The Lies of Locke Lamora (15 page)

Locke nodded furiously.

“Ahhhhh, so. Two mistakes. Your third mistake was involving Gregor. Was Gregor
supposed
to get hit with the ugly stick?”

“I didn’t like him, but no. I just wanted Veslin. Maybe I wanted Gregor to get a little, but not as much as Veslin.”

“Just so. You had a target, and you had a twist to play on that target, but you didn’t control the situation. So your game for Veslin spilled over and Gregor Foss got the knife, too.”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it? I already admitted it!”

“Angry now? My, yes, you
would
be…angry that you fucked up. Angry that you’re not as clever as you think. Angry that the gods gave lots of other people the same sort of brain they gave Locke Lamora. Quite the pisser, isn’t it?”

Locke blew his little lamp out with one quick breath, then flung it in an arc, as high over the parapet as his slender arm could throw. The crash of its landing was lost in the murmur of the busy Camorri night. The boy crossed his arms defensively.

“Well, it certainly is nice to be free from the threat of that lamp, my boy.” Chains drew a last breath of smoke, then rubbed his dwindling sheaf of tobacco out against the roof stones. “Was it informing for the duke? Plotting to murder us?”

Locke said nothing, teeth clenched and lower lip protruding. Petulance, the natural nonverbal language of the very young. Chains snorted.

“I do believe everything you’ve told me, Locke, because I had a long talk with your former master before I took you off his hands. Like I said, he told me everything. He told me about your last and biggest mistake. The one that tipped him off and got you sent here. Can you guess what it might have been?”

Locke shook his head.

“Can’t, or won’t?”

“I really don’t know.” Locke looked down. “I hadn’t actually…thought about it.”

“You showed other kids in Streets the white iron coin, didn’t you? You had them help you look for it. You let some of them know what it might be used for. And you ordered them not to talk about it. But what did you, ah,
back that order up
with?”

Locke’s eyes widened; his pout returned, but his petulance evaporated. “They…they hated Veslin, too. They wanted to see him get it.”

“Of course. Maybe that was enough for one day. But what about later? After Veslin was dead, and Gregor was dead, and your master’d had a chance to cool down some, and reflect on the situation? What if he started asking questions about a certain Lamora boy? What if he took some of your little boon companions from Streets and asked them nicely if Locke Lamora had been up to anything…unusual? Even for him?”

“Oh.” The boy winced. “Oh!”

“Oh-ho-ho!” Chains reached out and slapped the boy on the shoulder. “Enlightenment! When it comes, it comes like a brick to the head, doesn’t it?”

“I guess.”

“So,” said Chains, “now you see where everything went wrong. How many boys and girls are in that little hill, Locke? A hundred? Hundred and twenty? More? How many do you really think your old master could handle, if they turned on him? One or two, no problem. But four? Eight? All of them?”

“We, um…I guess we never…thought about it.”

“Because he doesn’t rule his graveyard by logic, boy; he rules it by fear. Fear of him keeps the older sprats in line. Fear of them keeps little shits like
you
in line. Anything that undermines that fear is a threat to his position. Enter Locke Lamora waving the idiot flag and thinking himself
so
much cleverer than the rest of the world!”

“I really…I don’t…think I’m cleverer than the rest of the world.”

“You did until three minutes ago. Listen, I’m a
garrista
. It means I run a gang, even if it’s just a small one. Your old master is a
garrista
, too; the
garrista
of Shades’ Hill. And when you mess with a leader’s ability to rule his gang, out come the knives. How long do you think the Thiefmaker could control Shades’ Hill if word got around of how you played him so sweetly? How you jerked him around like a kitten on a chain? He would never have real control over his orphans ever again; they’d push and push until it finally came to blood.”

“And that’s why he got rid of me? But what about Streets? What about the ones that helped me get Veslin?”

“Good questions. Easily answered. Your old master takes orphans in off the streets and keeps them for a few years; usually he’s through with them by the time they’re twelve or thirteen. He teaches them the basics: how to sneak-thief and speak the cant and mix with the Right People, how to get along in a gang and how to dodge the noose. When he’s through with them, he sells them to the bigger gangs, the real gangs. You see? He takes orders. Maybe the Gray Faces need a second-story girl. Maybe the Arsenal Boys want a mean little bruiser. It’s a great advantage to the gangs; it brings them suitable new recruits that don’t need to have their hands held.”

