The Gentleman Bastard Series 3-Book Bundle: The Lies of Locke Lamora, Red Seas Under Red Skies, The Republic of Thieves (32 page)

“I am, I am.”

“Forgive my clumsiness; I meant no insult.”

“None is taken. Thank you for helping me back up.”

With that, Calo gave a mock bow and ran off into the crowd; in just a few seconds
he was lost to sight. Locke made a show of dusting himself off while he slowly counted
to thirty inside his head. At thirty-one, he sat down suddenly beside the cart, put
his hooded head in his hands, and began to sniffle. Just a few seconds later he was
sobbing loudly. Responding to the cue, Galdo came over and knelt beside him, placing
one hand on his shoulder.

“Boys,” said Ambrosine Strollo. “Boys! What’s the matter? Are you hurt? Did that oaf
jar something?”

Galdo made a show of muttering into Locke’s ear; Locke muttered back, and Galdo fell
backward onto his own posterior. He reached up and tugged at his hood in an excellent
imitation of frustration, and his eyes were wide. “No, Madam Strollo,” he said, “it’s
worse than that.”

“Worse? What do you mean? What’s the trouble?”

“The silver,” Locke burbled, looking up to let her see the tears pouring down his
cheeks and the artful curl of his lips. “He took my purse. Picked my p-pocket.”

“It was payment,” said Galdo, “from this man’s widow. Not just for the candles, but
for his interment, our blessings, and his funeral. We were to bring it back to Father
Chains along with the—”

“—with the b-body,” Locke burst out. “I’ve failed him!”

“Twelve,” the old lady muttered. “That incredible little
bastard
!” Leaning out over the counter of her shop window, she hollered in a voice of
surprising strength:
“Thief! Stop, Thief!”
As Locke buried his head in his hands once again, she turned her head upward and
shouted,
“Lucrezia!”

“Yes, gran’mama!” came a voice from an open window. “What’s this about a thief?”

“Rouse your brothers, child. Get them down here now and tell them to bring their sticks!”
She turned to regard Locke and Galdo. “Don’t cry, my dear boys. Don’t cry. We’ll make
this right somehow.”

“What’s this about a thief?” A lanky sergeant of the watch ran up, truncheon out,
mustard-yellow coat flapping behind him and two other yellowjackets at his heels.

“A fine constable
you
are, Vidrik, to let those little coat-charmer bastards from the Cauldron sneak in
and rob customers right in front of my shop!”

“What? Here?
Them?
” The watch-sergeant took in the distraught boys, the furious old woman, and the covered
corpse; his eyebrows attempted to leap straight up off his forehead. “Ah, that … I
say, that man is
dead
.…”

“Of course he’s dead, thimblebrains; these boys are taking him to the House of Perelandro
for blessings and a funeral! That little cutpurse just stole the bag with his widow’s
payment for it all!”

“Someone robbed the initiates of Perelandro? The boys who help that blind priest?”
A florid man with an overachieving belly and an entire squad of spare chins wobbled
up, with a walking stick in one hand and a wicked-looking hatchet in the other. “Pissant
ratfucker bastards! Such an infamy! In the Videnza, in broad light of day!”

“I’m sorry,” Locke sobbed. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize … I should have held it
tighter, I just didn’t realize … He was so quick.…”

“Nonsense, boy, it was hardly your fault,” said Madam Strollo. The watch-sergeant
began blowing his whistle; the fat man with the walking stick continued to spit vitriol,
and a pair of young men appeared around the corner of the Strollo house, carrying
curved truncheons shod with brass. There was more rapid shouting until they determined
that their grandmother was unhurt; when they discovered the reason for her summons,
they too began uttering threats and curses and promises of vengeance.

“Here,” said Madam Strollo, “here, boys. The candles will be my gift. This sort of
thing doesn’t happen in the Videnza. We won’t stand for it.” She set the three solons
Locke had given her back atop her counter. “How much was in the purse?”

“Fifteen solons before we paid you,” said Galdo. “So twelve got stolen. Chains is
going to throw us out of the order.”

“Don’t be foolish,” said Madam Strollo. She added two more coins to the pile as the
crowd around her shop began to swell.

“Hells yes!” cried the fat man. “We can’t let that little devil dishonor us like this!
Madam Strollo, how much are you giving? I’ll give more!”

