The Gentleman Bastard Series 3-Book Bundle: The Lies of Locke Lamora, Red Seas Under Red Skies, The Republic of Thieves (121 page)

“Maybe I’ll just hold fast after this bottle,” said Locke.

“Hold fast is a nautical—”

“I know,” said Locke. “I’ll kill myself later.”

The two younger barkeeps circulated with large trays, passing out wooden cups of dark
ale, first to the officers, who seemed mostly indifferent, and then to the ordinary
sailors, who received them with enthusiasm. Seemingly as an afterthought, one of them
eventually made his way to the corner where Locke and Jean and the other civilians
sat.

“Sip of the dark stuff, sirs?” He set cups down before Locke and Jean and, with dexterity
approaching that of a juggler, dashed salt into them from a little glass shaker. “Courtesy
of the man with more gold than brains.” Jean slid a copper onto his tray to be sociable,
and the man nodded his appreciation before moving on to the next table. “Sip of the
dark stuff, madam?”

“Clearly, we need to come here more often,” said Locke, though neither he nor Jean
touched their windfall ale. Locke, it seemed, was content to drink his wine, and Jean,
consumed by thoughts of what Caldris might challenge them with the next day, felt
no urge to drink at all. They passed a few minutes in quiet conversation, until Locke
finally stared down at his cup of ale and sighed.

“Salted dark ale just isn’t the thing to follow punched-up wine,” he mused aloud.
A moment later, Jean saw the woman seated behind him turn and tap him on the shoulder.

“Did I hear you right, sir?” She looked to be a few years younger than Locke and Jean,
vaguely pretty, with bright scarlet forearm tattoos and a deep suntan that marked
her as a dockworker of some sort. “Salted dark not to your taste? I don’t mean to
be bold, but I’ve just run dry over here.…”

“Oh. Oh!” Locke turned, smiling, and passed his cup of ale to her over his shoulder.
“By all means, help yourself. My compliments.”

“Mine as well,” said Jean, passing it over. “It deserves to be appreciated.”

“It will be. Thank you kindly, sirs.”

Locke and Jean settled back into their conference of whispers.

“A week,” said Locke. “Maybe two, and then Stragos wants us gone. No more theoretical
madness. We’ll be living it, out there on the gods-damned ocean.”

“All the more reason I’m glad you’ve decided not to get too bent around the bottle
this evening.”

“A little self-pity goes a long way these days,” said Locke. “And brings back memories
of a time I’d rather forget.”

“There’s no need for you to keep apologizing for … that. Not to yourself and certainly
not to me.”

“Really?” Locke ran one finger up and down the side of the half-empty bottle. “Seems
I can see a different story in your eyes, whenever I make the acquaintance of more
than a glass or two. Outside a Carousel Hazard table, of course.”

“Now, hold on—”

“It wasn’t meant as an unkindness,” Locke said hurriedly. “It’s just the truth, is
all. And I can’t say you’re wrong to feel that way. You … What is it?”

Jean had looked up, distracted by a wheezing sound that was rising behind Locke. The
dockworker had half risen out of her chair, and was clutching at her throat, fighting
for breath. Jean immediately stood up, stepped around Locke, and took her by the shoulders.

“Easy, madam, easy. A little too much salt in the ale, eh?” He spun her around and
gave her several firm slaps on the back with the heel of his right hand. To his alarm,
she continued choking—in fact, she was sucking in absolutely nothing now with each
futile attempt at a breath. She turned and clutched at him with desperate strength;
her eyes were wide with terror, and the redness of her face had nothing to do with
her suntan.

Jean glanced down at the three empty ale cups on the table before her, and a sudden
realization settled in his gut like a cold weight. He grabbed Locke with his left
hand and all but heaved him out of his chair.

“Back against the wall,” he hissed. “Guard yourself!” Then he raised his voice and
shouted across the tavern, “Help! This woman needs help!”

There was a general tumult; officers and sailors alike came to their feet, straining
to see what was happening. Elbowing through the mass of patrons and suddenly empty
chairs came an older woman in a black coat, with her stormcloud-colored hair drawn
into a long tight tail with silver rings. “Move! I’m a ship’s leech!”

She seized the dockworker from Jean’s arms and gave her three sharp blows against
her back, using the bottom edge of her clenched fist.

