The Gentleman Bastard Series 3-Book Bundle: The Lies of Locke Lamora, Red Seas Under Red Skies, The Republic of Thieves (60 page)

“Really? You think they were, or is it another damn scheme of some sort?”

“I think it’s likely they were,” said Jean. “I got the names from Ibelius, and I had
a good long ponder, and there’s just nothing linking them all. Nothing that signifies
to me, anyway. So, Raza spared their lives, but exiled them. Said they had a day to
put their affairs in order and leave Camorr for good.”

“Interesting. I wish I knew what it meant.”

“Maybe nothing, for once.”

“That would certainly be pleasant.”

“And the plague ship, Master Lamora!” Ibelius spoke up eagerly. “A singular vessel.
Jean has neglected to speak of it so far.”

“Plague ship?”

“A black-hulled vessel from Emberlain; a sleek little piece of business. Beautiful
as all hell, and you know I barely know which part of a ship goes in the water.” Jean
scratched his stubble-shadowed chin before continuing. “It pulled into plague anchorage
the very night that Capa Raza gave Capa Barsavi his own teeth lessons.”

“That’s a very interesting coincidence.”

“Isn’t it? The gods do love their omens. Supposedly, there’s twenty or thirty dead
already. But here’s the
very
odd part. Capa Raza has assumed responsibility for the charitable provisioning.”

“What?”

“Yes. His men escort the proceedings down to the docks; he’s giving coin to the Order
of Sendovani for bread and meat. They’re filling in for the Order of Perelandro since,
well, you know.”

“Why the hell would his men escort food and water down to the docks?”

“I was curious about that myself,” said Jean. “So last night I tried to poke around
a bit, in my official priestly capacity, you see. It’s not just food and water they’re
sending out.”

THE SOFTEST rain was falling, little more than a warm wet kiss from the sky, on the
night of Throne’s Day—the night following the ascension of Capa Raza. An unusually
stocky priest of Aza Guilla, with his wet robes fluttering in the breeze, stood staring
out at the plague ship moored in Camorr Bay. By the yellow glow of the ship’s lamps,
it seemed that the priest’s mask glowed golden bronze.

A decrepit little boat was bobbing in the gentle water beside the very
longest dock that jutted out from the Dregs; the boat, in turn, had a rope leading
out to the plague ship. The
Satisfaction
, anchored out at the edge of bow-shot, was looking strangely skeletal with its sails
tightly furled. A few shadowy men could be seen here and there on the ship’s deck.

On the dock, a small team of burly stevedores was unloading the contents of a donkey-cart
into the little boat, under the watch of half a dozen cloaked men and women, obviously
armed. No doubt the entire operation could be seen by looking-glass from any of the
guard stations surrounding Old Harbor. While most of those stations were still manned
(and would stay that way, as long as the plague ship remained), not one of them would
much care what was sent out to the ship, provided nothing at all was sent
back
.

Jean, on the other hand, was very curious about Capa Raza’s sudden interest in the
welfare of the poor seafarers from Emberlain.

“Look, best just turn right around and get your ass back … oh. Ah, beg pardon, Your
Holiness.”

Jean took a moment to savor the obvious disquiet on the faces of the men and women
who turned at his approach; they seemed like tough lads and lasses, proper bruisers,
seasoned in giving and taking pain. Yet the sight of his Sorrowful Visage made them
look as guilty as children caught hovering too close to the honey crock.

He didn’t recognize any of them; that meant they were almost certainly part of Raza’s
private gang. He tried to size them up with a glance, looking for anything incongruous
or unusual that might shed light on their point of origin, but there was very little.
They wore a great deal of jewelry; earrings, mostly—seven or eight of them per ear
in one young woman’s case. That was a fashion more nautical than criminal, but it
still might not mean anything.

“I merely came to pray,” said Jean, “for the intercession of the Lady Most Kind with
those unfortunates out there on the water. Pay me no heed, and do continue with your
labors.”

