The Gentleman Bastard Series 3-Book Bundle: The Lies of Locke Lamora, Red Seas Under Red Skies, The Republic of Thieves (4 page)

Locke merely stared up at him and shuffled his feet.

“I shall speak plainly, then. The other teasers are going out day after day to watch
you
, not to do their bloody jobs. I’m not feeding my own private theater troupe. Get
my crew of happy little jack-offs back to their own teasing, and quit being such a
celebrity
with your own.”

For a time after that, everything was serene.

Then, barely six months after he arrived at the hill, Locke accidentally burned down
the Elderglass Vine tavern and precipitated a quarantine riot that very nearly wiped
the Narrows from the map of Camorr.

The Narrows was a valley of warrens and hovels at the northernmost tip of the bad
part of the city. Kidney-shaped and something like a vast amphitheater, the island’s
heart was forty-odd feet beneath its outer edges. Leaning rows of tenement houses
and windowless shops jutted from the tiers of this great seething bowl; wall collapsed
against wall and alley folded upon mist-silvered alley so that no level of the Narrows
could be traversed by more than two men walking abreast.

The Elderglass Vine crouched over the cobblestones of the road that passed west and
crossed, via stone bridge, from the Narrows into the green depths of the Mara Camorrazza.
It was a sagging three-story beast of weather-warped wood, with rickety stairs inside
and out that maimed at least one patron a week. Indeed, there was a lively pool going
as to which of the regulars would be the next to crack his skull. It was a haunt of
pipe-smokers and of Gaze addicts, who would squeeze the precious drops of their drug
onto their eyeballs in public and lie there shuddering with visions while strangers
went through their belongings or used them as tables.

The Seventy-seventh Year of Morgante had just arrived when Locke Lamora burst into
the common room of the Elderglass Vine, sobbing and sniffling, his face showing the
red cheeks, bleeding lips, and bruised eyes that were characteristic of Black Whisper.

“Please, sir,” he whispered to a horrified bouncer while dice-throwers, bartenders,
whores, and thieves stopped to stare. “Please. Mother and Father are sick; I don’t
know what’s wrong with them. I’m the only one who can move—you must”—
sniff
—“help! Please, sir …”

At least, that’s what would have been heard, had the bouncer not triggered a headlong
exodus from the Elderglass Vine by screaming “Whisper! Black Whisper!” at the top
of his lungs. No boy of Locke’s size could have survived the ensuing orgy of shoving
and panic had not the badge of illness on his face been better than any shield. Dice
clattered to tabletops and cards fluttered down like falling leaves; tin mugs and
tarred leather ale-jacks spattered cheap liquor as they hit the floor. Tables were
overturned, knives and clubs were pulled to prod others into flight, and Gazers were
trampled as an undisciplined wave of human detritus surged out every door save that
in which Locke stood, pleading uselessly (or so it seemed) to screams and turned backs.

When the tavern had cleared of everyone but a few moaning (or motionless) Gazers,
Locke’s companions stole in behind him: a dozen of the fastest teasers and clutchers
in Streets, specially invited by Lamora for this expedition. They spread out among
the fallen tables and behind the battered bar, plucking wildly at anything valuable.
Here a handful of discarded coins; there a good knife; here a set of whalebone dice
with tiny garnet chips for markers. From the pantry, baskets of coarse but serviceable
bread, salted butter in grease-paper, and a dozen bottles of wine. Half a minute was
all Locke allowed them, counting in his head while he rubbed his makeup from his face.
By the end of the count, he motioned his associates back out into the night.

Riot drums were already beating to summon the watch, and above their rhythm could
be heard the first faint flutings of pipes, the bone-chilling sound that called out
the duke’s Ghouls—the Quarantine Guard.

The participants in Locke’s smash-and-grab adventure threaded their way through the
growing crowds of confused and panicked Narrows dwellers, and scuttled home indirectly
through the Mara Camorrazza or the Coalsmoke district.

They returned with the largest haul of goods and food in the memory of the Shades’
Hill orphans, and a larger pile of copper half-barons than Locke had hoped for. He
hadn’t known that men who played at dice or cards kept money out in plain view, for
in Shades’ Hill such games were the exclusive domain of the oldest and most popular
orphans, and he was neither.

