Scott Lynch - Red Seas Under Red Skies

"There I would beg to differ. You have a private gallery to see it three times a day if you wish. "M" lord." "Ahhhh. So you find the Amusement War, what, indecorous?" "Cruel, m" lord Genrusa. Most uncommonly cruel."

"Cruel? Compared to what? War? Times of plague? Have you ever seen Camorr, by chance? Now there's a basis for comparison that might have you thinking more soundly, Master Fehrwight."

"Even in Camorr," said Locke, "I don't believe anyone is allowed to beat old women in broad daylight on a whim. Or tear their clothes off, stone them, rape them, slash their hair off, splash them with alchemical caustics… it's like… like children tearing off an insect's wings. So they might watch and laugh."

"Who forced them to come here, Fehrwight? Who put a sword to their backs and made them march all the way to Salon Corbeau along those hot, empty roads? That pilgrimage takes days from anywhere worthy of note."

"What choice do they have, m" lord? They" re only here because they're desperate. Because they could not sustain themselves where they were. Farms fail, businesses fail… it's desperation, is all. They cannot simply decide not to eat."

"Farms fail, businesses fail, ships sink, empires fall." Genrusa brought his cane out from behind his back and punctuated his statements by gesturing at Locke with the gold head. "That's life, under the gods, by the will of the gods. Perhaps if thed'r prayed harder, or saved more, or been less thoughtless with what they had, they wouldn't need to come crawling here for Saljesca's charity. Seems only fair that she should require most of them to earn it." "Charily?

"They have a roof over their heads, food to eat and the chance of earning money. Those that earn the gold prizes seem to have no trouble taking their coin and leaving."

"One in eighty wins a solari, m" lord. No doubt more money than they" ve ever seen at once in their lives. And for the other seventy-nine that gold is just a promise, holding them here day after day, week after week, default after default. And those that die because the Demons get out of hand? What good is gold or the promise of gold to them? Anywhere else, it would be plain murder."

"It's Aza Guilla who takes them from the arena floor, not you or me or anyone mortal, Fehrwight." Genrusa's brows were furrowed and his cheeks were reddening. "And yes, anywhere else it might be plain murder. But this is Salon Corbeau, and they're here of their own free will. As are you and I. They could simply choose not to come—" "And starve and die elsewhere."

"Please. I have seen the world, Master Fehrwight. I might recommend it to you for perspective. Certainly, some of them must be down on their luck. But I wager you" d find that most of them are just hungry for gold, hoping for an easy break. Look out at those on the arena floor now… quite a few young and healthy ones, aren't there?"

"Who else might be expected to make the journey here on foot without extraordinary luck, m" lord Genrusa?"

"I can see there's no talking sense to sentiment, Master Fehrwight. I'd thought you coin-kissers from Emberlain were a harder lot than this." "Hard perhaps, but not vulgar."

"Now mind yourself, Master Fehrwight. I wanted a word because I was genuinely curious about your disposition; I think I can see now what it stems from. A bit of advice… Salon Corbeau might not be the healthiest place to harbour your sort of resentment." "My business here will be… concluded shortly"

"All for the better, then. But perhaps your business at the Amusement War might be curtailed even sooner. I'm not the only one who's taken an interest in you. Lady Saljesca's guards are… sensitive about discontent. Above the arena floor as well as on it."

/ could leave you penniless and sobbing, whispered the voice in Locke's head. / could have you pawning your piss-buckets to keep your creditors from slitting your throat.

"Forgive me, m" lord. I will take what you say most seriously," muttered Locke. "I doubt… that I shall trouble anyone here again."

On the morning of Locke's ninth day in Salon Corbeau, the Bau-mondains were finished with his chairs.

"They look magnificent," said Locke, running his fingers lightly over the lacquered wood and padded leather. "Very fine, as fine as I had reason to hope. And the… additional features?"

"Built to your specifications, Master Fehrwight. Exactly to your specifications." Lauris stood beside her father in the Baumondain workshop, while ten-year-old Parnella was struggling to brew tea over an alchemical hearthstone at a corner table covered with unidentifiable tools and half-empty jars of woodworking oils. Locke made a mental note to smell any tea offered to him very carefully before drinking. "You have outdone yourselves, all of you."

"We were, ah, financially inspired, Master Fehrwight," said the elder Baumondain. "I like building weird things," Parnella added from the corner. "Heh. Yes, I suppose these would qualify." Locke stared at his suite of four matching chairs and sighed in mingled relief and aggravation. "Well, then. If you" d be so kind as to ready them for transport, I shall hire two carriages and take my leave this afternoon." "In that much of a hurry to leave?"

"I hope you'll forgive me if I say that every unnecessary moment I spend in this place weighs on me. Salon Corbeau and I do not agree." Locke removed a leather purse from his coat pocket and tossed it to Master Baumondain. "An additional twenty solari. For your silence, and for these chairs never to have existed. Is this clear?"

"I… well, I'm sure we can accommodate your request… I must say, your generosity is—"

"A subject that needs no further discussion. Humour me, now. I'll be gone soon enough."

So that's all, said the voice in Locke's head. Stick to the plan. Leave this all behind, and do nothing, and return to Tal Verrar with my tail between my legs.

While he and Jean enriched themselves at Requin's expense and cheated their way up the luxurious floors of the Sinspire, on the stone floor of Lady Saljesca's arena the defaults would go on, and the faces of the spectators would be the same, day after day. Children tearing the wings from insects to laugh at how they flailed and bled… and stepping on one every now and again.

"Thieves prosper," muttered Locke under his breath. He tightened his neck-cloths and prepared to go and summon his carriages, feeling sick to his stomach.

The glass-fronted transport box erupted out of the Mon Magisterial waterfall once again and slid home with a lurch just inside the palace. Water hissed through iron pipes, the high gates behind the box slammed shut and the attendants pushed the front doors open for Locke, Jean and Merrain.

A dozen Eyes of the Archon were waiting for them in the entrance hall. They fell in wordlessly on either side of Locke and Jean as Merrain led them forward.

Though not to the same office as before, it appeared. Locke glanced around from time to time as they passed through dimly lit halls and up twisting staircases. The Mon Magisteria was truly more fortress than palace; the walls outside the grand hall were devoid of decoration, and the air smelled mainly of humidity, sweat, leather and weapons-oil. Water rumbled through unseen channels behind the walls. Occasionally they would troop past servants, who would stand with their backs to the wall and their heads bowed toward their feet until the Eyes were past.

Merrain led them to an iron-reinforced door in a nondescript corridor several floors up from the entrance. Faint silver moonlight could be seen rippling through an arched window at the far end of the hall. Locke squinted and realized that a stream of water from the palace's circling aqueducts was falling down the glass.