Jean encouraged them by putting his back mostly to the gang of laborers; he stood
staring out at the ship, listening very carefully to the sounds of the work going
on beside him. There were grunts of lifting and the tread of footfalls; the creaking
of weathered, water-eaten boards. The donkey-cart had looked to be full of little
sacks, each about the size of a one-gallon wineskin. For the most part, the crew handled
them gingerly, but after a few minutes—

“Gods damn it, Mazzik!” There was a strange clattering, clinking noise
as one of the sacks hit the dock. The overseer of the labor gang immediately wrung
his hands and looked over at Jean. “I, uh, begging your pardon, Your Holiness. We,
uh, we swore … we
promised
we would, uh, see these supplies safely to the plague ship.”

Jean turned slowly and let the man have the full, drawn-out effect of his faceless
regard. Then he nodded, ever so slightly. “It is a penitent thing you do. Your master
is most charitable to undertake the work that would ordinarily fall to the Order of
Perelandro.”

“Yeah, uh … that really was too bad. Quite the, uh, tragedy.”

“The Lady Most Kind tends the mortal garden as she will,” said Jean, “and plucks what
blossoms she will. Don’t be angry with your man. It’s only natural, to be discomfited
in the presence of something … so unusual.”

“Oh, the plague ship,” said the man. “Yeah, it, uh, gives us all the creeps.”

“I shall leave you to your work,” said Jean. “Call for us at the House of Aza Guilla
if the men aboard that ship should chance to need us.”

“Uh … sure. Th-thank you, Your Holiness.”

As Jean walked slowly along the dock, back toward shore, the crew finished loading
the small boat, which was then unlashed from its mooring.

“Haul away,” bellowed one of the men at the end of the dock.

Slowly, the rope tautened, and then as the little black silhouettes aboard the
Satisfaction
picked up the rhythm of their work, the boat began to draw across Old Harbor toward
the frigate at good speed, leaving a wavering silver wake on the dark water.

Jean strolled north into the Dregs, using the dignified pace of a priest to give himself
time to roll one question over and over in his mind.

What could a ship full of dead and dying men reasonably do with bags of coins?

“BAGS OF coins? You’re absolutely sure?”

“It was cold spending metal, Locke. You may recall we had a whole vault full of it,
until recently. I’d say we both have a pretty keen ear for the sound of coins on coins.”

“Hmmm. So unless the duke’s started minting full crowns in bread since I fell ill,
those provisions are as charitable as my gods-damned mood.”

“I’ll keep nosing about and see if I can turn anything else up.”

“Good, good. Now we need to haul me out of this bed and get
me
working on something.”

“Master Lamora,” cried Ibelius, “you are in no shape to be out of bed, and moving
around under your own volition! It is your own volition that has brought you to this
enervated state.”

“Master Ibelius, with all due respect, now that I am conscious, if I have to crawl
about the city on my hands and my knees to do something useful against Capa Raza,
I will. I start my war from here.”

He heaved himself up off the sleeping pallet and tried to stand; once again, his head
swam, his knees buckled, and he toppled to the ground.

“From there?” said Jean. “Looks damned uncomfortable.”

“Ibelius,” said Locke, “this is intolerable. I must be able to move about. I require
my strength back.”

“My dear Master Lamora,” said Ibelius, reaching down to help pick Locke up. Jean took
Locke’s other side, and the two of them soon had him back atop the sleeping pallet.
“You are learning that what you require and what your frame may endure can be two
very different things. If only I could have a solon for every patient who came to
me speaking as you do! ‘Ibelius, I have smoked Jeremite powders for twenty years and
now my throat bleeds, make me well!’ ‘Ibelius, I have been drunk and brawling all
night, and now my eye has been cut out! Restore my vision, damn you.’ Why, let us
not speak of solons, let us instead say a copper baron per such outburst … I could
still retire to Lashain a gentleman!”

“I can do precious little harm to Capa Raza with my face planted in the dust of this
hovel,” said Locke, his temper flaring once again.

“Then rest, sir;
rest
,” snapped Ibelius, his own color rising. “Have the grace not to lash your tongue
at me for failing to carry the power of the gods about in my fingertips! Rest, and
regain your strength. Tomorrow, when it is safe to move about, I shall bring you more
food; a restored appetite will be a welcome sign. With food and rest, you may achieve
an acceptable level of vigor in but a day or two. You cannot expect to skip lightly
away from what you’ve endured. Have patience.”

Locke sighed. “Very well. I just … I ache to be about the business of keeping Capa
Raza’s reign short.”