“Gods take you, you selfish old pig, this isn’t about showing me up—”

“I’ll give you a basket of oranges,” said one of the women in the crowd, “for you
and for the Eyeless Priest.”

“I have a solon I can give,” said another merchant, pressing forward with the coin
in his hand.

“Vidrik!” Madam Strollo turned from her argument with her florid neighbor. “Vidrik,
this is your fault! You owe these initiates some copper, at the very least.”

“My fault? Now look here—”

“No,
you
look here! When they speak of the Videnza now they’ll say, ‘Ah, that’s where they
rob priests, isn’t it?’ For the Twelve’s sake! Just like Catchfire! Or worse!” She
spat. “You give something to make amends or I’ll harp on your captain and you’ll end
up rowing a shitboat until your hair turns gray and your teeth come out at the roots.”

Grimacing, the watch-sergeant stepped forward and reached for his purse, but there
was already a tight press around the two boys; they were helped to their feet, and
Locke received too many comforting pats on the back to count. They were plied with
coins, fruit, and small gifts; one merchant tossed his more valuable coins into a
coat pocket and handed over his purse. Locke and Galdo adopted convincing expressions
of bewilderment and surprise. As each gift was handed over to them, they protested
as best they could, for form’s sake.

IT WAS the fourth hour of the afternoon before the body of Antrim One-Hand was safely
stashed in the damp sanctuary of the House of Perelandro. The three white-robed boys
(for Calo had rejoined them safely at the edge of the Temple District) padded down
the steps and took their seats beside Father Chains, who sat in his usual spot with
one burly arm thrown over the rim of his copper kettle.

“So,” he said. “Boys. Is Jessaline going to be sorry she saved my life?”

“Not at all,” said Locke.

“It’s a
great
corpse,” said Calo.

“Smells a bit,” said Galdo.

“Other than that,” said Calo, “it’s a
fantastic
corpse.”

“Hanged at noon,” said Locke. “Still fresh.”

“I’m very pleased. Very, very pleased. But I really must ask—why the
hell
have men and women been throwing money in my kettle for the past half hour, telling
me they’re sorry for what happened in the Videnza?”

“It’s because they’re sorry for what happened in the Videnza,” said Galdo.

“It wasn’t a burning tavern, Benefactor’s own truth,” said Locke.

“What
,” said Chains, speaking slowly as though to a misbehaving pet, “did you boys
do
with the corpse before you stashed it in the temple?”

“Made money.” Locke tossed the merchant’s donated purse into the kettle, where it
hit with a heavy clang. “Twenty-three solons three, to be precise.”

“And a basket of oranges,” said Calo.

“Plus a packet of candles,” added Galdo, “two loaves of black pepper bread, a wax
carton of small beer, and some glow-globes.”

Chains was silent for a moment, and then he actually peeked down into the kettle,
pretending to readjust his blindfold by raising it just a bit at the bottom. Calo
and Galdo began to confide the roughest outline of the scheme Locke had prepared and
executed with their help, giggling as they did so.

“Bugger me bloody with a boathook,” Chains said when they finished. “I don’t recall
telling you that your leash was slipped enough for fucking street theater, Locke.”

“We had to get our money back
somehow
,” said Locke. “Cost us fifteen silvers to get the body from the Palace of Patience.
Now we’re up some, plus candles and bread and beer.”

“Oranges,” said Calo.

“Glow-globes,” said Galdo. “Don’t forget those; they’re pretty.”

“Crooked Warden,” said Chains. “Just this morning I was suffering from the delusion
that
I
was handing out the educations here.”

They sat in companionable silence for a few moments after that, while the sun settled
into its downward arc in the west and long shadows began to creep across the face
of the city.

“Well, what the hell.” Chains rattled his manacles a few times to keep
up his circulation. “I’ll take back what I gave you to spend. Of the extra, Calo,
you and Galdo can have a silver apiece to do as you please. Locke, you can have the
rest to put toward your … dues. It was fairly stolen.”

At that moment, a well-dressed man in a forest-green coat and a four-cornered hat
walked up to the temple steps. He threw a handful of coins into the kettle; they sounded
like mingled silver and copper as they clattered. The man tipped his hat to the three
boys and said, “I’m from the Videnza. I want you to know that I’m furious about what
happened.”

