Scott Lynch - Red Seas Under Red Skies

Locke and Jean were escorted down a side hall, up a flight of steps and down another hall, past blue-coated guards standing stiffly at attention. Was it Locke's imagination, or did something more than ordinary respect creep into their faces when the bronze masks of the Eyes swept past them? There was no more time to ponder, for they were suddenly halted before their evident destination. In a corridor full of wooden doorways, they stood before one made of metal.

An Eye stepped forward, unlocked the door and pushed it open. The room beyond was small and dark. Soldiers rapidly undid the bonds around Locke and Jean's wrists, and then the two of them were shoved forward into the little room.

"Hey, wait just a damn—" said Locke, but the door slammed shut behind them and the sudden blackness was absolute.

"Perelandro," said Jean. He and Locke spent a few seconds stumbling into one another before they managed to regain some balance and dignity. "How on earth did we attract the attention of these bloody arseholes?"

"I don't know, Jerome." Locke emphasized the pseudonym very slightly. "But maybe the walls have ears. Hey! Bloody arseholes! No need to be coy! We're perfectly well behaved when civilly incarcerated."

Locke stumbled toward the remembered location of the nearest wall to pound his fists against it. He discovered for the first time that it was rough brick. "Damnation," he muttered, and sucked at a scraped knuckle. "Odd," said Jean. "What?" "I can't be sure." "What?" "Is it just me, or does it seem to be getting warmer in here?"

Time went by with all the speed of a sleepless night.

Locke was seeing colours flashing and wobbling in the darkness, and while part of him knew they weren't real, that part of him was becoming less and less assertive with every passing minute. The heat was like a weight pressing in on every inch of his skin. His tunic was wide open and he'd slipped his neck-cloths off so he could wrap them around his hands to steady himself as he leaned back against Jean.

When the door clicked open, it took him a few seconds to realize that he wasn't imagining things. The crack of white light grew into a square, and he flinched back with his hands over his eyes. The air from the corridor fell across him like a cool autumn breeze.

"Gentlemen," said a voice from beyond the square of light, "there has been a terrible misunderstanding."

"Ungh gah ah," was all the response Locke could muster as he tried to remember just how his knees worked. His mouth felt dryer than if it had been packed with cornmeal.

Strong, cool hands reached out to help him to his feet; the room swam around him as he and Jean were helped back out into the bliss of the corridor. They were surrounded once again by blue doublets and bronze masks, but Locke squinted against the light and felt more ashamed than afraid. He knew he was confused, almost as though he were drunk, and he was powerless to do anything more than grasp at the vague realization. He was carried along corridors and up stairs (stairs! Gods! How many sets could there be in one bloody palace?), with his legs only sometimes bearing their fair share of his weight. He felt like a puppet in a cruel comedy with an unusually large stage set. "Water," he managed to gasp out. "Soon," said one of the soldiers carrying him. "Very soon."

At last he and Jean were ushered through tall black doors into a softly lit office with walls that appeared to be made up of thousands upon thousands of tiny glass cells, filled with little flickering shadows. Locke blinked and cursed his condition; he'd heard sailors talk of "dry-drunk", the stupidity, weakness and irritability that seized a man in great want of water, but he'd never imagined he'd experience it firsthand. It was making everything very strange indeed; no doubt it was embellishing the details of a perfectly ordinary room.

The office held a small table and three plain wooden chairs. Locke steered himself toward one of them gratefully, but was firmly restrained and held upright by the soldiers at his arms. "You must wait," said one of them.

Though not for long; a scant few heartbeats later, another door opened into the office. A man in long fur-trimmed robes of deep-water blue strode in, clearly agitated.

"Gods defend the Archon of Tal Verrar," said the four soldiers in unison.

Maxilan Stragos, came Locke's dazed realization, the gods-damned supreme warlord of Tal Verrar.

"For pity's sake, let these men have their chairs," said the Archon. "We have already done them a grievous wrong, Sword-Prefect. We shall now extend them every possible courtesy. After all… we are not Camorri." "Of course, Archon."

Locke and Jean were quickly helped into their seats. When the soldiers were reasonably certain that they wouldn't topple over immediately, they stepped back and stood at attention behind them. The Archon waved his hand irritably. "Dismissed, Sword-Prefect." "But… Your Honour…"

"Out of my sight. You have already conjured a serious embarrassment from my very clear instructions for these men. As a result, they are in no shape to be any threat to me." "But… yes, Archon."

The sword-prefect gave a stiff bow, which the other three soldiers repeated. The four of them hurriedly left the office, closing the door behind them with the elaborate click-clack of a clockwork mechanism.

"Gentlemen," said the Archon, "you must accept my deepest apologies. My instructions were misconstrued. You were to be given every courtesy. Instead, you were shown to the sweltering chamber, which is reserved for criminals of the lowest sort. I would trust my Eyes to be the equal of ten times their number in any fight, yet in this simple matter they have dishonoured me. I must take responsibility. You must forgive this misunderstanding, and allow me the honour of showing you a better sort of hospitality."

Locke mustered his will to attempt a suitable response, and whispered a silent prayer of thanks to the Crooked Warden when Jean spoke first.

"The honour is ours, Protector." His voice was hoarse but his wits seemed to be returning faster than Locke's. "The chamber was a small price to pay for the pleasure of such an… an unexpected audience. There is nothing to forgive."

"You are an uncommonly gracious man," said Stragos. "Please, dispense with the superfluities. It will do to call me "Archon"."

There was a soft knock at the door through which the Archon had entered the office.

"Come," he said, and in bustled a short, bald man in elaborate blue and silver livery. He carried a silver tray, on which there were three crystal goblets and a large bottle of some pale-amber liquid. Locke and Jean fixed their gazes on this bottle with the intensity of hunters about to fling their last javelins at some charging beast.

When the servant set the tray down and reached for the bottle, the Archon gestured for him to withdraw and took up the bottle himself.

"Go," he said, "I am perfectly capable of serving these poor gentlemen myself."

The attendant bowed and vanished back through the door. Stragos withdrew the already loosened cork from the bottle and filled two goblets to their brims with its contents. That wet gurgle and splash brought an expectant ache to the insides of Locke's cheeks.

"It is customary," said Stragos, "for the host to drink first when serving in this city… to establish a basis for trust in what he happens to be serving." He dashed two fingers of liquid into the third goblet, lifted it to his lips and swallowed it at a gulp.

"Ahh," he said as he passed the full goblets over to Locke and Jean without further hesitation. "There now. Drink up. No need to be delicate. I'm an old campaigner."

Locke and Jean were anything but delicate; they gulped down the offered drinks with grateful abandon. Locke wouldn't have cared if the offering had been squeezed earthworm juice, but it was in fact some sort of pear cider, with just the slightest bite. A child's liquor, barely capable of intoxicating a sparrow, and an astute choice given their condition. The pleasantly tart, cold cider coated the inside of Locke's tortured throat and he shuddered with pleasure.