Scott Lynch - Red Seas Under Red Skies

"But the second mandate," said Chains, lowering his voice and glancing around into the fog to make doubly sure that they were not overheard, "is this — the rich remember? "Remember what?"

"That they're not invincible. That locks can be picked and treasures can be stolen. Nara, Mistress of Ubiquitous Maladies, may Her hand be stayed, sends disease among men so that men will never forget that they are not gods. We're sort of like that, for the rich and powerful. We're the stone in their shoe, the thorn in their flesh, a little bit of reciprocity this side of divine judgement. That's our second mandate, and it's as important as the first."

"And… the Secret Peace protects the nobles, and so you don't like it?"

"It's not that I don't like it." Chains mulled his next few words over before he let them out. "Barsavi" s not a priest of the Thirteenth. He's not sworn to the mandates like I am; he's got to be practical. And while I can accept that, I can't just let it go. It's my divine duty to see that the bluebloods with their pretty titles get a little bit of what fife hands the rest of us as a matter of routine — a nice, sharp jab in the arse every now and again." "And Barsavi… doesn't need to know about this?"

"Bleeding shits, no. As I see it, if Barsavi takes care of thieves prosper and I look after the rich remember, this"11 be one holy, holy city in the eyes of the Crooked Warden."

"Why do they bear it? I know they get paid, but the defaults! Gods… er, Holy Marrows, why do they come here and put up with it? Humiliated, beaten, stoned, befouled… to what end?"

Locke paced agitatedly around the Baumondain family's workshop, clenching and unclenching his fists. It was the afternoon of his fourth day in Salon Corbeau. "As you said, they get paid, Master Fehrwight." Lauris Baumondain rested one hand gently on the back of the half-finished chair Locke had come in to see. With the other she stroked poor motionless Lively, tucked away inside a pocket of her apron. "If you're selected for a game, you get a copper centira. If you're given a default, you get a silver volani. There's also a random drawing: one person per War, one in eighty, gets a gold solari." "They must be desperate," said Locke.

"Farms fail. Businesses fail. Tenant lands get repossessed. Plagues knock all the money and health out of cities. When they" ve got nowhere else to go, they come here. There's a roof to sleep under, meals, hope of gold or silver. All you have to do is go out there often enough and… amuse them." "It's perverse. It's infamous."

"You have a soft heart, for what you're spending on just four chairs, Master Fehrwight." Lauris looked down and wrung her hands together. "Forgive me. I spoke well out of turn."

"Speak as you will. I'm not a rich man, Lauris. I'm just my master's servant. But even he… we're frugal people, damn it. Frugal and fair. Some might call us eccentric, but we're not cruel."

"I" ve seen nobles from the Marrows at the Amusement War many times, Master Fehrwight."

"We're not nobles. We're merchants… merchants of Emberlain. I can't speak for our nobles, and often don't want to. Look, I" ve seen many cities. I know how people live. I" ve seen gladiatorial fights, executions, misery and poverty and desperation. But I" ve never seen anything like that — the faces of those spectators. The way they watched and cheered. Like jackals, like crows, like something… something so very wrong."

"There are no laws here but Lady Saljesca's laws," said Lauris. "Here they can behave however they choose. At the Amusement War they can do exactly what they want to do to the poor folk and the simple folk. Things forbidden elsewhere. All you're seeing is what they look like when they stop pretending they give a damn about anything. Where do you think Lively came from? My sister saw a noblewoman having kittens Gentled so her sons could torture them with knives. Because they were bored at tea. So welcome to Salon Corbeau, Master Fehrwight. I'm sorry it's not the paradise it looks like from a distance. Does our work on the chairs meet with your approval?" "Yes," said Locke slowly. "Yes, I suppose it does."

"If I were to presume to give you advice," said Lauris, "I'd suggest that you avoid the Amusement War for the rest of your stay. Do what the rest of us here do: ignore it. Paint a great cloud of fog over it in your mind's eye and pretend that it's not there."

"As you say, Madam Baumondain." Locke sighed. "I might just do so."

But Locke could not stay away. Morning, afternoon and evening, he found himself in the public gallery, standing alone, eating and drinking nothing. He saw crowd after crowd, War after War, humiliation after humiliation. The Demons made gruesome mistakes on several occasions; beatings and stranglings got out of control. Those aspirants that were accidentally roughed up beyond hope of recovery had their skulls crushed on the spot, to the polite applause of the crowd. It would not do to be unmerciful.

"Crooked Warden," Locke muttered to himself the first time it happened. "They don't even have a priest… not a single one…"

He realized, dimly, what he was doing to himself. He felt the stirring within, as though his conscience were a deep, still lake with a beast struggling to rise to its surface. Each brutal humiliation, each painful default excitedly decreed by some spoiled noble child while their parents laughed in appreciation, gave strength to that beast as it beat itself against his better judgment, his cold calculation, his willingness to stick to the plan. He was trying to make himself angry enough to give in.

The Thorn of Camorr had been a mask he'd half-heartedly worn as a game. Now it was almost a separate entity, a hungry thing, an increasingly insistent ghost prying at his resolve to stand up for the mandate of his faith.

Let me out, it whispered. Let me out. The rich must remember. By the gods, I can make damn sure they never forget.

"I hope you'll pardon my intrusion if I observe that you don't appear to be enjoying yourself!"

Locke was snapped out of his brooding by the arrival of another man in the free gallery. The stranger was tanned and fit-looking, perhaps five or six years older than Locke, with brown curls down to his collar and a precisely trimmed goatee. His long velvet coat was lined with cloth-of-silver and he held a gold-topped cane behind his back with both hands. "But forgive me. Fernand Genrusa, peer of the Third, of Lashain."

Peer of the Third Order — a baron — a purchased Lashani patent of nobility, just as Locke and Jean had toyed with possibly acquiring. Locke bent slightly at the waist and inclined his head. "Mordavi Fehrwight, m" lord. Of Emberlain."

"A merchant, then? You must be doing well for yourself, Master Fehrwight, to take your leisure here. So what's behind your long face?" "What makes you think I'm displeased?"

"You stand here alone, taking no refreshment, and you watch each new War with such an expression on your face… as though someone were slipping hot coals into your breechclout. I" ve seen you several times from my own gallery. Are you losing money? I might be able to share some insights I" ve cultivated on how to best place wagers at the Amusement War."

"I have no wagers outstanding, m" lord. I am merely… unable to stop watching." "Curious. Yet it does not please you."

"No." Locke turned slightly toward Baron Genrusa and swallowed nervously. Etiquette demanded that a lowborn like Mordavi Fehrwight, and a Vadran at that, should defer even to a banknote-baron like Genrusa and offer no unpleasant conversation, but Genrusa seemed to be inviting explanation. Locke wondered how much he might get away with. "Have you ever seen a carriage accident, m" lord, or a man run over by a team of horses? Seen the blood and wreckage and been completely unable to take your eyes off the spectacle?" "I can't say that I have."