If you didn't do it, you allowed the prisoners to do it. Either way, the fault is yours.”

“Stragos, I honestly don't know what you're talking about.”

“That won't bring my four good men and women back, will it?” Stragos put his hands behind his back. “And with that, we're done. The sound of your voice, the tone of your arrogance, the sheer
effrontery
contained within that tongue of yours…you are sharkskin on my eardrums, Master Kosta, and you murdered honest soldiers of Tal Verrar. You will have no priest, no ceremony, and no grave. Sergeant, give me your sword.”

The sergeant of the arresting Eyes stepped forward and drew his blade. He turned it hilt-first toward the archon.

“Stragos,” said Jean. “One last thing.”

Locke turned toward him, and saw that he was smiling thinly. “I'm going to remember this moment for the rest of my gods-damned life.”

“I—”

Stragos never finished his sentence, since the Eye sergeant suddenly drew back his sword arm and slammed the hilt of the weapon into the archon's face.

9

THEY DID
it like this.

The Eyes removed Locke and Jean from Requin's courtyard and shoved them into a heavy carriage with iron-barred windows. Three entered the compartment with them, two rode up top to tend the horses, and three stood at the sides and rear, as outriders.

At the end of the street atop the highest tier of the Golden Steps, where the carriage had to turn left to take the switchback ramp down to the next level, another carriage suddenly blocked its way. The Eyes yelled threats; the driver of the other carriage apologized profusely and shouted that his horses were uncommonly stubborn.

Then the crossbow strings began to snap, and the drivers and outriders toppled from their places, caught defenseless in a storm of quarrels. Squads of constables in full uniform appeared on the street to either side of the carriage, waving their staves and shields.