For a few hours, the Thiefmaker was merely bemused.

But that night, panicked drunks set fire to the Elderglass Vine, and hundreds tried
to flee the Narrows when the city watch was unable to locate the boy who’d first triggered
the panic. Riot drums beat until dawn, bridges were blocked, and Duke Nicovante’s
archers took to the canals around the Narrows in flat-bottomed boats, with arrows
to last all night and then some.

The next morning found the Thiefmaker once again in private conversation with his
littlest plague orphan.

“The problem with you, Locke
fucking
Lamora, is that you are not
circumspect
. Do you know what
circumspect
means?”

Locke shook his head.

“Let me put it like this. That tavern had an owner. That owner worked for Capa Barsavi,
the big man himself, just like I do. Now, that tavern owner paid the Capa, just like
I do, to avoid
accidents
. Thanks to you, he’s had one hell of an
accident
—even though he was paying his money and didn’t have an
accident
forthcoming. So, if you follow me, inciting a pack of drunk fucking animals to burn
that place to the ground with a fake plague scare was the opposite of a
circumspect
means of operation. So now can you venture a guess as to what the word means?”

Locke knew a good time to nod vigorously when he heard it.

“Unlike the last time you tried to send me to an early grave, this one I can’t buy
my way out of, and thank the gods I don’t need to, because the mess is huge. The yellowjackets
clubbed down two hundred people last night before they all figured out that nobody
had the Whisper. The duke called out his fucking regulars and was about to give the
Narrows a good scrubbing with fire-oil. Now, the only reason—and I mean the
only
reason—that you’re not floating in a shark’s stomach with a very surprised expression
on your face is that the Elderglass Vine is just a pile of ashes; nobody knows anything
was stolen from it
before
it became that pile of ashes. Nobody except us.

“So, we’re
all
going to agree that nobody in this hill knows anything about what happened, and
you
are going to relearn some of that reticence I talked about when you first arrived
here. You remember reticence, right?”

Locke nodded.

“I just want nice, neat little jobs from you, Lamora. I want a purse here, a sausage
there. I want you to swallow your ambition, shit it out like a bad meal, and be a
circumspect
little teaser for about the next thousand years.
Can you do that for me? Don’t rob any more yellowjackets. Don’t burn any more taverns.
Don’t start any more fucking riots. Just pretend to be a coarse-witted little cutpurse
like your brothers and sisters. Clear?”

Again, Locke nodded, doing his best to look rueful.

“Good. And now,” the Thiefmaker said as he produced his nearly full flask of ginger
oil, “we’re going to engage in some
reinforcement
of my admonishments.”

And, for a time (once Locke recovered his powers of speech and unlabored breathing),
everything was serene.

But the Seventy-seventh Year of Morgante became the Seventy-seventh Year of Sendovani,
and though Locke succeeded in hiding his actions from the Thiefmaker for a time, on
one more specific occasion he again failed spectacularly to be circumspect.

When the Thiefmaker realized what the boy had done, he went to see the Capa of Camorr
and secured permission for one little death. Only as an afterthought did he go to
see the Eyeless Priest, intent not on mercy but on one last chance for a slim profit.

THE SKY was a fading red, and nothing remained of the day save for a line of molten
gold slowly lowering on the western horizon. Locke Lamora trailed in the long shadow
of the Thiefmaker, who was leading him to the Temple of Perelandro to be sold. At
long last, Locke had discovered where the older children had been disappearing to.

A great glass arch led from the northwest base of Shades’ Hill to the eastern edge
of the long, vast Temple District. At the apex of this bridge the Thiefmaker paused
and stared north, across the lightless houses of the Quiet, across the mist-wreathed
waters of the rushing Angevine, to the shaded manors and tree-lined white stone boulevards
of the four Alcegrante islands, laid out in opulence beneath the impossible height
of the Five Towers.

The Five were the most prominent Elderglass structures in a city thick with the arcane
substance. The smallest and least magnificent, Dawncatcher, was merely eighty feet
wide and four hundred feet tall. The true color of each smooth tower was mingled now
with the sinking furnace-light of sunset, and the weblike net of cables and cargo
baskets that threaded the tower tops was barely visible against the carmine sky.

