The Gentleman Bastard Series 3-Book Bundle: The Lies of Locke Lamora, Red Seas Under Red Skies, The Republic of Thieves (168 page)

“He will now,” said Locke, as he and Jean pulled alongside the archon’s landing in
the smaller, more nimble boat they had talked out of the elder Cordo. “Tell him that
we’ve done as he requested when we last met, and we
really
need to speak about it.”

The officer took a few seconds to consider, then went for the signal chain. While
they waited for a decision, Locke and Jean removed all of their weapons and gear,
stashed it in their bags, and left those in the bottom of the boat. Eventually, Merrain
appeared at the top of the landing stairs and beckoned; they were patted down with
the usual thoroughness and escorted up to the archon’s study.

Jean trembled at the sight of Stragos, who was standing behind his desk. Locke noticed
Jean clenching and unclenching his fists, so he squeezed his arm hard.

“Is this happy news?” asked the archon.

“Has anyone come in to report a fire at sea yesterday, around noon, anywhere west
of the city?” asked Locke.

“Two merchant ships reported a large pillar of smoke on the western horizon,” said
Stragos. “No further news that I’m aware of, and no syndicate claiming any loss.”

“They will soon enough,” said Locke. “One ship, burnt and sunk. Not a survivor aboard.
It was headed for the city and it was wallowing with cargo, so I’m sure it will be
missed eventually.”

“Eventually,” said Stragos. “So what do you want now, a kiss on the cheek and a plate
of sweetmeats? I told you not to trifle with me again until—”

“Think of our first sinking as earnest money,” said Locke. “We’ve decided that we
want to show our wine and drink it too.”

“Meaning what, exactly?”

“We want the fruit of our efforts at the Sinspire,” said Locke. “We want what we spent
two years working for. And we want it tonight, before we do anything else.”

“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.

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.

“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.”