“Well. My dear Master Lamora. How much money have you brought me this week?”
7
“THIRTY-SIX SOLONS, five coppers, Your Honor.”
“Mmm. A slender week’s work, it seems.”
“Yes, with all apologies, Capa Barsavi. The rain, well…sometimes it’s murder on those of us doing second-story work.”
“Mmmm.” Barsavi set the goblet down and folded his right hand inside his left, caressing the reddened knuckles. “You’ve brought me more, of course. Many times. Better weeks.”
“Ah…yes.”
“There are some that don’t, you know. They try to bring me the exact same amount, week after week after week, until I finally lose patience and correct them. Do you know what that sort of garrista must have, Locke?”
“Ah. A…very boring life?”
“Ha! Yes, exactly. How very stable of them to have the exact same income every single week, so they might give me the exact same percentage as a cut. As though I were an infant who would not notice. And then there are garristas such as yourself. I know you bring me the honest percentage, because you’re not afraid to walk in here and apologize for having less than last week.”
“I, ah, do hope I’m not considered shy about sharing when the balance tilts the other way…”
“Not at all.” Barsavi smiled and settled back in his chair. Ominous splashing and muffled banging was coming from beneath the floor in the vicinity of the hatch that Julien had vanished down. “You are, if anything, the most reliably correct garrista in my service. Like Verrari clockwork. You deliver my cut yourself, promptly and without a summons. For four years, week in and week out. Unfailing, since Chains died. Never once did you suggest that anything took precedence over your personal appearance before me, with that bag in your hand.”
Capa Barsavi pointed at the small leather bag Locke held in his left hand, and gestured to Nazca. Her formal role in the Barsavi organization was to act as finnicker, or record-keeper. She could rattle off the running total of the payments made by any gang in the city, itemized week by week and year by year, without error. Locke knew she updated records on parchment for her father’s private use, but so far as the Capa’s subjects in general knew, every coin of his fabled treasure was catalogued solely behind her cold and lovely eyes. Locke tossed the leather purse to her, and she plucked it out of the air.
“Never,” said Capa Barsavi, “did you think to send a pezon to do a garrista’s job.”
“Well, ah, you’re most kind, Your Honor. But you made that very easy today, since only garristas are allowed past the door.”
“Don’t dissemble. You know of what I speak. Nazca, love, Locke and I must now be alone.”
Nazca gave her father a deep nod, and then gave a much quicker, shallower one to Locke. She turned and walked back toward the doors to the entrance hall, iron heels echoing on the wood.
“I have many garristas,” Barsavi said when she was gone, “tougher than yourself. Many more popular, many more charming, many with larger and more profitable gangs. But I have very few who are constantly at pains to be so courteous, so careful.”
Locke said nothing.
“My young man, while I take offense at many things, rest assured that courtesy is not one of them. Come, stand easy. I’m not fitting you for a noose.”
“Sorry, capa. It’s just…you’ve been known to begin expressing your displeasure in a very…ahhh…”
“Roundabout fashion?”
“Chains told me enough about scholars of the Therin Collegium,” said Locke, “to understand that their primary habit of speech is the, ah, booby trap.”
“Ha! Yes. When anyone tells you habits die hard, Locke, they’re lying-it seems they never die at all.” Barsavi chuckled and sipped from his wine before continuing. “These are…alarming times, Locke. This damn Gray King has finally begun to get under my skin. The loss of Tesso is particularly…Well, I had plans for him. Now I am forced to begin bringing other plans forward sooner than intended. Tell me, pezon…What do you think of Anjais and Pachero?”
“Uh. Ha. Well…my honest opinion, Your Honor?”
“Full and honest, pezon. By my command.”
“Ah. They’re very respected, very good at their jobs. Nobody jokes about them behind their backs. Jean says they really know how to handle themselves in a fight. The Sanzas are nervous about playing fair card games with them, which is saying something.”
“This I could hear from two dozen spies any time I wanted to. This I know. What is your personal opinion of my sons?”
