The Lies of Locke Lamora (33 page)

The falcon exploded, screeching, from its perch on its master’s hand. Locke raised his left arm in front of his face and the bird slammed against it, talons clutching with edges that sliced through the fabric of Locke’s coat sleeve. The bird fastened itself on Locke’s arm, excruciatingly, and beat its wings to steady itself. Locke hollered and raised his right hand to punch the bird.

“Do that,” said the Falconer, “and die. Look closely at my familiar’s talons.”

Biting the insides of his cheeks against the pain, Locke did just that. The creature’s rear talons weren’t talons at all, but more like smooth curved hooks that narrowed to needle points at their tips. There were strange pulsating sacs on the legs just above them, and even to Locke’s limited knowledge of hunting birds this seemed very wrong.

“Vestris,” said the Gray King, “is a scorpion hawk. A hybrid, facilitated by alchemy and sorcery. One of many that the Bondsmagi amuse themselves with. She carries not just talons, but a sting. If she were to cease being tolerant of you, you might make it ten steps before you fell dead in your tracks.”

Blood began to drip from Locke’s arm; he groaned. The bird snapped at him with its beak, clearly enjoying itself.

“Now,” said the Gray King, “are we not all grown men and birds here?
Functional
is such a relative state of affairs, Locke. I would hate to have to give you another demonstration of just
how
relative.”

“I apologize,” said Locke between gritted teeth. “Vestris is a fine and persuasive little bird.”

The Falconer said nothing, but Vestris released her grip on Locke’s left arm, unleashing new spikes of pain. Locke clutched his bloodied wool sleeve, massaging the wounds within it. Vestris fluttered back to her perch on her master’s glove and resumed staring at Locke.

“Isn’t it just as I said, Falconer?” The Gray King beamed at Locke. “Our Thorn knows how to recover his equilibrium. Two minutes ago, he was too scared to think. Now he’s already insulting us and no doubt scheming for a way out of this situation.”

“I don’t understand,” said Locke, “why you keep calling me Thorn.”

“Of course you do,” said the Gray King. “I’m only going to go over this once, Locke. I know about your little burrow beneath the House of Perelandro. Your vault. Your fortune. I know you don’t spend any of your nights sneak-thieving, as you claim to all the other Right People. I know you breach the Secret Peace to spring elaborate confidence schemes on nobles who don’t know any better, and I know you’re
good
at it. I know you didn’t start these ridiculous rumors about the Thorn of Camorr, but you and I
both
know they refer to your exploits, indirectly. Lastly, I understand that Capa Barsavi would do some
very interesting
things to you and all of your Gentlemen Bastards if the things I know were to be confided to him.”

“Oh, please,” said Locke, “you’re not exactly in any position to whisper politely in his ear and be taken seriously.”

“
I’m
not the one who would be whispering in his ear,” said the Gray King, smiling, “if you failed at the task I have for you. I have others close to him to speak for me. I trust I have made myself
very
clear.”

Locke glared for a few seconds, then sat down with a sigh, turning his chair around and leaning his injured arm against the back. “I see your point. And in exchange?”

“In exchange, for the task I require, I would promise you that Capa Barsavi
won’t
hear about your very cleverly arranged double life, nor that of your closest companions.”

“So,” said Locke slowly, “that’s how it is.”

“My Bondsmage excepted, I’m a thrifty man, Locke.” The Gray King stepped out from behind the bar and folded his arms. “You get paid in life, not coin.”

“What’s the task?”

“A straightforward beguilement,” said the Gray King. “I want
you
to become
me
.”

“I, ah, I don’t understand.”

“The time has come for me to quit this game of shadows. Barsavi and I need to speak face-to-face. I will very shortly arrange a clandestine conference with the capa, one that will bring him forth from the Floating Grave.”

“Fat chance.”

“In this you must trust me. I’m the architect of his current troubles; I assure you, I
know
what can bring him out from that soggy fortress of his. But it won’t be
me
that he’ll speak to. It will be you. The Thorn of Camorr. The greatest mummer this city has ever produced. You, cast in the role of me. Just for one night. A virtuoso performance.”

“A
command
performance. Why?”

