Scott Lynch - The Lies of Locke Lamora

To his surprise, the Sanza twins didn’t partake once they’d served him; they sat with their hands folded, watching Chains. When the older man seemed assured that Locke was eating, he turned to Calo.

“You’re a Vadran noble. Let’s say you’re a Liege-Graf from one of the less important Marrows. You’re at a dinner party in Tal Verrar; an equal number of men and women, with assigned seating. The party is just entering the dining hall; your assigned lady is beside you as you enter, conversing with you. What do you do?”

“At a Vadran dinner party, I would hold her chair out for her without invitation.” Calo didn’t smile. “But Verrari ladies will stand beside a chair to show they want it pulled out. It’s impolite to presume. So I’d let her make the first move.”

“Very good. Now.” Chains pointed to the second Sanza with one hand as he began adding food to his plate with the other. “What’s seventeen multiplied by nineteen?”

Galdo closed his eyes in concentration for a few seconds. “Um…three hundred and twenty three.”

“Correct. What’s the difference between a Vadran nautical league and a Therin nautical league?”

“Ah…the Vadran league is a hundred and…fifty yards longer.”

“Very good. That’s that, then. Go ahead and eat.”

As the Sanza brothers began to undecorously struggle for possession of certain serving dishes, Chains turned to Locke, whose plate was already half-empty. “After you’ve been here a few days, I’m going to start asking questions about what you’ve learned, too. If you want to eat you’ll be expected to learn.”

“What am I going to learn? Other than setting tables?”

“Everything!” Chains looked very pleased with himself. “Everything, my boy. How to fight, how to steal, how to lie with a straight face. How to cook meals like this! How to disguise yourself. How to speak like a noble, how to scribe like a priest, how to skulk like a half-wit.”

“Calo already knows that one,” said Galdo.

“Agh moo agh na mugh baaa,” said Calo around a mouthful of food.

“Remember what I said, when I told you we didn’t work like other thieves work? We’re a new sort of thief here, Locke. What we are is actors. False-facers. I sit here and pretend to be a priest of Perelandro; for years now people have been throwing money at me. How do you think I paid to furnish this little fairy-burrow, this food? I’m three and fifty; nobody my age can steal around rooftops and charm locks. I’m better paid for being blind than I ever was for being quick and clever. And now I’m too slow and too round to pass for anything really interesting.”

Chains finished off the contents of his glass and poured another.

“But you. You, and Calo and Galdo and Sabetha…you four will have every advantage I didn’t. Your education will be thorough and vigorous. I’ll refine my notions, my techniques. When I’m finished, the things you four will pull…well, they’ll make my little scam with this temple look simple and unambitious.”

“That sounds nice,” said Locke, who was feeling the wine. A warm haze of charitable contentment was descending over him and smothering the tension and worry that were so second-nature to a Shades’ Hill orphan. “What do we do first?”

“Well, tonight, if you’re not busy throwing up the first decent meal you’ve ever had, Calo and Galdo will draw you a bath. Once you’re less aromatic company, you can sleep in. Tomorrow, we’ll get you an acolyte’s robe and you can sit the steps with us, taking coins. Tomorrow night…” Chains scratched at his beard while he took a sip from his glass. “I take you to meet the big man. Capa Barsavi. He’s ever so curious to get a look at you.”

FOR THE SECOND time in two days, Don Lorenzo Salvara found his life interrupted by masked and hooded strangers in an unexpected place. This time, it was just after midnight, and they were waiting for him in his study.

“Close the door,” said the shorter intruder. His voice was all Camorr, rough and smoky and clearly accustomed to being obeyed. “Have a seat, m’lord, and don’t bother calling for your man. He is…indisposed.”

“Who the hell are you?” Salvara’s sword hand curled reflexively; his belt held no scabbard. He slid the door closed behind him but made no move to sit at his writing desk. “How did you get in here?”

The intruder who’d first spoken reached up and pulled down the black cloth that covered his nose and mouth. His face was lean and angular; his hair black, his dark moustache thin and immaculately trimmed. A white scar arced across the man’s right cheekbone. He reached into the folds of his well-cut black cloak and pulled out a black leather wallet, which he flipped open so the don could see its contents-a small crest of gold set inside an intricate design of frosted glass.

“Gods.” Don Salvara fell into his chair, nervously, without further hesitation. “You’re Midnighters.”

“Just so.” The man folded his wallet and put it back in his cloak. The silent intruder, still masked and hooded, moved casually around to stand just a few feet behind Don Lorenzo, between him and the door. “We apologize for the intrusion. But our business here is extremely sensitive.”

“Have I…have I somehow offended His Grace?”

“Not to my knowledge, m’lord Salvara. In fact, you might say we’re here to help prevent you from doing so.”

“I…I, ah…well. Ah, what did you say you did to Conté?”

“Just gave him a little something to help him sleep. We know he’s loyal and we know he’s dangerous. We didn’t want any…misunderstandings.”

The man standing at the door punctuated this statement by stepping forward, reaching around Don Salvara, and gently setting Conté’s matching fighting knives down on the desktop.

“I see. I trust that he’ll be well.” Don Salvara drummed his fingers on his writing desk and stared at the scarred intruder. “I should be very displeased otherwise.”

“He is completely unharmed; I give you my word as the duke’s man.”

“I shall hold that sufficient. For the time being.”

The scarred man sighed and rubbed his eyes with two gloved fingers. “There’s no need for us to begin like this, m’lord. I apologize for the abruptness of our appearance and the manner of our intrusion, but I believe you’ll find that your welfare is paramount in our master’s eyes. I’m instructed to ask-did you enjoy yourself at the Revel today?”

“Yes…” Don Salvara spoke carefully, as though to a solicitor or a court recorder. “I suppose that would be an accurate assessment.”

“Good, good. You had company, didn’t you?”

“The Doña Sofia was with me.”

“I refer to someone else. Not one of His Grace’s subjects. Not Camorri.”

“Ah. The merchant. A merchant named Lukas Ferhwight, from Emberlain.”

“From Emberlain. Of course.” The scarred man folded his arms and looked around the don’s study. He stared for a moment at a pair of small glass portraits of the old Don and Doña Salvara, set in a frame decked with black velvet funeral ribbons. “Well. That man is no more a merchant of Emberlain than you or I, m’lord Salvara. He’s a fraud. A sham.”

“I…” Don Salvara nearly jumped to his feet, but remembered the man standing behind him and seemed to think better of it. “I don’t see how that could be possible. He…”

“Beg pardon, m’lord.” The scarred man smiled, gruesomely and artificially, as a man without children might smile when trying to comfort an upset babe. “But let me ask you-have you ever heard of the man they call the Thorn of Camorr ?”