Scott Lynch - Red Seas Under Red Skies

"Jean," muttered Locke as the bigger man stepped up beside him, "this is a proper anchor-noose, right?"

"Certainly looks like it." Jean hefted the elaborate knot that secured the rope in a bight around the tree and nodded. He took the working end of the rope and added an additional half hitch for safety. "There. Just right."

He and Locke worked together for a few minutes, repeating the anchor-noose knot with three further lengths of rope until the old witchwood tree was thoroughly decorated with taut demi-silk. Their spare coils of rope were set aside. The two men then slipped out of their long frock coats and their vests, revealing heavy leather belts studded with iron rings at their waists.

The belts weren't quite like the custom climbing harnesses treasured by the more responsible burglars of Camorr; these were actually nautical in origin, used by those happy sailors whose ship-owners cared enough to spend a bit of money to preserve their health. The belts had been available on the cheap and had spared Locke and Jean the need to suss out a contact in Tal Verrar's underworld who could make a pair to order… but remember the transaction. There were a few things Requin would be better off not knowing until the chance finally came to spring the game on him.

"Right, then. Here's your descender."Jean passed Locke a fairly heavy bit of iron, a figure-eight with one side larger than the other and a thick bar right down the middle. He also kept one for himself; he'd had them knocked up by a blacksmith in Tal Verrar's Istrian Crescent a few weeks earlier. "Let's get you rigged-up first. Main line, then belay."

Locke clipped his descender into one of his harness rings and threaded it through with one of the demi-silk lines leading back to the tree. The other end of this line was left free and tossed toward the cliff. A second line was lashed tight to a harness ring above Locke's opposite hip. Many Camorri thieves on working jobs "danced naked", without the added safety of a belay line in case their primary rope broke, but for today's practice session Locke and Jean were in firm agreement that they were going to play it safe and boring.

It took a few minutes to rig Jean up in a similar fashion; soon enough they were each attached to the tree by two lines, like a pair of human puppets. The two thieves wore little save their tunics, breeches, field boots and leather gloves, though Jean did pause to slip his reading optics on.

"Now then," he said. "Looks like a fine day for abseiling. Care to do the honours before we kiss solid earth farewell?"

"Crooked Warden," said Locke, "men are stupid. Protect us from ourselves. If you can't, let it be quick and painless." "Well said." Jean took a deep breath. "Crazy part on three?" "On three."

Each of them took up their coiled main line and tossed the free end over the cliff; the two ropes went over and uncoiled with a soft hiss. "One," said Locke. "Two," said Jean.

"Three," they said together. Then they ran for the cliff and threw themselves off, whooping as they went.

For one brief moment Locke's stomach and the misty grey sky seemed to be turning a somersault in unison. Then his line was taut and the cliff-face was rushing toward him just a little too eagerly for his taste. Like a human pendulum, he swung in, raised his legs and hit the rock wall about eight feet beneath the rim, keeping his knees bent to absorb the shock of impact. That much, at least, he remembered very well. Jean hit with a heavier whoomp about two feet below him.

"Heh," said Locke, his heartbeat pounding in his ears, loud enough to match the whisper of the wind. "There's got to be an easier way to test whether or not we have an honest rope-weaver, Jean."

"Whew!" Jean shifted his feet slightly, keeping a hold on his line with both hands. The descenders made it easy for them to apply enough friction to the rope to slow or stop at will. The little devices were a marked improvement on what thed'r been taught as boys. While they could still no doubt slide down a rope using their own bodies for friction, as they once had, it was easy to abrade a certain protruding portion of the male anatomy with that approach if one was careless or unlucky.

For a few moments they simply hung there, feet against the cliffside, enjoying their new vantage point as the vaporous clouds rolled by overhead. The ropes waving in the air beneath them only hung down about half the distance to the ground, but they didn't intend to get there today anyway. There would be plenty of time to work up to longer drops in future practice sessions.

"You know," said Locke, "this is the only part of the plan, I must admit, that I wasn't terribly sure of. It's so much easier to contemplate abseiling from a height like this than it is to actually run off a cliff with just two lengths of rope between you and Aza Guilla."

"Ropes and cliffs are no problem," said Jean. "What we need to watch out for up here are your carnivorous pigeons." "Oh, bend over and bite your own arse."

"I'm serious. I'm terrified. I'll keep a sharp lookout lest the last thing we feel in this life should be that terrible swift pecking—"

"Jean, your belay line must be weighing you down. Here, let me cut it for you…"

They kicked and shoved good-naturedly against one another for a few minutes, Locke scrambling around and trying to use his agility to balance out Jean's far greater strength and mass. Strength and mass seemed to be winning the day, however, so in a fit of self-preservation he suggested they actually practise descending.

"Sure," said Jean, "let's go down five or six feet, nice and smooth, and stop on my mark, shall we?" Each of them gripped his taut main line and released a bit of tension on his descender. Slowly, smoothly, they slipped down a good two yards, and Jean cried, "Hold!"

"Not bad," said Locke. "The knack seems to come back quick, doesn't it?"

"I suppose. I was never really keen on this after I got back from my little holiday at Revelation House. This was more your thing, and the Sanzas", than mine. And, ah, Sabetha" s, of course."

"Yeah," said Locke, wistfully. "Yeah, she was so mad… so mad and so lovely. I used to love watching her climb. She didn't like ropes. She'd… take her boots off, and let her hair out, and wouldn't even wear gloves sometimes. Just her breeches and her blouse… and I would just—"

"Sit there hypnotized," said Jean. "Struck dumb. Hey, my eyes worked back then too, Locke."

"Heh. I suppose it must have been obvious. Gods." Locke stared at Jean and laughed nervously. "Gods, I'm actually bringing her up myself. I don't believe it." His expression turned shrewd. "Are we all right with each other, Jean? Back to being comfortable, I mean?"

"Hell, we're hanging together eighty feet above a messy death, aren't we? I don't do that with people I don't like." "That's good to hear." "And yeah, I'd say we're—" "Gentlemen! Hello down there!"

The voice was Verrari, with a rough rustic edge. Locke and Jean glanced up in surprise and saw a man standing at the edge of the cliff, arms akimbo, silhouetted against the churning sky. He wore a threadbare cloak with the hood thrown up. "Er, hello up there," said Locke. "Fine day for a bit of sport, ain't it?" "That's exactly what we thought," cried Jean.

"A fine day indeed, beggin" your pardons, sirs. And a fine set o" coats and vests you" ve gone and left up here. I like them very much, exceptin" that there ain't no purses in the pockets."

"Of course not, we're not stu— Hey, come on now. Kindly don't mess with our things," said Jean. As if by some unspoken signal, he and Locke reached out to brace themselves against the cliff, finding hand— and footholds as quickly as they could.

"Why not? They" re such fine things, sirs, I just can't help but feel sort of drawn to them, like."