“I will be required
elsewhere
at that time. The conference is one part of a wider concern.”

“I am personally known to Capa Barsavi and his entire family.”

“You have already convinced the Salvaras that you were two different men. In the same day, no less. I’ll coach you in what I wish you to say and provide you with a suitable wardrobe. Between your skills and my current anonymity, no one will
ever
be aware that you are even involved, or that you are not the real Gray King.”

“An amusing plan. It has balls, and that appeals to me. But you do realize that I’m going to look like quite the ass,” said Locke, “when the capa opens our conversation with a dozen crossbow bolts to my
chest
.”

“Hardly an issue. You’ll be quite well protected against routine foolishness on the capa’s part. I’ll be sending the Falconer with you.”

Locke flicked his gaze back to the Bondsmage, who smiled with obvious mock magnanimity.

“Do you really think,” continued the Gray King, “that I would have let you keep that other stiletto in your coat sleeve if any weapon in your hands could touch me? Try to cut me. I’ll let you borrow a crossbow or two, if you like. A quarrel will do no better. The same protection will be yours when you meet with the capa.”

“Then it’s true,” said Locke. “Those stories aren’t just stories. Your pet mage gives you more than just the ability to make my brain lock up like I’ve been drinking all night.”

“Yes. And it was my men who started spreading those stories, for one purpose—I wanted Barsavi’s gangs to so dread my presence that they wouldn’t
dare
to get close to
you
when the time came for you to speak to him. After all, I have the power to kill men with a touch.” The Gray King smiled. “And when you’re me, so will
you
.”

Locke frowned. That smile, that face…There was something damned
familiar
about the Gray King. Nothing immediately obvious, just a nagging sensation that Locke had been in his presence before. He cleared his throat. “That’s very thoughtful of you. And what happens when I’ve finished this task for you?”

“A parting of the ways,” said the Gray King. “You to your business, and me to my own.”

“I find that somewhat difficult to believe.”

“You’ll leave your meeting with Barsavi alive, Locke. Fear not for what happens after that; I assure you it won’t be as bad as you think. If I merely wanted to assassinate him, can you deny that I could have done it long ago?”

“You’ve killed seven of his
garristas
. You’ve kept him locked away on the Floating Grave for months. ‘Not as bad as I think’? He killed eight of his own Full Crowns after Tesso died. He won’t accept less than blood from
you
.”

“
Barsavi
has kept himself locked away on the Floating Grave, Locke. And as I said, you must trust me to deal with that end of the situation. The capa
will
acquiesce to what I have to offer him. We’ll settle the question of Camorr once and for all, to everyone’s satisfaction.”

“I grant that you’re dangerous,” said Locke, “but you must be mad.”

“Suit whatever meaning you wish to my actions, Locke, provided that you perform as required.”

“It would appear,” Locke said sourly, “that I have no choice.”

“This is no accident. Are we agreed? You’ll perform this task for me?”

“With instruction in what you wish me to say to Capa Barsavi?”

“Yes.”

“There will be one other condition.”

“Really?”

“If I’m going to do this for you,” said Locke, “I need to have a way to speak to you, or at least get a message to you, at my
own
will. Something may come up which can’t wait for you to prance around appearing out of nowhere.”

“It’s unlikely,” said the Gray King.

“It’s a necessity. Do you want me to be successful in this task or not?”

“Very well.” The Gray King nodded. “Falconer.”

The Falconer rose from his seat; Vestris never took her eyes from Locke’s. The hawk’s master reached inside his coat with his free hand and withdrew a candle—a tiny cylinder of white wax with an odd smear of crimson swirling through it. “Light this,” said the Bondsmage, “in a place of solitude. You must be absolutely alone. Speak my name, and I will hear and come, soon enough.”

“Thank you.” Locke took the candle with his right hand and slipped it into his own coat. “Falconer. Easy to remember, that.”

Vestris opened her beak, but made no noise. It snapped shut, and the bird blinked. A yawn? Her version of a chuckle at Locke’s expense?

“I’ll be keeping an eye on you,” said the Bondsmage. “Just as Vestris feels what I feel, I see what she sees.”

“That explains quite a bit,” said Locke.