“One hundred years of health for you and your children,” said Locke, “and the blessings
of the Lord of the Overlooked.”

“YOU SEEM TO be spending a great deal of our money very quickly, Lukas,” said Doña
Sofia Salvara.

“Circumstance has blessed us, Doña Sofia.” Locke gave a smile that was a measure of
great triumph by Fehrwight standards, a tight-lipped little thing that might have
been a grimace of pain from anyone else. “Everything is proceeding with the most agreeable
speed. Ships and men and cargo, and soon all we’ll need to do is pack your wardrobe
for a short voyage!”

“Indeed, indeed.” Were those dark circles under her eyes? Was there the slightest
hint of wariness in her attitude toward him? She certainly wasn’t at ease. Locke made
a mental note to avoid pushing her too far, too fast. It was a delicate dance, playing
straight lines and smiles with someone who knew he was a mummer but didn’t know that
he
knew
she
knew.

With the slightest sigh, Doña Sofia pressed her personal sigil down into the warm
blue wax at the bottom of the parchment she was contemplating. She added a few flowing
lines of ink above the seal, her signature in the curving Therin script that had become
something of a fad among literate nobles in the past few years. “If you say you require
another four thousand today, another four thousand it must be.”

“I am
most
sincerely grateful, my lady.”

“Well, you’ll certainly pay for it soon enough,” she said. “Many times
over, if our hopes play out.” At that she smiled, with genuine good humor that crinkled
the edges of her eyes, and held out the fresh promissory note.

Oh-ho
, thought Locke.
Much better. The more in control the mark thinks they are, the more easily they respond
to real control
. Another one of Father Chains’ old maxims, proven in Locke’s experience too many
times to count.

“Please give my warmest regards to your husband when he returns from his business
in the city, my lady,” said Locke, taking the wax-sealed parchment in hand. “Now,
I fear, I must go see some men about … payments that will not appear on any official
ledger.”

“Of course. I quite understand. Conté can show you out.”

The gruff, weathered man-at-arms was paler than usual, and it seemed to Locke that
there was a slight but obvious hitch in his stride. Yes—the poor fellow was clearly
favoring a certain badly bruised portion of his anatomy. Locke’s stomach turned in
unconscious sympathy at his own memory of that night.

“I say, Conté,” he began politely, “are you feeling quite well? You seem … forgive
me for saying so … troubled this past day or two.”

“I’m well for the most part, Master Fehrwight.” There was a slight hardening of the
lines at the edges of the man’s mouth. “Perhaps a bit under the weather.”

“Nothing serious?”

“A minor ague, perhaps. They happen, this time of year.”

“Ah. One of the tricks of your climate. I’ve not yet felt such a thing, myself.”

“Well,” said Conté, with an absolute lack of expression on his face, “mind yourself
then, Master Fehrwight. Camorr can be a very dangerous place in the most
unlooked-for
ways.”

Oh-ho-HO
, Locke thought. So they’d let him in on the secret, as well. And the man had a proud
streak at least as wide as Sofia’s, to drop even the slightest hint of a threat. Worth
noting, that.

“I’m the very soul of caution, my dear Conté.” Locke tucked the promissory note within
his black waistcoat and adjusted his cascading cravats as they approached the front
door of the Salvara manor. “I keep my chambers very well illuminated, to ward off
miasmas, and I wear copper rings after Falselight. Just the thing for your hot-and-cold
fevers. I would wager that a few days at sea will put you right.”

“No doubt,” said Conté. “The voyage. I do look forward to the … voyage.”

“Then we are of one mind!” Locke waited for the don’s man to open the wide glass-and-iron
door for him, and as he stepped out into the moist air of Falselight, he nodded stiffly
but affably. “I shall pray for your health tomorrow, my good fellow.”

“Too kind, Master Fehrwight.” The ex-soldier had set one hand on the hilt of one of
his knives, perhaps unconsciously. “I shall most assuredly offer prayers concerning
yours
.”

LOCKE BEGAN walking south at a leisurely pace, crossing from the Isla Durona to Twosilver
Green as he and Calo had just a few nights previously. The Hangman’s Wind was stronger
than usual, and as he walked through the park in the washed-out light of the city’s
glowing Elderglass, the hiss and rustle of leaves was like the sighing of vast creatures
hiding in the greenery all around him.