“Already tried,” cried Jean. The choking woman was flailing against him and the leech
alike, shoving at them as though they were the cause of her troubles. Her cheeks were
wine-purple. The leech managed to snake a hand around the dockworker’s neck and clutch
at her windpipe.

“Dear gods,” the woman said, “her throat’s swelled up hard as a stone. Hold her to
the table. Hold her down with all your strength!”

Jean shoved the dockworker down on her tabletop, scattering the empty ale cups. A
crowd was forming around them; Locke was looking at it uneasily, with his back to
the wall as Jean had insisted. Looking frantically around, Jean could see the older
barkeeper, and one of his assistants … but one was missing. Where the hell was the
one who’d served them those cups of ale?

“Knife,” the leech shouted at the crowd. “Sharp knife! Now!”

Locke conjured a stiletto out of his left sleeve and passed it over. The leech glanced
at it and nodded—one edge was visibly dull, but the other, as Jean knew, was like
a scalpel. The leech held it in a fencer’s grip and used her other hand to force the
dockworker’s head back sharply.

“Press her down with everything you’ve got,” she said to Jean. Even with the full
advantage of leverage and mass, Jean was hard-put to keep the thrashing young woman’s
upper arms still. The leech leaned sharply against one of her legs, and a quick-witted
sailor stepped up behind her to grab the other. “A thrash will kill her.”

As Jean watched in horrified fascination, the leech pressed the stiletto down on the
woman’s throat. The dockworker’s corded neck muscles stood out like those of a stone
statue, and her windpipe looked as prominent as a tree trunk. With gentleness that
Jean found awe-inspiring, given the situation, the leech cut a delicate slice across
the windpipe just above the point where it vanished beneath the woman’s collarbones.
Bright red blood bubbled from the cut, then ran in wide streams down the sides of
the woman’s neck. Her eyes were rolling back in her head, and her struggles had become
alarmingly faint.

“Parchment,” the leech shouted, “find me parchment!”

To the barkeeper’s consternation, several sailors immediately began ransacking the
bar, looking for anything resembling parchment. Another officer shoved her way through
the crowd, plucking a letter from within her coat. The leech snatched it, rolled it
into a tight, thin tube, and then shoved it down the slit in the dockworker’s throat,
past the bubbling blood. Jean was only partially aware that his jaw was hanging open.

The leech then began pounding on the dockworker’s chest, muttering a series of ear-scalding
oaths. But the dockworker was limp; her face was a
ghastly shade of plum, and the only movement visible was that of the blood streaming
out around the parchment tube. The leech ceased her struggles after a few moments
and sat down against the edge of Locke and Jean’s tables, gasping. She wiped her bloody
hands against the front of her coat.

“Useless,” she said to the utterly silent crowd. “Her warm humors are totally stifled.
I can do nothing else.”

“Why, you’ve killed her,” shouted the eldest barkeeper. “You cut her fucking throat
right where we could all see it!”

“Her jaw and throat are clenched tight as iron,” said the leech, rising in anger.
“I did the only thing I possibly could to help her!”

“But you cut her—”

The burly senior officer Jean had seen earlier now stepped up to the bar, with a cadre
of fellow officers at his back. Even across the room, Jean could see a rose-over-swords
somewhere on every coat or tunic.

“Jevaun,” he said, “are you questioning Scholar Almaldi’s competence?”

“No, but you saw—”

“Are you questioning her
intentions
?”

“Ah, sir, please—”

“Are you naming a physiker of the archon’s warrant,” the officer continued in a merciless
voice, “our sister-officer, a murderer? Before witnesses?” The color drained from
the barkeeper’s face so quickly Jean almost wanted to look behind the bar, to see
if it had pooled there. “No, sir,” he said with great haste. “I say nothing of the
sort. I apologize.”

“Not to me.”

The barkeeper turned to Almaldi and cleared his throat. “I beg your absolute pardon,
Scholar.” He looked down at his feet. “I’m … I’ve not seen much blood. I spoke in
wretched ignorance. Forgive me.”

“Of course,” said the leech coldly as she shrugged out of her coat, perhaps finally
realizing how badly she’d bloodied it. “What the hell was this woman drinking?”

“Just the dark ale,” said Jean. “The salted Verrari dark.”

And it was meant for us, he thought. His stomach twisted.

His words caused a new eruption of anger throughout the crowd, most of whom had, of
course, been recently drinking the very same ale. Jevaun put up his arms and waved
for silence.