“If we are agreed,” said the Gray King, “our business here is finished. I have something else to do, and it must be done tonight. Thank you, Master Thorn, for seeing reason.”

“Said the man with the crossbow to the man with the money purse.” Locke stood up and slipped his left hand into a coat pocket; the forearm was still throbbing with pain. “So when is this meeting supposed to take place?”

“Three nights hence,” said the Gray King. “No interruption at all for your Don Salvara game, I trust?”

“I don’t think you really care, but no.”

“All for the better, then. Let us return you to your own affairs.”

“You’re not going to—”

But it was too late; the Falconer had already begun to gesture with his free hand and move his lips, forming words but not quite vocalizing them. The room spun; the orange lantern light became a fading streak of color against the darkness of the room, and then there was only darkness.

WHEN LOCKE’S senses returned he found himself standing on the bridge between the Snare and Coin-Kisser’s Row; not a moment had passed by his own personal reckoning, but when he looked up he saw that the clouds were gone, the stars had whirled in the dark sky, and the moons were low in the west.

“Son of a
bitch
,” he hissed. “It’s been hours! Jean’s got to be having fits.”

He thought quickly; Calo and Galdo had planned to spend the evening making their rounds in the Snare, with Bug in tow. They would probably have ended up at the Last Mistake, dicing and drinking and trying not to get thrown out for cardsharping. Jean had intended to spend the night feigning occupancy in the Broken Tower rooms, at least until Locke returned. That would be the closest place to begin hunting for them. Just then, Locke remembered that he was still dressed as Lukas Fehrwight. He slapped his forehead.

He pulled his coat and cravats off, yanked the false optics from the bridge of his nose, and stuffed them in a vest pocket. He gingerly felt the cuts on his left arm; they were deep and still painful, but the blood had crusted on them, so at least he wasn’t dripping all over the place.
Gods damn the Gray King,
thought Locke,
and gods grant I get the chance to balance this night out in the ledger.

He ruffled his hair, unbuttoned his vest, untucked his shirt, and reached down to fold and conceal the ridiculous ribbon tongues of his shoes. His cravats and his decorative belts went into the coat, which Locke then folded up and tied by the sleeves. In the darkness, it bore an excellent resemblance to a plain old cloth sack. With the outward flourishes of Lukas Fehrwight broken down, he could at least pass without notice for a reasonably short period of time. Satisfied, he turned and began to walk quickly down the south side of the bridge, toward the still-lively lights and noises of the Snare.

Jean Tannen actually appeared from an alley and took him by the arm as he turned onto the street on the north side of the Broken Tower, where the main entrance to the Last Mistake opened onto the cobbles. “Locke! Where the hell have you
been
all night? Are you well?”

“Jean, gods, am I ever glad to see you! I’m far from well, as are you. Where are the others?”

“When you didn’t return,” Jean said, speaking in a low voice close to Locke’s ear, “I found them in the Last Mistake and sent them up to our rooms, with Bug. I’ve been pacing the alleys down here, trying to keep out of sight. I didn’t want us all getting scattered across the city by night. I…we feared…”

“I was taken, Jean. But then I was let go. Let’s get up to the rooms. We have a new problem, fresh from the oven and hot as hell.”

THEY LET the windows in their rooms stay open this time, with thin sheets of translucent mesh drawn down to keep out biting insects. The sky was turning gray, with lines of red visible just beneath the eastern windowsills, when Locke finished relating the events of the night. His listeners had shadows beneath their bleary eyes, but none showed any indication of sleepiness just then.

“At least we know now,” Locke finished, “that he won’t be trying to kill me like he did the other
garristas
.”

“Not until three nights hence, anyway,” said Galdo.

“Bastard simply can’t be trusted,” said Bug.

“But for the time being,” said Locke, “he must be
obeyed
.”

Locke had changed into spare clothes; he now looked much more suitably low-class. Jean had insisted on washing his arm with reinforced wine, heated to near boiling on an alchemical hearthstone. Locke now had a compress of brandy-soaked cloth pressed to it, and he bathed it in the light of a small white glow-globe. It was common knowledge among the physikers of Camorr that light drove back malodorous air and helped prevent lingering infections.