Scott Lynch - Red Seas Under Red Skies

The burly senior officer that Jean had seen earlier now stepped up to the bar, with a cadre of fellow officers at his back. Even across the room, Jean could see a rose-over-swords somewhere on every coat or tunic.

"Jevaun," he said, "are you questioning Scholar Almaldi's competence?" "No, but you saw—" "Are you questioning her intentions? "Ah, sir, please—"

"Are you naming a physiker of the Archon's warrant," the officer continued in a merciless voice, "our sister-officer, a murderer? Before witnesses?"

The colour drained from the barkeeper's face so quickly Jean almost wanted to look behind the bar, to see if it had pooled there. "No, sir," he said with great haste. "I say nothing of the sort. I apologize." "Not to me."

The barkeeper turned to Almaldi and cleared his throat. "I beg your absolute pardon, Scholar." He looked down at his feet. "I'm… I" ve not seen much blood. I spoke in wretched ignorance. Forgive me." "Of course," said the leech coldly as she shrugged out of her coat, perhaps finally realizing how badly she'd bloodied it. "What the hell was this woman drinking?" "Just the dark ale," said Jean. "The salted Verrari dark." And it was meant for us, he thought. His stomach twisted.

His words caused a new eruption of anger throughout the crowd, most of whom had, of course, recently been drinking the very same ale. Jevaun put up his arms and waved for silence.

"It was good, clean ale from the cask! It was tasted before it was drawn and served! I would serve it to my grandchildren!" He took an empty wooden cup, held it up to the crowd and drew a full draught of dark beer from the cask. "This I will declare to witnesses! This is a house of honest quality! If there is some mischief afoot, it was nothing of my doing!" He drained the cup in several deep gulps and held it up to the crowd. Their murmuring continued, but their angry advance on the bar was halted.

"It's possible she had a reaction," said Almaldi. "An allergy of some sort. If so, it would be the first I" ve ever seen of anything like it." She raised her voice. "Who else feels poorly? Sore necks? Trouble breathing?"

Sailors and officers looked at one another, shaking their heads. Jean offered a silent prayer of thanks that nobody appeared to have seen the dockworker taking the fatal cups of ale from himself and Locke.

"Where the hell is your other assistant?" Jean shouted to Jevaun. "I counted two before the ale was served. Now you have only one!"

The eldest barkeeper whipped his head from side to side, scanning the crowd. He turned to his remaining assistant with a horrified look on his face. "I'm sure Freyald is just scared shitless by the commotion, right? Find him. Find him!"

Jean's words had had precisely the effect he'd desired: sailors and officers alike scattered angrily, looking for the missing barkeeper. Jean could hear the muffled trilling of watch whistles somewhere outside. Soon enough constables would be here in force, sailors" bar or no. He nudged Locke and gestured at the back door of the tavern, through which several others, plainly expecting much complication, had already slipped out.

"Sirs," said Scholar Almaldi as Locke and Jean moved past her. She wiped Locke's stiletto clean on the sleeve of her already-ruined coat and passed it back to him. He nodded as he took it. "Scholar," he said, "you were superb."

"And yet completely inadequate," she said, running her bloodstained fingers carelessly through her hair. "I'll see someone dead for this."

Us, if we linger here much longer, thought Jean. He had a nasty suspicion that the hands of the city watch would offer no safety if he and Locke vanished into them.

Further arguments were erupting throughout the room by the time Jean finally managed to use his bulk to knock a path for him and Locke to the tavern's rear entrance. It led to an unlit alley, running away in either direction. Clouds had settled across the black sky, blotting out the moons, and Jean slipped a hatchet reflexively into his right hand before he'd taken three steps into the night. His trained ears told him the watch-whistles were about a block to the west and moving fast.

"Freyald," said Locke as they moved through the darkness together. "That rat-bastard barkeep. That ale was aimed at us, sure as a crossbow quarrel."

"That was my conclusion," said Jean. He led Locke across a narrow street, over a rough stone wall and into a silent courtyard that appeared to border on warehouses. Jean crouched behind a partially shattered crate, and his adjusting eyes saw the black shape of Locke flatten against a nearby barrel.

"Things are worse," said Locke. "Worse than we thought. What are the odds that half a dozen city watch wouldn't know which bars were safe for off-duty hours? What are the odds that they would come to the wrong fucking neighbourhood}"

"Or drop that much pay on drinks for a bar full of the Archon's people? They were just cover. Probably they didn't even know what they were covering for."

"It still means," whispered Locke, "that whoever's after us can pull strings in the city watch." "It means Priori," said Jean. "Them or someone close to them. But why?"

There was the sudden scuff of leather on stone behind them; Locke and Jean fell silent in unison. Jean turned in time to see a large, dark shape hop the wall behind them, and the slap of heels on cobbles told him that a man of some weight had just landed.

In one smooth motion, Jean slipped out of his coat, swung it in a high arc and brought it down over the man's upper body. While the shadowy shape struggled with the coat, Jean leapt up and cracked the top of his opponent's head with the blunt end of his hatchet. He followed this with a punch to the solar plexus, folding the man in half. It was child's play after that to guide the man face-first to the ground with a shove on the back.

Locke shook a tiny alchemical lamp, little more than a thumb-sized vial, to life. He shielded the wan glow against his body and let the light fall in only one direction, on the man Jean had subdued. Jean obligingly took back his coat, revealing a tall, well-muscled fellow with a shaven head. He was dressed nondescriptly in the fashion of a coachman or servant, and he threw a gloved hand across his face as he moaned in pain. Jean set the blade of his hatchet just beneath the man's jaw.

"M-master de… de Ferra, no, please," the man whispered. "Sweet gods. I'm with Merrain. I'm to… look after you."

Locke seized the man's left hand and peeled his leather glove off. By the pale lamplight, Jean saw a tattoo on the back of the stranger's hand, an open eye in the centre of a rose. Locke sighed and whispered, "He's an Eye."

"He's a bloody fool," said Jean, glancing around them before setting his hatchet down quietly. He rolled the man onto his back. "Easy, friend. I pulled the blow to your head, but not to your stomach. Just lay there and breathe for a few minutes."

"I" ve been hit before," huffed the stranger, and Jean could see that tears of pain gleamed on his cheeks. "Gods. I marvel at the thought that you need protecting at all."

"We clearly do," said Locke. "I saw you in the Thousand Days, didn't I?"

"Yes. And I saw you give up your glasses of ale to that poor woman. Oh, fuck, my stomach is like to burst."

"It will pass," said Jean. "Did you see where that missing barkeep went?"

"I saw him enter the kitchen, and I never looked for him to come back. Didn't have any reason to at the time."

"Shit." Locke scowled. "Knowing Merrain, does she have soldiers nearby against need?"

"Four in an old warehouse just a block south." The Eye gasped several times before continuing. "I was to take you there in case of trouble."

"This qualifies," said Locke. "When you can move, take us to them. We need to reach the Sword Marina in one piece. And then I'll need you to carry a message to her. Can you reach her tonight?"