Scott Lynch - Red Seas Under Red Skies

"He's got three layers of vault doors, all of them iron-shod witch-wood, three or four inches thick. Last set of doors is supposedly backed with blackened steel, so even if you had a week to chop through the other two, you" d never get past the third. All of them have clockwork mechanisms, the best and most expensive Verrari stuff, private designs from masters of the Artificers" Guild. The standing orders are, not one set of doors opens unless he's there himself to see it; he watches every deposit and every withdrawal. Opens the doors a couple of times per day at most. Behind the first set of doors are four to eight guards, in rooms with cots, food and water. They can hold out there for a week, under siege." "Mmm-hmm."

"The inner sets of doors don't open except for a key he keeps around his neck. The outer doors won't open except for a key he always gives to his major-domo. So you" d need them both to get anywhere." "Mmm-hmm."

"And the traps… they're demented, or at least the rumours are. Pressure plates, counterweights, crossbows in the walls and ceilings. Contact poisons, sprays of acid, chambers full of venomous serpents or spiders… one fellow even said that there's a chamber before the last door that fills up with a cloud of powdered Strangler's Orchid petals, and while you're choking to death on that, a bit of twist-match falls out and lights the whole mess on fire, so then you burn to a crisp. Insult to injury." "Mmm-hmmm."

"Worst of all, the inner vault is guarded by a live dragon, attended by fifty naked women armed with poisoned spears, each of them sworn to die in Requin's service. All redheads." "You're just making that up, Jean."

"I wanted to see if you were listening. But what I'm saying is, I don't care if he's got a million solari in there, packed in bags for easy hauling. I'm inclined to the idea that this vault might not be breakable, not unless you" ve got three hundred soldiers, six or seven wagons and a team of master clockwork artificers you're not telling me about." "Right."

"Do you have three hundred soldiers, six or seven wagons and a team of master clockwork artificers you're not telling me about?"

"No, I" ve got you, me, the contents of our coin-purses, this carriage and a deck of cards." He attempted a complicated manipulation of the cards and they erupted out of his hand yet again, scattering against the opposite seat. "Fuck me with a poleaxe!"

"Then if I might persist, Lord of Legerdemain, perhaps there's some other target in Tal Verrar we might consider—"

"I'm not sure that" d be wise. Tal Verrar's got no twit-riddled aristocracy for us to fool around with. The Archon's a military tyrant on a long leash — he can bend the laws as he sees fit, so I'd rather not yank his breechclout. The Priori councils are all merchants from common stock, and they'll be damned hard to cheat. There's plenty of likely subjects for small-time games, but if we want a big game, Requin's the best one to hit. He's got what we want, right there for the taking." "Yet his vault—"

"Let me tell you," said Locke, "exactly what we're going to do about his vault."

Locke spoke for a few minutes while he put his deck of cards together, outlining the barest details of his scheme. Jean's eyebrows strained upward, attempting to take to the air above his head. "… So that's that. Now what do you say, Jean?" "I'll be damned. That might just work. If—" "If?"

"Are you sure you remember how to work a climbing harness? I'm a bit rusty myself." "We'll have quite a while to practise, won't we?"

"Hopefully. Hmmm. And we'll need a carpenter. One from outside Tal Verrar itself, obviously."

"We can go looking into that as well, once we've got a bit of coin back in our pockets."

Jean sighed, and all the banter went out of him like wine from a punctured skin. "I suppose … that just leaves… damn." "What?"

"I, ah… well, hell. Are you going to break down on me again? Are you going to stay reliable?"

"Stay reliable? Jean, you can… damn it, look for yourself! What have I been doing? Exercising, planning — and apologizing all the damn time! I'm sorry, Jean, I really am. Vel Virazzo was a bad time. I miss Calo, Galdo and Bug." "As do I, but—"

"I know. I let my sorrow get the best of me. It was damned selfish, and I know you must ache like I do. I said some stupid things. But I thought I'd been forgiven… did I misunderstand?" Locke's voice hardened. "Shall I now understand that forgiveness as something prone to going in and out like the tide?" "Now that's hardly fair. Just—"

"Just what? Am I special, Jean? Am I our only liability? When have I ever doubted your skills? When have I ever treated you like a child? You're not my fucking mother, and you're certainly not Chains. We can't work as partners if you're going to sit in judgement of me like this."

The two of them stared at one another, each trying to muster an attitude of cold indignation, and each failing. The mood within the little cabin turned morose, and Jean turned to stare sullenly out through the window for a few moments while Locke dejectedly shuffled his cards. He attempted another one-handed cut, and neither he nor Jean seemed surprised when a little blizzard of paper chits settled into the seat beside Jean.

"I'm sorry," Locke said as his cards fluttered down. "That was another shitty thing to say. Gods, when did we discover how easy it is to be cruel to one another?"

"You're right," Jean said softly. "I'm not Chains and I'm certainly not your mother. I shouldn't push you."

"No, you should. You pushed me off that galleon and you pushed me out of Vel Virazzo. You were right. I behaved terribly, and I can understand if you're still… nervous about me. I was so wrapped up in what I'd lost, I forgot what I still had. I'm glad you still worry enough about me to kick my arse when I need it." "I, ah, look — I apologize as well. I just—"

"Dammit, don't interrupt me when I'm feeling virtuously self-critical. I'm ashamed of how I behaved in Vel Virazzo. It was a slight to everything we've been through together. I promise to do better. Does that put you at ease?"

"Yes. Yes, it does."Jean began to pickup the scattered cards, and the ghost of a smile reappeared on his face. Locke settled back in his seat and rubbed his eyes.

"Gods. We need a target, Jean. We need a game. We need someone to go to work on, as a team. Don't you see? It's not just about what we can charm out of Requin. I want it to be us against the world, lively and dangerous, just like it used to be. Where there's no room for this sort of second-guessing, you know?"

"Because we're constantly inches from a horrible bloody death, you mean." "Right. The good times." "This plan might take a year," said Jean, slowly. "Maybe two."

"For a game this interesting, I'm willing to spend a year or two. You have any other pressing engagements?"

Jean shook his head, passed the collected cards to Locke and went back to his sheaf of notes, a deeply thoughtful expression on his face. Locke slowly traced the outline of the deck of cards with the fingers of his left hand, which felt slightly less useful than a crab claw. He could feel the still-fresh scars itching beneath his cotton tunic — scars so extensive it looked as though most of his left side had been sewn together from rag parts. Gods damn it, he was ready to be healed now. He was ready to have his old careless agility back. He imagined that he felt like a man of twice his years.

He tried another one-handed shuffle, and the deck fell apart in his hands. At least it hadn't shot apart in all directions. Was that improvement? He and Jean were silent for several minutes.

Eventually, the carriage rattled around a final small hill and suddenly Locke was looking across a green checkerboard landscape, sloping downward to sea-cliffs perhaps five or six miles distant. Specks of grey and white and black dotted the landscape, thickening toward the horizon, where the landside of Tal Verrar crowded against the cliff-edges. The coastal section of the city seemed pressed down beneath the rain; great silvery curtains were sweeping past behind it, blotting out the islands of Tal Verrar proper. Lightning crackled blue and white in the distance, and soft peals of thunder rolled toward them across the fields. "We're here," said Locke.