The Gentleman Bastard Series (162 page)

The wordless circle of tired, mostly wounded crewfolk began to disperse, back to Treganne’s fussing or their bare-bones watches. Rask had replaced Ezri, Nasreen, and Utgar alike for the time being; with his head swaddled in a thick linen bandage, he began grabbing the more able-bodied survivors and pointing out chores for their attention.

“And now?” asked Locke

“Now we limp, with the wind mostly against us, back to Tal Verrar.” Zamira’s voice was tired, but her gaze was level. “We had an understanding, before this. I’ve lost more than I bargained for, friends and crew both. We lack the strength to take so much as a fishing vessel now, so I’m afraid what remains is up to you.”

“As we promised,” said Locke. “Stragos. Yeah. Get us there, and I’ll … think of something.”

“You won’t have to,” said Jean. “Just put in and send me off.” He looked down at his feet. “Then leave.”

“No,” said Locke. “I won’t just stay here while—”

“Only takes one for what I’ve got in mind.”

“You just promised a death-offering—”

“She gets it. Even if it’s
me
, she gets it.”

“You think Stragos won’t be suspicious to see just one of us?”

“I’ll tell him you’re dead. Tell him we had a fight at sea; that part’s honest enough. He’ll see me then.”

“I won’t let you go alone.”

“And I won’t let you come with. What do you think you can do, fight me?”

“Shut up, the pair of you,” said Zamira. “Gods. Just this morning, Jerome, your friend here tried to convince me to let him do exactly what you’re planning right now.”

“What?” Jean glared at Locke and ground his teeth together. “You miserable little sneak, how could you—”

“What? How dare I contemplate what
you
were going to do to me? You self-righteous strutting cock, I’ll—”

“What?” shouted Jean.

“—I’ll throw myself at you, and you’ll beat the shit out of me,” said Locke. “And then you’ll feel awful! How about that, huh?”

“I already feel awful,” said Jean. “Gods, why can’t you just let me do this? Why can’t you give me this much? At least you’ll be alive; you can try to find another alchemist, another poisoner. It’s a better chance than I’ll have.”

“Like hell,” said Locke. “That’s not how we work, and if you wanted it otherwise, you should have left me bleeding to death in Camorr. I seem to recall being pretty set on it at the time.”

“Yeah, but—”

“It’s different when it’s
you
, isn’t it?”

“I—”

“Gentlemen,” said Zamira, “or whatever you are. All other considerations aside, I gave my little boat to Basryn this afternoon so the bastard could die on the waves instead of on my ship. You’ll have a hell of a time getting one of the other boats in to Tal Verrar by yourself, Jerome. Unless you propose to fly, for I’m not taking the
Orchid
more than a bowshot past the breakwater reefs.”

“I’ll swim if I bloody well have to—”

“Don’t be stupid in your anger, Jerome.” Drakasha grabbed him by the shoulders. “Be
cold
. Cold’s the only thing that’s going to work, if you’re going to give me anything back for what’s been done to my crew. For my
first mate
.”

“Shit,” Jean muttered.

“Together,” said Locke. “You didn’t leave me in Camorr, or Vel Virazzo. The hell if I’ll leave you here.”

Jean scowled, grabbed the rail, and stared down at the water. “It’s a damn shame,” he said at last. “All that money at the Sinspire. Pity we’ll never get it out. Or the other things.”

Locke grinned, recognizing the abrupt change of subject as Jean’s way of salving his pride as he gave in.

“Sinspire?” said Zamira.

“We’ve left a few parts of our story untold, Zamira. Forgive us. Sometimes these schemes get a bit heavy to haul around. We, ah, have a few thousand solari on the books at the Sinspire. Hell, I’d let you have my share if there were any way to get it, but the point is moot.”

“If only we’d found someone in the city to hold some of it for us,” said Jean.

“No use wailing over spilled beer,” said Locke. “I doubt we cultivated a single friend in Tal Verrar that we weren’t hiring or tipping. Sure could use
a fucking friend now.” He joined Jean at the rail and pretended to be as absorbed in the sea as the bigger man did, but all he could think of were shrouded bodies splashing into the water.

Bodies falling, just as he and Jean had planned to use ropes, to fall safely out of—

“Wait a gods-damned minute,” said Locke. “A friend. A friend. That’s what we fucking need. We’ve spun Stragos and Requin like plates. Who haven’t we even bothered to deal with in the past two years? Who have we been ignoring?”

