The Gentleman Bastard Series 3-Book Bundle: The Lies of Locke Lamora, Red Seas Under Red Skies, The Republic of Thieves (81 page)

Camorr was diminishing behind them, fading gradually between shifting curtains of
rain. Falselight rose up from the lower city like an aura above the waves; the Five
Towers shone ghostly beneath the churning skies. The wake of the galleon seemed to
gleam with phosphorescence—a roiling Falselight of its own.

They sat on the stern deck and watched the dark horizon swallow the city behind them.

“I’m sorry, Locke,” said Jean. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more useful to you, at the
end.”

“What the hell are you talking about? You killed Cheryn and Raiza; I could never have
done that. You pulled me out of the Floating Grave. You hauled me back to Ibelius
and got another lovely fucking poultice smeared all over me. What do you have to apologize
for—besides the poultice?”

“I’m a liability,” he said. “My name. I’ve been using my real name all my life, and
I never thought it’d come to anything bad.”

“What, the bondsmage? Oh, gods, Jean. Take a false name wherever we end up. Tavrin
Callas is good. Let the bastard pop up all over the place; the order of Aza Guilla
will have a surfeit of miracles to cherish.”

“I tried to kill you, Locke. I’m sorry.… I couldn’t do anything about it.”

“You didn’t try to kill me, Jean. The Falconer did. You
couldn’t
do anything about it. Gods, I’m the one with his arm slashed open and his shoulder
punched in, and you’re over there moping. Enough!”

Thunder rumbled in the clouds overhead, and there was the sound of shouted orders
from the forward deck of the ship.

“Jean,” said Locke, “you are a greater friend than I ever could have imagined before
I met you; I owe you my life too many times over to count. I would rather be dead
myself than lose you. Not just because you’re all I have left.”

Jean said nothing for several minutes; they stared north across the Iron Sea as the
whitecaps lashed one another with an increasing tempo.

“Sorry,” said Jean. “Mouth sort of ran away with me. Thanks, Locke.”

“Well, cheer up. At least you’ve got more mobility than a fucking tadpole on dry land.
Look at my little oilcloth castle.” Locke sighed. “So this is winning,” he said.

“It is,” replied Jean.

“It can go
fuck
itself,” said Locke.

They passed another few minutes in silence and rain.

“Locke,” said Jean at last, hesitantly.

“Yes?”

“If you don’t mind my asking … what
is
your real name?”

“Oh, gods.” Locke smiled weakly. “Can’t I have any secrets?”

“You know mine.”

“Yeah, but you’ve only got the one anyway.”

“Not a fair point.”

“Oh, fine,” said Locke. “Get over here.”

Jean stumbled over to the pile of crates on which Locke was lying, and bent down to
put his ear near Locke’s mouth. Locke whispered five syllables, and Jean’s eyes widened.

“You know,” he said, “I’d have gone with Locke in preference to that, myself.”

“Tell me about it.”

The galleon rode south before the winds of the storm, and the last few glimmers of
Falselight faded behind them. The lights drew down into the darkness, and then they
were gone for good, and the rain swept in like a wall above the surface of the sea.

A chunk of incredible good fortune fell right out of the sky and landed on my head
when this novel was picked up for publication. I owe many thanks to Simon Spanton,
Gillian Redfearn, Krystyna Kujawinska, Hannah Whitaker, and Susan Howe at Orion Books,
not to mention Anne Groell at Bantam.

It takes a village to keep a first-time author’s ego stoked (or in check, as necessary).
I couldn’t have asked for more patient or generous supporters than my parents, Jill
and Tom Lynch—nor would anything have been the same without a certain energetic crew
of online miscreant-savants: Gabe Chouinard, Matthew Woodring Stover, Kage Baker,
Bob Urell, Summer Brooks, M. Lynn Booker, Chris Billett, Gabriel Mesa, Alex Berman,
Clucky, Mastadge, Shevchyk, Ariel, and all the rest—including the readers and players
of the role-playing game Deeds Not Words.

Thanks also to friends near and far—Jason McCray, Darren Wieland, Cleo McAdams, Jayson
Stevens, Peg Kerr, Philip Shill, Bradford Walker, J. H. Frank, Jason Sartin, Abra
Staffin-Wiebe, Sammi and Lewis, Mike and Becky, Bridget and Joe, Annie and Josiah,
Erik and Aman, Mike and Laura, Paul, Adrian, Ben and Jenny Rose, Aaron, Jesse, Chris
and Ren, Andy Nelson, and last but not least Rose Miller, who’s not tall enough to
ride the ride just yet, but we let her on anyway.

New Richmond, Wisconsin

September 16, 2005

Locke Lamora stood on the pier in Tal Verrar with the hot wind of a burning ship at
his back and the cold bite of a loaded crossbow’s bolt at his neck.

He grinned and concentrated on holding his own crossbow level with the left eye of
his opponent; they were close enough that they would catch most of each other’s blood,
should they both twitch their fingers at the same time.

“Be reasonable,” said the man facing him. Beads of sweat left visible trails as they
slid down his grime-covered cheeks and forehead. “Consider the disadvantages of your
situation.”

Locke snorted. “Unless your eyeballs are made of iron, the disadvantage is mutual.
Wouldn’t you say so, Jean?”

They were standing two-by-two on the pier, Locke beside Jean, their assailants beside
one another. Jean and his foe were toe-to-toe with their crossbows similarly poised;
four cold metal bolts were cranked and ready scant inches away from the heads of four
understandably nervous men. Not one of them could miss at this range, not if all the
gods above or below the heavens willed it otherwise.

“All four of us would seem to be up to our balls in quicksand,” said Jean.

On the water behind them, the old galleon groaned and creaked as the roaring flames
consumed it from the inside out. Night was made day for hundreds of yards around;
the hull was crisscrossed with the white-orange lines of seams coming apart. Smoke
boiled out of those hellish cracks in little black eruptions, the last shuddering
breaths of a vast wooden beast
dying in agony. The four men stood at the very end of their pier, strangely alone
in the midst of light and noise that was drawing the attention of the entire city.