“It was good, clean ale from the cask! It was tasted before it was drawn and served!
I would serve it to my grandchildren!” He took an empty wooden cup, held it up to
the crowd, and drew a full draught of dark beer from the cask. “This I
will
declare to witnesses! This is a house of honest
quality! If there is some mischief afoot, it was nothing of my doing!” He drained
the cup in several deep gulps and held it up to the crowd. Their murmuring continued,
but their angry advance on the bar was halted.

“It’s possible she had a reaction,” said Almaldi. “An allergy of some sort. If so,
it would be the first I’ve ever seen of anything like it.” She raised her voice. “Who
else feels poorly? Sore necks? Trouble breathing?”

Sailors and officers looked at one another, shaking their heads. Jean offered a silent
prayer of thanks that nobody seemed to have seen the dockworker taking the fatal cups
of ale from himself and Locke.

“Where the hell is your other assistant?” Jean shouted to Jevaun. “I counted two before
the ale was served. Now you have only one!”

The eldest barkeeper whipped his head from side to side, scanning the crowd. He turned
to his remaining assistant with a horrified look on his face. “I’m sure Freyald is
just scared shitless by the commotion, right? Find him. Find him!”

Jean’s words had had precisely the effect he’d desired; sailors and officers alike
scattered angrily, looking for the missing barkeeper. Jean could hear the muffled
trilling of watch whistles somewhere outside. Soon enough constables would be here
in force, sailors’ bar or no. He nudged Locke and gestured at the back door of the
tavern, through which several others, plainly expecting much complication, had already
slipped out.

“Sirs,” said Scholar Almaldi as Locke and Jean moved past her. She wiped Locke’s stiletto
clean on the sleeve of her already-ruined coat and passed it back to him. He nodded
as he took it.

“Scholar,” he said, “you were superb.”

“And yet completely inadequate,” she said, running her bloodstained fingers carelessly
through her hair. “I’ll see someone dead for this.”

Us, if we linger here much longer, thought Jean. He had a nasty suspicion that the
hands of the city watch would offer no safety if he and Locke vanished into them.

Further arguments were erupting throughout the room by the time Jean finally managed
to use his bulk to knock a path for himself and Locke to the tavern’s rear entrance.
It led to an unlit alley, running away in either direction. The clouds had settled
across the black sky, blotting out the moons, and Jean slipped a hatchet reflexively
into his right hand before he’d taken three steps into the night. His trained ears
told him the watch whistles were about a block to the west and moving fast.

“Freyald,” said Locke as they moved through the darkness together. “That rat bastard
barkeep. That ale was aimed at us, sure as a crossbow quarrel.”

“That was my conclusion,” said Jean. He led Locke across a narrow street, over a rough
stone wall, and into a silent courtyard that appeared to border on warehouses. Jean
crouched behind a partially shattered crate, and his adjusting eyes saw the black
shape of Locke flatten against a nearby barrel.

“Things are worse,” said Locke. “Worse than we thought. What are the odds that half
a dozen city watch wouldn’t know which bars were safe for off-duty hours? What are
the odds that they would come to the wrong fucking
neighborhood
?”

“Or drop that much pay on drinks for a bar full of the archon’s people? They were
just cover. Probably they didn’t even know what they were covering for.”

“It still means,” whispered Locke, “that whoever’s after us can pull strings in the
city watch.”

“It means Priori,” said Jean.

“Them or someone close to them. But why?”

There was the sudden scuff of leather on stone behind them; Locke and Jean went silent
in unison. Jean turned in time to see a large dark shape hop the wall behind them,
and the slap of heels on cobbles told him that a man of some weight had just landed.

In one smooth motion, Jean slipped out of his coat, swung it in a high arc, and brought
it down over the man’s upper body. While the shadowy shape struggled with the coat,
Jean leapt up and cracked the top of his opponent’s head with the blunt end of his
hatchet. He followed this with a punch to the solar plexus, folding the man in half.
It was child’s play after that to guide the man facefirst to the ground with a shove
on the back.

Locke shook a tiny alchemical lamp, little more than a thumb-sized vial, to life.
He shielded the wan glow against his body and let the light fall in only one direction,
on the man Jean had subdued. Jean obligingly took back his coat, revealing a tall,
well-muscled fellow with a shaven head. He was dressed nondescriptly in the fashion
of a coachman or servant, and he threw a gloved hand across his face as he moaned
in pain. Jean set the blade of his hatchet just beneath the man’s jaw.