Scott Lynch - Red Seas Under Red Skies

"And all of these grandiose notions," said Jean, "somehow require the two of us to go out and pretend to be pirates on your behalf?"

"Tal Verrar will never be strong so long as its fate is vouchsafed by those who would squeeze gold from it like milk from a cow's udders, then flee for the horizon at the first sign of danger. I need more power, and to speak plainly, I must seize or trick it out of my enemies, with the will of the people behind me. Your mission, if successful, would turn a key in the lock of a door that bars the way to greater things." Stragos chuckled and spread his hands. "You are thieves. I am offering you a chance to help steal history itself."

"Which is of little comfort," said Locke, "compared to money in a counting house and a roof over one's head." "You hate the Magi of Karthain," said Stragos flatly. "I suppose I do," said Locke.

"The last Emperor of the Therin Throne tried to fight them with magic; sorcery against sorcery. He died for his failure. Karthain can never be conquered by the arts it commands; they have ensured that no power in our world will ever have sorcerers numerous or powerful enough to match them. They must be fought with this." He set down his oar and spread his hands. "Machines. Artifice. Alchemy and engineering; the fruits of the mind."

"All of this," said Locke, "this whole ridiculous scheme… a more powerful Tal Verrar, conquering this corner of the world… all to hurt Karthain? I can't say I find the idea unpleasant, but why? What did they do to you, to make you imagine this?"

"Do either of you know," said Stragos, "of the ancient art of illu-sionism? Have you ever read about it in books of history?" "A little," said Locke. "Not very much."

"Once upon a time the performance of illusions — imaginary magic, not real sorcery at all, just clever tricks — was widespread, popular and lucrative. Commoners paid to see it on street corners; nobles of the Therin Throne paid to see it in their courts. But that culture is dead. The art no longer exists, except as trifles for card-sharps. The Bondsmagi haunt our city-states like wolves, ready to crush the slightest hint of competition. No sensible person would ever stand up in public and declare themselves to be capable of magic. Fear killed the entire tradition, hundreds of years ago.

"The Bondsmagi distort our world with their very presence. They rule us in many ways that have nothing to do with politics; the fact that we can hire them to do our bidding is immaterial. That little guild looms over everything we plan, everything we dream. Fear of the Magi poisons our people to the very marrow of their ambitions. It prevents them from imagining a larger destiny… from the hope of reforging the empire we once had. I know that you consider what I" ve done to you unforgivable. But believe it or not, I admire you for standing up to the Bondsmagi. They turned you over to me as a means of punishment. Instead, I ask you to help me strike at them."

"Grand abstracts," said Jean. "You make it sound like this is some sort of incredible privilege for us, being pressed into service without our consent."

"I don't need an excuse to hate the Bondsmagi," said Locke. "Not to hate them, nor to fight them. I" ve taunted them to their faces, more or less. Jean and I both. But you have to be some kind of madman to think they'll ever let you build anything openly powerful enough to knock them down."

"I don't expect to live to see it," said Stragos. "I only expect to plant the seed. Look at the world around you, Lamora. Examine the clues they" ve given us. Alchemy is revered in every corner of our world, is it not? It lights our rooms, salves our injuries, preserves our food… enhances our cider." He favoured Locke and Jean with a self-satisfied smile. "Alchemy is a low-grade form of magic, but the Bondsmagi have never once tried to curtail or control it." "Because they just don't give a damn," said Locke.

"Wrong," said Stragos. "Because it's so necessary to so many things. It would be like trying to deny us the right to water, or fire. It would push us too far. No matter the cost, no matter the carnage, it would force us to fight back against them for the sake of our very existence. And they know it. Their power has limits. Someday we'll surpass those limits, if only we're given a chance."

"That's a fine bedtime story," said Locke. "If you wrote a book on that subject, I'd pay for ten copies to be scribed. But here and now you're interfering with our lives. You're tearing us away from something we've worked long and hard to achieve."

"I am prepared to expand on my earlier terms," said Stragos, "and offer a financial reward for the successful completion of your task." "How much?" said Locke and Jean simultaneously.

"No promises," said Stragos. "Your reward will be proportional to your achievement. I shall make you as happy as you make me. Is that understood?"

Locke stared at Stragos for several seconds, scratching his neck. Stragos was using a confidence trick: an appeal to high ideals followed by an appeal to greed. And this was a classic fuck-the-agent situation: Stragos had no compulsion whatsoever to follow through on his promise, and nothing to lose by making it, and no reason at all to let him and Jean live once their task was finished. He made eye contact with Jean and stroked his chin several times, a simple hand-signal: Lying.

Jean sighed and tapped his fingers a few times against the gunwale on his side of the boat. He seemed to share Locke's thought that elaborate signals would best be avoided with Stragos just a few feet away. His answer was equally simple: Agreed.

"That's good news," said Locke, conjuring a note of guarded optimism in his voice. The knowledge that he and Jean were of one mind always gave him renewed energy for false-facing. "A pile of solari when this is all over would go a long way toward mitigating our distaste for the circumstances of our employment."

"Good. My sole concern is that the mission may benefit from more enthusiasm on your part." "This mission, to be frank, is going to need all the help it can get."

"Don't dwell on the matter, Lamora. And look out behind — we're coming to the far side of my little glen."

The boat was sliding toward another curtain-barrier of hanging canvas; by Locke's casual estimate, the entire artificial garden enclosure must have been about eighty yards long.

"Say farewell to the sun," said the Archon, and then they were slipping through the canvas, back out into the muggy black and silver night, with its flitting lantern beetles and genuine forest perfume. A guard dog barked nearby, growled and went silent in response to a hushed command. Locke rubbed his eyes as they slowly adjusted once again to the darkness. "You'll begin training this week," said Stragos.

"What do you mean, training? There's a pile of questions you haven't answered," said Locke. "Where's our ship? Where's our crew? How do we make ourselves known as pirates? There's a thousand damn details to go over—"

"All in good time," said Stragos. His voice had an air of unmistakable satisfaction now that Locke was speaking constructively of carrying out his plan. "I'm told you two frequently take meals at the Gilded Cloister. Spend a few days returning to a schedule of rising with the sun. On Throne's Day, have breakfast at the Cloister. Wait for Merrain to find you. She'll see you to your destination with her usual discretion, and you'll begin your lessons. They'll take up most of your days, so don't make any plans."

"Damn it," said Jean, "why not let us finish our affair with Requin? It won't take more than a few weeks. Then we can do whatever you like, without distraction."

"I" ve thought about it," said Stragos, "but no. Postpone it. I want you to have something to look forward to after you complete my mission. And I don't have a few weeks to wait. I need you at sea in a month. Six weeks at the very latest."