“We’ll wait here a moment, boy,” said the Thiefmaker with uncharacteristic wistfulness
in his voice. “Here on my bridge. So few come to Shades’ Hill this way, it might as
well be mine.”

The Duke’s Wind that blew in from the Iron Sea by day had turned; the night, as always,
would be ruled by the muggy Hangman’s Wind that blew from land to sea, thick with
the scents of farm fields and rotting marshes.

“I’m getting rid of you, you know,” the Thiefmaker added after a moment. “Not, ahhh,
fooling. Good-bye forever. It’s a pity you’re missing something. Common sense, perhaps.”

Locke said nothing, instead staring up at the vast glass towers as the sky behind
them drained of color. The blue-white stars brightened, and the last rays of the sun
vanished in the west like a great eye closing.

As the first hint of true darkness seemed to fall over the city, a new light rose
faint and glimmering to push it back. This light gleamed from within the Elderglass
of the Five Towers themselves, and within the translucent glass of the bridge on which
they were standing. It waxed with every passing breath, gaining strength until it
bathed the city with the fey half-light of an overcast day.

The hour of Falselight had come.

From the heights of the Five Towers to the obsidian smoothness of the vast glass breakwaters,
to the artificial reefs beneath the slate-colored waves, Falselight radiated from
every surface and every shard of Elderglass in Camorr, from every speck of the alien
material left so long before by the creatures that had first shaped the city. Every
night, as the west finally swallowed the sun, the glass bridges would become threads
of firefly light; the glass towers and glass avenues and the strange glass sculpture-gardens
would shimmer wanly with violet and azure and orange and pearl white, and the moons
and stars would fade to gray.

This was what passed for twilight in Camorr—the end of work for the last daylight
laborers, the calling of the night watches and the sealing of the landward gates.
An hour of supernatural radiance that would soon enough give way to true night.

“Let’s be about our business,” the Thiefmaker said, and the two of them headed down
into the Temple District, walking on soft alien light.

FALSELIGHT WAS the last hour during which the temples of Camorr traditionally remained
open, and the Eyeless Priest at the House of
Perelandro was wasting none of the time still left to fill the copper money-kettle
sitting before him on the steps of his decrepit temple.

“Orphans!” he bellowed in a voice that would have been at home on a battlefield. “Are
we not all orphaned, sooner or later? Alas for those torn from the mother’s bosom,
barely past infancy!”

A pair of slender young boys, presumably orphans, were seated on either side of the
money-kettle, wearing hooded white robes. The eldritch glow of Falselight seemed to
inflame the hollow blackness of their staring eyes as they watched men and women hurrying
about their business on the squares and avenues of the gods.

“Alas,” the priest continued, “for those cast out by cruel fate to a wicked world
that has no place for them, a world that has no use for them.
Slaves
is what it makes of them! Slaves, or worse—
playthings
for the lusts of the wicked and the ungodly, forcing them into half-lives of unspeakable
degeneracy, beside which mere slavery would be a
blessing
!”

Locke marveled, for he had never seen a stage performance or heard a trained orator.
Here
was scorn that could boil standing water from stone;
here
was remonstrance that made his pulse race with excited shame, though he was himself
an orphan. He wanted to hear the big-voiced man yell at him some more.

So great was the fame of Father Chains, the Eyeless Priest, that even Locke Lamora
had heard of him; a man of late middle years with a chest as broad as a scrivener’s
desk and a beard that clung to his craggy face like a pad of scrubbing wool. A thick
white blindfold covered his forehead and his eyes, a white cotton vestment hung to
his bare ankles, and a pair of black iron manacles encircled his wrists. Heavy steel
chains led from these manacles back up the steps of the temple, and through the open
doors to the interior. Locke could see that as Father Chains gestured to his listeners,
these chains were almost taut. He was nearly at the very limit of his freedom.

For thirteen years, popular lore had it, Father Chains had never set foot beyond the
steps of his temple. As a measure of his devotion to Perelandro, Father of Mercies,
Lord of the Overlooked, he had chained himself to the walls of his inner sanctuary
with iron manacles that had neither locks nor keys, and had paid a physiker to pluck
out his eyes while a crowd watched.