“That I know. That’s why…he sold me to you.”

“Yes. Because you’re a very special case. You have profitable skills, even if your aim so far has been terrible. But your little friends in Streets? Did they have your gifts? They were just regular little coat-charmers, simple little teasers. They weren’t ripe. Nobody would give a penny for them, except slavers, and your old master has one sad old scrap of real conscience. He wouldn’t sell one of you to the crimpers for all the coin in Camorr.”

“So…what you’re saying is, he had to do something to all of us that knew about the coin. All of us that could…figure it out or tell about it. And I was the only one he could sell.”

“Correct. And as for the others, well…” Chains shrugged. “It’ll be quick. Two, three weeks from now, nobody’ll even remember their names. You know how it goes in the hill.”

“I got them killed?”

“Yes.” Chains didn’t soften his voice. “You really did. As surely as you tried to hurt Veslin, you killed Gregor and four or five of your little comrades into the bargain.”

“Shit.”

“Do you see now, what consequences really are? Why you have to move slowly, think ahead, control the situation? Why you need to settle down and wait for time to give you
sense
to match your talent for mischief? We have years to work together, Locke. Years for you and my other little hellions to practice quietly. And that has to be the rule, if you want to stay here. No games, no cons, no scams, no
anything
except when and where I tell you. When someone like you pushes the world, the world pushes
back
. Other people are likely to get hurt. Am I clear?”

Locke nodded.

“Now.” Chains snapped his shoulders back and rolled his head from side to side; there was a series of snaps and cracks from somewhere inside him. “Ahhh. Do you know what a death-offering is?”

“No.”

“It’s something we do, for the Benefactor. Not just those of us who are initiates of the Thirteenth. Something all of us crooks do for one another, all the Right People of Camorr. When we lose someone we care about, we get something valuable and we throw it away. For
real
, you understand. Into the sea, into a fire, something like that. We do this to help our friends on their way to what comes next. Clear so far?”

“Yeah, but my old master…”

“Oh, he does it, trust me. He’s a wretched miser and he always does it in private, but he does it for each and every one of you he loses. Figures he wouldn’t tell you about it. But here’s the thing—there’s a rule that has to be followed with the offering. It can’t be given willingly, you understand? It can’t be something you already have. It has to be something you go out and steal from someone else, special, without their permission or their, ah, complicity. Get me? It has to be genuine theft.”

“Uh, sure.”

Father Chains cracked his knuckles. “You’re going to make a death-offering for every single boy or girl you got killed, Locke. One for Veslin, one for Gregor. One for each of your little friends in Streets. I’m sure I’ll know the count in just a day or two.”

“But I…they weren’t…”

“Of course they were your friends, Locke. They were your very
good
friends. Because they’re going to teach you that when you kill someone, there are consequences. It is one thing to kill in a duel, to kill in self-defense, to kill for vengeance. It is another thing entirely to kill simply because you are careless. Those deaths are going to hang over your head until you’re so careful you make the saints of Perelandro weep. Your death-offering will be a thousand full crowns per head. All of it properly stolen by your own hand.”

“But I…what? A thousand crowns? Each? A
thousand
?”

“You can take that death-mark off your neck when you offer up the last coin of it, and not a moment sooner.”

“But that’s impossible! It’ll take…forever!”

“It’ll take years. But we’re thieves, not murderers, here in my temple. And the price of your life with me is that you must show respect for the dead. Those boys and girls are your
victims
, Locke. Get that through your head. This is something you owe them, before the gods. Something you must swear to by blood before you can stay. Are you willing to do so?”

Locke seemed to think for a few seconds. Then he shook his head as though to clear it, and nodded.

“Then hold out your left hand.”

As Locke did so, Chains produced a slender blackened-steel stiletto from within his robe and drew it across his own left palm; then, holding Locke’s outstretched hand firmly, he scratched a shallow, stinging cut between the boy’s thumb and index finger. They shook hands firmly, until their palms were thick with mingled blood.