Locke swallowed and looked Capa Barsavi straight in the eyes. “Well, they are worthy of respect. They are good at their jobs, and they must know their business in a fight. They’re fairly hard workers and they’re bright enough…but…Your Honor, begging your pardon, they tease Nazca when they should be heeding her warnings and taking her advice. She has the patience and the subtlety that…that…”
“Elude them?”
“You knew what I was going to say, didn’t you?”
“I said you were a careful and considerate garrista, Locke. Those are your distinguishing characteristics, though they imply many other qualities. Since the time of your prodigious early cock-ups, you have been the very picture of a careful thief, firmly in control of his own greed. You would be very sensitive to any opposing lack of caution in others. My sons have lived all their lives in a city that fears them because of their last name. They expect deference in an aristocratic fashion. They are incautious, a bit brazen. I need to make arrangements to ensure that they receive good counsel, in the months and years to come. I can’t live forever, even after I deal with the Gray King.”
The jovial certainty that filled Capa Barsavi’s voice when he said this made the hair on the back of Locke’s neck stand up. The capa was sitting in a fortress he hadn’t left in more than two months, drinking wine in air still rank with the blood of eight members of one of his most powerful and loyal gangs.
Was Locke speaking to a man with a far-ranging and subtle scheme? Or had Barsavi finally cracked, like window glass in a fire?
“I should very much like,” said the capa, “to have you in a position to give Anjais and Pachero the counsel they’ll require.”
“Ah…Your Honor, that’s extremely…flattering, but-I get along well enough with Anjais and Pachero, but I’m not exactly what you’d call a close friend. We play some cards every now and then, but…let’s be honest. I’m not a very important garrista.”
“As I said. Even with the Gray King at work in my city, I have many who are tougher than you, more daring than you, more popular. I don’t say this to strike a blow, because I’ve already discussed your own qualities. And it is those qualities they sorely need. Not toughness, daring, or charm, but cold and steady caution. Prudence. You are my most prudent garrista; you only think of yourself as the least important because you make the least noise. Tell me, now-what do you think of Nazca?”
“Nazca?” Locke was suddenly even warier than before. “She’s…brilliant, Your Honor. She can recite conversations we had ten years ago and get every word right, especially if it embarrasses me. You think I’m prudent? Compared to her I’m as reckless as a bear in an alchemist’s lab.”
“Yes,” said the capa. “Yes. She should be the next Capa Barsavi when I’m gone, but that won’t happen. It’s nothing to do with her being a woman, you know. Her older brothers would simply never stand to have their little sister lording it over them. And I should prefer not to have my children murdering one another for scraps of the legacy I intend to leave them, so I cannot push them aside in her favor.
“What I can do, and what I must do, is ensure that when the time comes, they will have a voice of sobriety in such a place that they cannot get rid of it. You and Nazca are old friends, yes? I remember the first time you met, so many years ago…when she used to sit on my knee and pretend to order my men around. In all the years since, you have always stopped to see her, always given her kind words?
Always been her good pezon?”
“Ah…I certainly hope so, Your Honor.”
“I know you have.” Barsavi took a deep draught from his wine goblet, then set it back down firmly, a magnanimous smile on his round, wrinkled face. “And so I give you my permission to court my daughter.”
Let’s start wobbling, shall we? said Locke’s knees, but this offer was met by a counterproposal from his better judgment to simply freeze up and do nothing, like a man treading water who sees a tall black fin coming straight at him. “Oh,” he finally said, “I don’t…I didn’t expect…”
“Of course not,” said Barsavi. “But in this our purposes are complementary. I know you and Nazca have feelings for one another. A union between the two of you would bring you into the Barsavi family. You would become Anjais and Pachero’s responsibility…and they yours. Don’t you see? A brother-by-bonding would be much harder for them to ignore than even their most powerful garrista.” Barsavi set his left fist inside his right and smiled broadly once again, like a red-faced god dispensing benevolence from a celestial throne.
