Scott Lynch - Red Seas Under Red Skies

"Look, you want this man back in Tal Verrar. He'll drive you mad — you may even have to appoint some sort of nurse or minder for him, and you'll definitely have to hide him from the artificers — but the things he can do could make it worthwhile a hundred times over. He's the best lockbreaker I" ve ever seen. He just needs to believe that I truly represent you." "What do you suggest?" "You have a wax sigil on your ledgers and letters of credit. I" ve seen it, making my deposits. Put your seal on a sheet of parchment—" "And incriminate myself?" said Requin. "No."

"Already thought about that," said Locke. "Don't write a name on it. Don't date it, don't sign it to anyone, don't even add your usual "R". Just write something pleasant and totally nonspecific. "Look forward to comfort and hospitality." Or, "Expect every due consideration.""

"Trite bullshit. I see," said Requin. He removed a sheet of parchment from a desk drawer, touched a quill to ink and scrawled a few sentences. After sprinkling the letter with alchemical desiccant, he looked back at Locke. "And this childish device will be sufficient?"

"As far as his fears are concerned," said Locke, "Callas is a child. He'll grab at this like a baby grabbing for a tit." "Or a grown man," muttered Selendri.

Requin smiled. Gloved as always, he removed the glass cylinder from a small lamp atop his desk, revealing a candle at its heart. With this, he heated a stick of black wax, which he allowed to drip into a pool on the sheet of parchment. Finally, he withdrew a heavy signet ring from a jacket pocket and pressed it into the wax.

"Your bait, Master Kosta." He passed the sheet over. "The fact that you're skulking at the service entrance and trying to hide beneath that cloak both suggest you're not planning on staying in the city for long."

"Back south in a day or two, as soon as my shipmates finish offloading the, ah, completely legitimate and responsibly acquired cargo we picked up in Port Prodigal." That was a safe lie; with dozens of ships offloading in the city every day, at least a few of them had to be carrying goods from criminal sources. "And you'll bring Callas back with you." "Yes."

"If the sigil isn't sufficient, promise him anything else reasonable. Coin, drugs, drink, women. Men. Both. And if that's not enough, take Selendri's suggestion and let me worry about his state of mind. Don't come back empty-handed." "As you wish."

"What then, for you and the Archon? With Callas in hand, you'll likely be back to this scheme for my vault—"

"I don't know," said Locke. "I'll be at least six or seven weeks away before I can come back with him; why don't you ponder how I can best serve you in that time? Whatever plan you deem suitable. If you want me to turn him over to the Archon as a double agent, fine. If you want me to tell the Archon that he died or something… I just don't know. My skull aches. You're the man with the big picture. I'll look forward to new orders."

"If you can stay this polite," said Requin, hefting the purse, "bring me Callas and continue to be so satisfied with your place in the scheme of things… you may well have a future in my service." "I appreciate that."

"Go. Selendri will show you out. I still have a busy night lying in wait for me."

Locke let a bit of his actual relief show in his expression. This web of lies was growing so convoluted, so branching and so delicate that a moth's fart might knock it to pieces — but the two meetings of the night had bought what he and Jean needed.

Another two months of life from Stragos, and another two months of tolerance from Requin. All they needed to do now was steal back to their boat without complication and row themselves to safety.

"We're being followed," said Jean as they crossed the Sinspire service courtyard. They were headed back toward the maze of alleys and hedgerows from which thed'r come, the little-used block of gardens and service paths behind the lesser chance-houses. Their boat was tied up at a pier along the inner docks of the Great Gallery; thed'r snuck up to the top of the Golden Steps on rickety stairs, ignoring the lift-boxes and streets on which a thousand complications might lurk. "Where are they?"

"Across the street. Watching this courtyard. They moved when we moved, just now."

"Shit," muttered Locke. "Would that this city's entire population of lurking arseholes shared just one set of balls, so I could kick it repeatedly"

"At the edge of the courtyard, let's make a really obvious, sudden dash for it," said Jean. "Hide yourself. Whoever comes running after us—" "Gets to explain some things the hard way."

At the rear of the courtyard was a hedge twice Locke's height. An archway surrounded by empty crates and casks led to the dark and little-used backside of the Golden Steps. About ten yards from this archway, acting in unison by some unspoken signal, Locke and Jean broke into a sprint.

Through the arch, into the shadowed alley beyond; Locke knew they had just moments to hide themselves. They needed to be far enough from the courtyard to prevent any of the Sinspire attendants from glimpsing a scuffle. Past the backs of gardens and walled lawns they ran, scant yards from buildings where hundreds of the richest people in the Therin world were losing money for fun. At last they found two stacks of empty casks on either side of the alley — the most obvious ambush spot possible, but if their opponents thought they were hellbent on escape, they might just ignore the possibility.

Jean had already vanished into his place. Locke pulled his boot dagger, feeling the hammer of his own heartbeat, and crouched behind the casks on his side of the alley. He threw his cloaked arm across his face, leaving only his eyes and forehead exposed.

The rapid slap of leather on stones, and then — two dark shapes flew past the piles of casks. Locke deliberately delayed his own movement half a heartbeat, allowing Jean to strike first. When the pursuer closest to Locke turned, startled by the sound of Jean's attack on his companion, Locke slipped forward, dagger out, filled with grim elation at the thought of finally getting some answers to this business.

His grab for the attacker was good; he slipped his left arm around the man's neck at the exact instant he shoved his blade up against the soft junction of neck and chin on the other side. "Drop your weapon or I'll—" was all he had time to say, however, before the man did the absolute worst thing possible. He jerked forward in an attempt to break Locke's hold, perhaps reflexively, not realizing the angle at which Locke's blade was poised. Whether it was supreme optimism or miserable foolishness, Locke would never know, as the man sliced half the contents of his neck open and died that instant, spewing blood. A weapon clattered to the stones from his limp fingers.

Locke put his hands up in disbelief and let the corpse drop, only to find himself facing Jean, who was breathing heavily over the unmoving form of his own opponent. "Wait a minute," said Locke, "you mean—"

"Accident," said Jean. "I caught his knife, we fought a bit and he got it beneath his own rib cage."

"Gods damn it, Locke muttered, flicking blood from his right hand. "You try to keep a bastard alive and look what happens—"

"Crossbows," said Jean. He pointed to the ground, where Locke's adjusting eyes could see the dim shapes of two small hand crossbows. Alley-pieces, the sort of thing you used within ten yards or not at all. "Grab them. There may be more of them after us."

"Hell." Locke grabbed one of the bows and gingerly handed the other to Jean. The little quarrels might be poisoned; the thought of handling someone else's envenomed weapon in the dark made his skin crawl. But Jean was right: thed'r need the advantage if they had other pursuers.