Scott Lynch - Red Seas Under Red Skies

"Well, what the— Oh, hell," said Locke, noticing for the first time that the false Eye Merrain had stabbed, along with Xandrin, was writhing on the ground with rivulets of foaming saliva trickling from the corners of his mouth. "Oh, shit, shit, hell," Locke shouted, bending helplessly over the dying alchemist. The convulsions ceased in just a few seconds, and Locke stared down at the single vial of antidote in his hands, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. "No," said Jean from behind him. "Oh, gods, why did she do that?" "I don't know," said Locke. "What the hell do we do?" "We… shit. Damned if I know that, either." "You should—"

"Nobody's doing anything," said Locke. "I'll keep this safe. Once this is over, we'll sit down with it, have dinner, talk it over. We'll come up with something." "You can—"

"Time to go," said Locke, as firmly as he could. "Get what we came here for and go, before things get more complicated." Before troops loyal to the Archon notice that he's having a bad night. Before Lyonisfinds out that Requin is actually hunting for us as we speak. Before some other gods-damned surprise crawls out of the ground to bite us on the arse. "Cordo," he shouted, "where's that bag you promised?"

Lyonis gestured to one of his surviving false Eyes, and the woman passed a heavy burlap sack to Locke. Locke shook it out — it was wider than he was, and nearly six feet long.

"Well, Maxilan," he said, "I offered you the chance to forget all of this, and let us go, and keep what you had, but you had to be a fucking arsehole, didn't you?"

"Kosta," said Stragos, at least rediscovering his voice, "I… I can give you—"

"You can't give me a gods-damned thing." Stragos appeared to be thinking of making an attempt for Merrain's dagger, so Locke gave it a hard kick. It skittered across the gravel and into the darkness of the gardens. "Those of us in our profession, those who hold with the Crooked Warden, have a little tradition we follow when someone close to us dies. In this case, someone who got killed as a result of this mad rucking scheme of yours." "Kosta, don't throw away what I can offer—"

"We call it a death-offering," said Locke. "Means we steal something of value, proportional to the life we lost. Except in this case I don't think there's anything in the world that qualifies. But we're doing our best." Jean stepped up beside him and cracked his knuckles.

"Ezri Delmastro," he said, very quietly, "I give you the Archon of Tal Verrar."

He punched Stragos so hard that the Archon's feet left the gravel. In a moment, he was stuffing the unconscious old man into the burlap sack. Another moment, and the sack was tied off and slung over his shoulder like a bag of potatoes.

"Well, Lyonis," said Locke, "best of luck with your revolution, or whatever the hell it is. We're sneaking out of here before things have a chance to get any more interesting on us." "And Stragos—" "You'll never see him again," said Locke. "Good enough, then. Are you leaving the city?" "Not half fast enough for our gods-damned taste." Jean dumped him on the quarterdeck, under the eyes of Zamira and all the surviving crew. It had been a long and arduous trip back — first to retrieve their backpacks from Cordo's little boat, and then to dutifully retrieve Drakasha's ship's boat, and then to row nearly out to sea — but it had all been worth it. The entire night had been worth it, Locke decided, just to see the expression on Stragos's face when he found "Zamira standing over him.

"Dr… r… akasha," he mumbled, then spat one of his teeth onto the deck. Blood ran in several streams down his chin.

"Maxilan Stragos, former Archon of Tal Verrar," she said. " "Final Archon of Tal Verrar. Last time I saw you my perspective was somewhat different." "As was… mine." He sighed. "What now?"

"There are too many debts riding on your carcass to buy them off with death," said Zamira. "We thought long and hard about this. We've decided that we're going to try to keep you around for as long as we possibly can."

She snapped her fingers and Jabril stepped forward, carrying a mass of sturdy, if slightly rusted, iron chains and cuffs in his arms. He dropped them on the deck next to Stragos and laughed as the old man jumped. The hands of other crewfolk seized him, and he began to sob in disbelief as his legs and arms were clamped, and as the chains were draped around him.

"You're going in the orlop, Stragos. You're going into the dark. And we're going to treat it as a special privilege to carry you around with us wherever we go. In any weather, in any sea, in any heat. We're going to haul you a mighty long way. You and your irons. Long after your clothes fall off, I guarantee you'll still have those to wear." "Drakasha, please—"

"Throw him as far down as we've got," she said, and half a dozen crewfolk began carrying him toward a main-deck hatch. "Chain him to the bulkhead. Then let him get cosy." "Drakasha," he screamed, "you can't! You can't! I'll go mad!"

"I know," she said. "And you'll scream. Gods, how you'll wail down there. But that's okay. We can always do with a bit of music at sea."

Then he was carried below the Poison Orchid's deck, to the rest of his life.

"Well," said Drakasha, turning to Locke and Jean. "You two delivered. I'll be damned, but you got what you wanted."

"No, Captain," said Jean. "We got what we went after, mostly. But we didn't get what we wanted. Not by a long gods-damned shot." "I'm sorry, Jerome," she said.

"I hope nobody ever calls me that again," said Jean. "The name is Jean."

"Locke and Jean," she said. "All right, then. Can I take you two somewhere?"

"Vel Virazzo, if you don't mind," said Locke. "We've got some business to transact." "And then you'll be rich men?" "We'll be in funds, yes. Do you want some, for your—"

"No," she said. "You went into Tal Verrar and did the stealing. Keep it. We've got swag enough from Salon Corbeau, and so few ways to split it now. We'll be fine. So what will you do after that?" "We had a plan," said Locke. "Remember what you told me at the rail that night? If someone tries to draw lines around your ship, just… set more sail?" Drakasha nodded. "I suppose you could say we're going to give it a try," said Locke. "Will you need anything else, then?"

"Well," said Locke, "for safety's sake, given our past history… perhaps you" d lend us a small sack and give us something small but rather important?" They met the next day, at Requin's invitation, in what could only be described as the wreckage of his office. The main door was smashed off its hinges, the suite of chairs still lay broken across the floor and of course almost all of the paintings on the walls had been sliced out of their frames. Requin seemed to derive a perverse pleasure in seating the seven Priori on fine chairs in the midst of the chaos and pretending that all was perfectly normal. Selendri paced the room behind the guests.

"Has everything gone more smoothly for you ladies and gentlemen since last night?" asked Requin.

"Fighting's ended in the Sword Marina,"said Jacantha Tiga, youngest of the Inner Seven. "The navy is on the leash."

"The Mon Magisteria is ours," said Lyonis Cordo, standing in for his father. "All of Stragos's captains are in custody, except for two captains of intelligence—"

"We can't have another fucking Ravelle incident," said a middle-aged Priori.

"I" ve got people working on that issue myself," said Requin. "They won't go to ground within the city, I can promise that much."

"The Ambassadors from Talisham, Espara and the Kingdom of the Seven Marrows have publicly expressed confidence in the leadership of the councils," said Tiga.

"I know," said Requin, smiling. "I forgave them some rather substantial debts last night and suggested that they might make themselves useful to the new regime. Now, what about the Eyes?"