Locke took a deep breath. There was nothing else for it; the situation required absolute acquiescence, as surely as if the capa were holding a crossbow to his temple. Men died for refusing Barsavi far less; to refuse the capa’s own daughter would be a particularly messy sort of suicide. If Locke balked at the capa’s plan he wouldn’t live out the night.
“I…I’m honored, Capa Barsavi. So deeply honored. I hope not to disappoint you.”
“Disappoint me? Certainly not. Now, I know that several of my other garristas have had their eyes on Nazca for some time. But if one of them was going to catch her eye, he’d have done it by now, eh? What a surprise, when they hear the news. They’ll never see this coming!”
And for a wedding present, thought Locke, the angry jealousy of an unknown number of jilted suitors!
“How, then…how and when should I begin, Your Honor?”
“Well,” said Barsavi, “why don’t I give you a few days to think it over? I’ll speak to her, in the interim. Of course, for the time being, she’s not to leave the Floating Grave. Once the Gray King is dealt with-well, I would expect you to begin courting her in a more colorful and public fashion.”
“You’re telling me,” Locke said, very carefully, “I should start stealing more, then.”
“Consider it my challenge to you, to go hand in hand with my blessing.” Barsavi smirked. “Let’s see if you can stay prudent while becoming more productive. I suspect you can-and I know that you wouldn’t want to disappoint me or my daughter.”
“Certainly not, Your Honor. I’ll…I’ll do my very best.”
Capa Barsavi beckoned Locke forward and held his left hand out, fingers outstretched, palm down. Locke knelt before Barsavi’s chair, took that hand with both of his own, and kissed the capa’s ring; that familiar black pearl with the bloodred heart. “Capa Barsavi,” he said with his eyes to the ground. The capa pulled him up again, by the shoulders.
“I give you my blessing, Locke Lamora. The blessing of an old man who worries for his children. I set you above many dangerous people by doing this for you. Surely, it has occurred to you that my sons will inherit a dangerous office. And if they’re not careful enough, or hard enough for the task…well, stranger things have happened. Someday this city could be ruled by Capa Lamora. Have you ever dreamed of this?”
“Truthfully,” whispered Locke, “I have never desired a capa’s power, because I would never want a capa’s problems.”
“Well, there’s that prudence again.” The capa smiled and gestured toward the far doors, giving Locke permission to withdraw. “A capa’s problems are very real. But you’ve helped me put one of them to rest.”
Locke walked back toward the entrance hall, thoughts racing. The capa sat on his chair behind him, staring at nothing, saying no more. The only sounds after that were Locke’s own footsteps and the steady drip of blood from the gore-soaked bag around Federico’s head.
8
“WELL, NAZCA, if I were a thousand years old and had already seen everything there is to see six times over, that still would have been about the last damn thing I’d have ever expected!”
She was waiting for him in the little hall beyond the foyer; once the clockwork mechanisms had sealed the door to the main hall behind them, she gave him a wry and apologetic look.
“But don’t you see that it would have been even stranger if I’d explained it beforehand?”
“The whole mess would be hard-pressed to get any gods-damned weirder. Look, please, don’t take any of this the wrong way. I-”
“I don’t take any of it the wrong way, Locke…”
“You’re a good friend, and-”
“I feel the same way, and yet-”
“It’s hard to put this right…”
“No, it isn’t. Look.” She grabbed him by the shoulders and bent down slightly to look right into his eyes. “You are a good friend, Locke. Probably the best I have. My loyal pezon. I am extremely fond of you, but not…as a possible husband. And I know that you-”
“I…ah…”
“Locke,” said Nazca, “I know that the only woman with the key to that peculiar heart of yours is a thousand miles away. And I know you’d rather be miserable over her than happy with anyone else.”
“Really?” Locke balled his fists. “Seems like it’s pretty common fucking knowledge. I bet the duke gets regular reports. Seems as though your father is the only person who doesn’t know.”
“Or doesn’t care.” Nazca raised her eyebrows. “Locke, it’s capa to pezon. It’s not personal. He gives the orders and you carry them out. In most cases.”
