Scott Lynch - Red Seas Under Red Skies

"Consider for a moment," said Stragos, "the possibility that I might not like them any more than you do. And that while I might use them, out of necessity, and freely accept windfalls they send in my direction… your service on my behalf might actually come to work against them. Doesn't that intrigue you?" "Nothing you say can be taken in good faith." Locke glowered.

"Ahhh. That's where you're wrong, Lamora. With the benefit of time, you'll see how little need I have to he about anything. Now, this audience is over. Reflect on your situation, and don't do anything rash. You may remove yourselves from the Mon Magisteria and return when summoned." "Wait," said Locke, "just—"

The Archon rose, tucked the file under his arm, turned and left the room through the same door he'd used to enter. It swung shut immediately behind him with the clatter of steel mechanisms. "Hell," said Jean.

"I'm sorry," muttered Locke. "I was so keen to come to Tal fucking Verrar."

"It's not your fault. We were both eager to hop in bed with the wench; it's just shit luck she turned out to have the clap."

The main doors to the office creaked open, revealing a dozen Eyes waiting in the hall beyond.

Locke stared at the Eyes for several seconds, then grinned and cleared his throat. "Oh, good. Your master has left strict instructions placing you at our disposal. We're to have a boat, eight rowers, a hot meal, five hundred solari, six women who know how to give a proper massage and—"

One thing Locke would say for the Eyes was that when they seized him and Jean to "escort" them from the Mon Magisteria, they were firm without being needlessly cruel. Their clubs remained at their belts, and there were a minimal number of body-blows to soften the resolve of their prisoners. All in all, a very efficient bunch by which to be manhandled.

They were rowed back to the lower docks of the Savrola in a long gig with a covered gallery. It was nearly dawn, and a watery orange light was coming up over the landside of Tal Verrar, peeking over the islands and making their seaward faces look darker by contrast. Surrounded by the Archon's oarsmen and watched by four Eyes with crossbows, Locke and Jean said nothing.

Their exit was quick; the boat simply drew up to the edge of one deserted quay and Locke and Jean hopped out. One of the Archon's soldiers threw a leather sack out onto the stones at their feet, and then the gig was backing away, and the whole damnable episode was over. Locke felt a strange daze and he rubbed his eyes, which felt dry within their sockets. "Gods," said Jean. "We must look as though we've been mugged." "We have been." Locke reached down, picked up the sack and exam— ined its contents — Jean's two hatchets and their assortment of daggers. He grunted. "Magi. Gods-damned Bondsmagi!" "This must be what they had in mind." "I hope it's all they have in mind." "They" re not all-knowing, Locke. They must have weaknesses."

"Must they really? And do you know what they are? Might one of them be allergic to exotic foods, or suffer poor relations with his mother? Some good that does us, when they're well beyond dagger-reach! Crooked Warden, why don't dog's arseholes like Stragos ever want to simply hire us for money? I'd be happy to work for fair pay" "No, you wouldn't." "Feh."

"Stop scowling and think for a moment. You heard Stragos's report. The Bondsmagi know about the preparations we've made for going after Requin's vault, but they don't know the whole story. The important part."

"Right… but what need would there be for them to tell Stragos everything?"

"None, of course, but also… they knew where we were operating from in Camorr, but he didn't mention our history. Stragos spoke of Barsavi, but not Chains. Perhaps because Chains died before the Falconer ever came to Camorr and started observing us? I don't think the Bondsmagi can read our thoughts, Locke. I think they're magnificent spies, but they're not infallible. We still have some secrets."

"Hrnmm. Forgive me if I find that a cold comfort, Jean. You know who waxes philosophical about the tiniest weaknesses of enemies? The powerless? "You seem resigned to that without much of a—"

"I'm not resigned, Jean. I'm angry. We need to cease being powerless as soon as possible." "Right. So where do we start?"

"Well, I'm going back to the inn. I'm going to pour a gallon of cold water down my throat. I'm going to get into bed, put a pillow over my head and stay there until sunset." "I approve."

"Good. Then we'll both be well rested when it comes time to get up and find a black alchemist. I want a second opinion on latent poisons. I want to know everything there is to know about the subject, and whether there are any antidotes we can start trying." "Agreed."

"After that, we can add one more small item to our agenda for this Tal Verrar holiday of ours." "Kick the Archon in the teeth?"

"Gods yes," said Locke, smacking a fist into an open palm. "Whether or not we finish the Requin job first. Whether or not there really is a poison! I'm going to take his whole bloody palace and shove it so far up his arse he'll have stone towers for tonsils!" "Any plans to that effect?"

"No idea. I" ve no idea whatsoever. I'll reflect on it, that's for damn sure. But as for not being rash, well, no promises."

Jean grunted. The two of them turned and began to plod along the quay, toward the stone steps that would lead laboriously to the island's upper tier. Locke rubbed his stomach and felt his skin crawling… he felt violated somehow, knowing that something lethal might be slipping unfelt into the darkest crevices of his own body, waiting to do mischief.

On their right the sun was a burning bronze medallion coming up over the city's horizon, perched there like one of the Archon's faceless soldiers, gazing steadily down upon them.

Azura Gallardine was not an easy woman to speak to. lb be sure, hers was a well-known name (Second Mistress of the Great Guild of Artificers, Reckoners and Minutiaiy Artisans), and her address was common knowledge (the intersection of Glassbender Street and the Avenue of the Cog-Scrapers, West Cantezzo, Fourth Tier, Artificers" Crescent), but anyone approaching that home had to walk forty feet off the main pedestrian thoroughfare. Those forty feet were one hell of a thing to contemplate.

Six months had passed since Locke and Jean had come to Tal Verrar; the personalities of Leocanto Kosta and Jerome de Ferra had evolved from bare sketches to comfortable second skins. Summer had been dying when thed'r clattered down the road toward the city for the first time, but now the hard, dry winds of winter had given way to die turbulent breezes of early spring. It was the month of Saris, in the seventy-eighth year of Nara, the Plaguebringer, Mistress of Ubiquitous Maladies.

Jean rode in a padded chair at the stern of a hired luxury scull, a low, sleek craft crewed by six rowers. It sliced across the choppy waters of Tal Verrar's main anchorage like an insect in haste, ducking and weaving between larger vessels in accordance with the shouted directions of a teenage girl perched in its bow.

It was a windy day, with the milky light of the sun pouring down without warmth from behind high veils of clouds. Tal Verrar's anchorage was crowded with cargo-lighters, barges, small boats and the great ships of a dozen nations. A squadron of galleons from Emberlain and Parlay rode low in the water with the aquamarine and gold banners of the Kingdom of the Seven Marrows fluttering at their sterns. A few hundred yards away, Jean could see a brig flying the white flag of Lashain, and beyond that a galley with the banner of the Marrows over the smaller pennant of the Canton of Balinel, which was just a few hundred miles north up the coast from Tal Verrar.