“Then you’re a Gentleman Bastard, like the rest of us. I’m your
garrista
and you’re my
pezon
, my little soldier. I have your oath in blood to do what I’ve told you to do? To make the offerings for the souls of the people you’ve wronged?”

“I’ll do it,” Locke said.

“Good. That means you can stay for dinner. Let’s get down off this roof.”

BEHIND THE curtained door at the rear of the sanctuary there was a grimy hall leading to several grimy rooms; moisture and mold and poverty were on abundant display. There were cells with sleeping pallets, lit by oiled-paper lamps that gave off a light the color of cheap ale. Scrolls and bound books were scattered on the pallets; robes in questionable states of cleanliness hung from wall hooks.

“This is a necessary nonsense.” Chains gestured to and fro as he led Locke into the room closest to the curtained door, as though showing off a palace. “Occasionally, we play host to a tutor or a traveling priest of Perelandro’s order, and they have to see what they expect.”

Chains’ own sleeping pallet (for Locke saw that the wall-manacles in the other room could surely reach none of the other sleeping chambers back here) was set atop a block of solid stone, a sort of heavy shelf jutting from the wall. Chains reached under the stale blankets, turned something that made a metallic clacking noise, and lifted his bed up as though it were a coffin lid; the blankets turned out to be on some sort of wooden panel with hinges set into the stone. An inviting golden light spilled from within the stone block, along with the spicy smells of high-class Camorri cooking. Locke knew that aroma only from the way it drifted out of the Alcegrante district or down from certain inns and houses.

“In you go!” Chains gestured once again, and Locke peeked over the lip of the stone block. A sturdy wooden ladder led down a square shaft just slightly wider than Chains’ shoulders; it ended about twenty feet below, on a polished wood floor. “Don’t gawk, climb!”

Locke obeyed. The rungs of the ladder were wide and rough and very narrowly spaced; he had no trouble moving down it, and when he stepped off he was in a tall passage that might have been torn out of the duke’s own tower. The floor was indeed polished wood, long straight golden-brown boards that creaked pleasantly beneath his feet. The arched ceiling and the walls were entirely covered with a thick milky golden glass that shone faintly, like a rainy-season sun peeking out from behind heavy clouds. The illumination came from everywhere and nowhere; the wall scintillated. With a series of thumps and grunts and jingles (for Locke saw that he now carried the day’s donated coins in a small burlap sack) Chains came down and hopped to the floor beside him. He gave a quick tug to a rope tied to the ladder, and the false bed-pallet fell back down and locked itself above.

“There. Isn’t this much nicer?”

“Yeah.” Locke ran one hand down the flawless surface of one of the walls. The glass was noticeably cooler than the air. “It’s Elderglass, isn’t it?”

“Sure as hell isn’t plaster.” Chains shooed Locke along the passage to the left, where it turned a corner. “The whole temple cellar is surrounded by the stuff. Sealed in it. The temple above was actually built to settle into it, hundreds of years ago. There’s not a break in it, as far as I can tell, except for one or two little tunnels that lead out to other interesting places. It’s flood-tight, and never lets in a drop from below even when the water’s waist-deep in the streets. And it keeps out rats and roaches and suckle-spiders and all that crap, so long as we mind our comings and goings.”

The clatter of metal pans and the low giggle of the Sanza brothers reached them from around the corner just before they turned it, entering into a comfortably appointed kitchen with tall wooden cabinets and a long witchwood table, surrounded by high-backed chairs. Locke actually rubbed his eyes when he saw their black velvet cushions, and the varnished gold leaf that gilded their every surface.

Calo and Galdo were working at a brick cooking shelf, shuffling pans and banging knives over a huge white alchemical hearthslab. Locke had seen smaller blocks of this stone, which gave off a smokeless heat when water was splashed atop it, but this one must have weighed as much as Father Chains. As Locke watched, Calo (Galdo?) held a pan in the air and poured water from a glass pitcher onto the sizzling slab; the great uprush of steam carried a deep bouquet of sweet cooking smells, and Locke felt saliva spilling down the back of his mouth.