“But not this one? I thought you’d be happy. At least he’s making plans for the future again.”
“I said reasonable plans.” Nazca smiled-a real smile this time. “Come on, pezon. Play along for a few days. We can go through the motions and put our heads together to come up with a way out of this. It’s you and me we’re talking about, right? The old man can’t win, and he won’t even know he’s lost.”
“Right. If you say so.”
“Yes, I say so. Come back the day after tomorrow. We’ll scheme. We’ll slip this noose. Now go tend to your boys. And be careful.”
Locke stepped back out into the entrance hall, and Nazca pushed the doors shut behind him; he stared back at her as the space between the black doors narrowed, gradually sealing her off from view until they slammed shut with the click of tumbling locks. He could have sworn she winked just before the heavy black doors closed between them.
“…and this is the card you picked. The six of spires,” said Calo, holding up a card and displaying it for the entrance-hall guards.
“Fuck me,” said one of them, “that’s sorcery.”
“Nah, it’s just the old Sanza touch.” Calo reshuffled his deck one-handed and held it out toward Locke. “Care to give it a go, boss?”
“No thanks, Calo. Pack up, lads. Our business here is finished for the day, so let’s quit bothering the folks with the crossbows.” He punctuated this with hand gestures: Major complications; discuss elsewhere.
“Damn, I’m hungry,” said Jean, picking up the cue. “Why don’t we get something at the Last Mistake and take it up to our rooms?”
“Yeah,” said Bug. “Beer and apricot tarts!”
“A combination so disgusting I feel oddly compelled to actually try it.” Jean swatted the smallest Gentleman Bastard on the back of his head, then led the way as the gang made for the slender wooden path that tied the Floating Grave to the rest of the world.
9
SAVE CAPA Barsavi (who imagined that Locke’s gang merely continued sitting the steps a few days of the week even with Chains in his grave), no Right People of Camorr knew that the Gentlemen Bastards still worked out of the House of Perelandro. Calo and Galdo and Bug let rooms at various points in and around the Snare, moving every few months. Locke and Jean had maintained the fiction of rooming
together for several years. By a great stroke of luck (though whether it was good or ill had yet to be determined, really) Jean had managed to get them the rooms on the seventh floor of the Broken Tower.
The night was dark and full of rain, and none of the gang were particularly eager to make their way back onto the creaking exterior stairs that staggered down the north side of the tower. Hissing rain rattled the window shutters, and the wind made an eerie rising-and-falling sigh as it passed over the gaps and crevices in the old tower. The Gentlemen Bastards sat on floor cushions in the light of paper lanterns and nursed the last of their beer, the pale sweet sort that most Camorr natives preferred to the bitter Verrari dark. The air was stuffy, but at least tolerably dry.
Locke had given them the whole story over dinner.
“Well,” said Galdo, “this is the damnedest damn thing that ever dammed things up for us.”
“I say again,” said Jean, “that we should pull an early blow-off on the Don Salvara game and get ready to ride out a storm. This Gray King business is getting scary, and we can’t have our attention diverted if Locke’s going to be mixed up at the middle of things.”
“Where do we cut ourselves off?” asked Calo.
“We cut ourselves off now,” said Jean. “Now, or after we get one more note out of the don. No later.”
“Mmmm.” Locke stared down at the dregs in the bottom of his tin cup. “We’ve worked hard for this one. I’m confident we can run it for another five or ten thousand crowns, at least. Maybe not the twenty-five thousand we were hoping to squeeze out of Salvara, but enough to make ourselves proud. I got the crap kicked out of me, and Bug jumped off a building for this money, you know.”
“And got rolled two miles inside a bloody barrel!”
“Now, Bug,” said Galdo, “it’s not as though the nasty old barrel jumped you in an alley and forced you to crawl inside it. And I concur with Jean. I said it this afternoon, Locke. Even if you won’t seriously consider using them, can we at least make some arrangements to get you under cover in a hurry? Maybe even out of town?”