“And I yearn to have you about it as well, Master Lamora.” Ibelius removed his optics
and polished them against his tunic. “If I thought you could slay him now, with little
more strength in you than a half-drowned
kitten, why, I’d put you in a basket and carry you to him myself. But that is not
the case, and no poultice in my books of physik could make it so.”

“Listen to Master Ibelius, Locke, and quit sulking.” Jean gave him a pat on the shoulder.
“Look on this as a chance to exercise your mind. I’ll gather what further information
I can, and I’ll be your strong arm. You give me a plan to trip that fucker up and
send him to hell. For Calo, Galdo, and Bug.”

BY THE next night, Locke had recovered enough of his strength to pace about the room
under his own power. His muscles felt like jelly, and his limbs moved as though they
were being controlled from a very great distance—the messages transmitted by heliograph,
perhaps, before being translated into movements of joint and sinew. But he no longer
fell on his face when he stood up, and he’d eaten an entire pound of roast sausages,
along with half a loaf of bread slathered in honey, since Ibelius had brought the
food in the late afternoon.

“Master Ibelius,” said Locke as the physiker counted off Locke’s pulse for what Locke
suspected must be the thirteen thousandth time. “We are of a like size, you and I.
Do you by chance have any coats in good care? With suitably matching breeches, vests,
and gentleman’s trifles?”

“Ah,” said Ibelius, “I did have such things, after a fashion, but I fear … I fear
Jean did not tell you …”

“Ibelius is living with us here for the time being,” said Jean. “Around the corner,
in one of the villa’s other rooms.”

“My chambers, from which I conducted my business, well …” Ibelius scowled, and it
seemed to Locke that a very fine fog actually formed behind his optics. “They were
burned, the morning after Raza’s ascension. Those of us with blood ties to Barsavi’s
slain men … we have not been encouraged to remain in Camorr! There have already been
several murders. I can still come and go, if I’m careful, but … I have lost most of
my finer things, such as they were. And my patients. And my books! Yet another reason
for me to earnestly desire that some harm should befall Raza.”

“Damnation,” said Locke. “Master Ibelius, might I beg just a few minutes alone with
Jean? What we have to discuss is … well, it is of the utmost privacy, and for very
good reason. You have my apologies.”

“Hardly necessary, sir, hardly necessary.” Ibelius rose from his seat and
brushed plaster dust from his waistjacket. “I shall conceal myself outside, until
required. The night air will be invigorating for the actions of the capillaries; it
will quite restore the full flush of my balanced humors.”

When he had gone, Locke ran his fingers through his greasy hair and groaned. “Gods,
I could do with a bath, but right now I’d take standing in the rain for half an hour.
Jean, we need resources to take on Raza. The fucker took forty-five thousand crowns
from us; here we sit with ten. I need to kick the Don Salvara game back into life,
but I’m deathly afraid it’s in tatters, what with me being out of it for these past
few days.”

“I doubt it,” said Jean. “I spent some coin the day before you woke up for a bit of
stationery and some ink. I sent a note to the Salvaras by courier, from Graumann,
stating that you’d be handling some very delicate business for a few days and might
not be around.”

“You did?” Locke stared at him like a man who’d gone to the gallows only to have a
pardon and a sack of gold coins handed to him at the last minute. “You
did
? Gods bless your heart, Jean. I could kiss you, but you’re as covered in muck as
I am.”

Locke circled around the room furiously, or as close to furiously as he could manage,
still jerking and stumbling as he was. Hiding in this damned hovel, suddenly torn
away from the advantages he’d taken for granted for many years—no cellar, no vault
full of coins, no Wardrobe, no Masque Box … no gang. Raza had taken everything.

Packed up with the coins from the vault had been a packet of papers and keys, wrapped
in oilcloth. Those papers were documents of accounts at Meraggio’s countinghouse for
Lukas Fehrwight, Evante Eccari, and all the other false identities the Gentlemen Bastards
had planted over the years. There were hundreds of crowns in those accounts, but without
the documents, they were beyond mortal reach. In that packet, as well, were the keys
to the Bowsprit Suite at the Tumblehome Inn, where extra clothing suitable to Lukas
Fehrwight was neatly set out in a cedar-lined closet … locked away behind a clockwork
box that no lock-charmer with ten times the skill Locke had ever possessed could tease
open.