“The temples?”

“Good guess, but no—who’s got a direct stake in this bloody mess?”

“The Priori?”

“The Priori,” said Locke. “Those fat, secretive, conniving bastards.” Locke drummed his fingers against the rail, trying to push his sorrow out of his thoughts and will a dozen loose, improbable plans into one coherent scheme. “Think. Who’d we game with? Who’d we see at the Sinspire?”

“Ulena Pascalis.”

“No. She just barely got her seat at the table.”

“De Morella—”

“No. Gods, nobody takes him seriously. Who could move the Priori to do something absolutely rash? Who’s been around long enough to either command respect or pull strings to enforce it? Inner Seven is what we need. The hell with everyone else.”

Conjuring on the political realities of the Priori was akin to divination by chicken entrails, thought Locke. There were three tiers of seven in the merchant councils; the purpose of every seat on the lower two was public knowledge. Only the names of the Inner Seven were known—what hierarchy they held, what duties they performed was a mystery to outsiders.

“Cordo,” said Jean.

“Old Cordo, or Lyonin?”

“Both. Either. Marius is Inner Seven; Lyonin’s on his way up. And Marius is older than Perelandro’s balls. If anyone could move the Priori, presumably as part of some insane thing you’re dreaming up—”

“It’s only half-insane.”

“I know that fucking look on your face! I’m sure either Cordo’s the one you want; pity we’ve never met the bastards.” Jean stared at Locke with a wary expression. “You
do
have that look on your face. What do you mean to do?”

“I mean … what if I mean to have it all? Why are we plotting suicide as
a first option? Why don’t we at least
try
first? Get to Requin. Pull the job. Get to Stragos. Squeeze an answer or an antidote out of him. Then give it to him, one way or another.” Locke mimed shoving a dagger into an invisible archon of Tal Verrar. It was so satisfying he mimed it again.

“How the hell do we do this?”

“That’s a grand question,” said Locke. “The best question you’ve ever asked. I know we need some things. First, the way it’s been lately, every person in Tal Verrar is likely to be waiting for us at the docks with crossbows and torches. We need better disguises. Shoddiest priesthood of the twelve?”

“Callo Androno,” said Jean.

“Begging His forgiveness, you got it,” said Locke.

Callo Androno; Eyes on the Crossroads; god of travel, languages, and lore. His itinerant priests as well as his settled scholars disdained finery, taking pride in the roughness of their garments.

“Zamira,” said Locke, “if there’s anyone on board who can still push a needle and thread, we need two robes. Make them from sailcloth, spare clothes, anything. I hate to say it, but there’s got to be a lot of spare clothing lying around now.”

“The survivors will dice for the goods, and I’ll share out the coin among them,” she said. “But I can claim a few things first.”

“And we need something blue,” said Locke. “The blue Androni headbands. As long as we wear those, we’re holy men, not just ill-dressed vagrants.”

“Ezri’s blue tunic,” said Jean. “It’s … it’d be in her cabin, where she left it. It’s a bit faded, but—”

“Perfect,”
said Locke. “Now, Zamira, when we came back from our first visit to Tal Verrar with this ship, I gave you a letter for safekeeeping. It has Requin’s seal on it. Jerome, I need you to finesse that thing off like Chains showed us. You’re better at it than me and it has to be good.”

“I suppose I can try. I’m not sure … how good I can be at anything right now.”

“I need your best. I need you to do it. For me. And for her.”

“Where do you want the seal moved?”

“Clean parchment. Paper. Anything. Do you have one sheet, Zamira?”

“A full sheet? I don’t think Paolo and Cosetta have left us any. But several of them are only partially scribbled on; I may be able to cut one in half.”

“Do it. Jerome, you’ll find some of the tools you need in my old sea chest, in Zamira’s cabin. Can he use it, and some lanterns, Captain?”

“Paolo and Cosetta refuse to come out of the rope locker,” said Zamira. “They’re too upset. I’ve brought bed things and alchemical lights down for them. The cabin is at your disposal.”

“You’ll need your cards, too,” said Jean. “Or so I presume.”

“Hell yes, I mean to use the cards. I’ll need them, plus the best set of gear we can scrape together. Daggers. Short lengths of cord, preferably demi-silk. Coin, Zamira—tight little purses of fifty or sixty solari in case we have to buy our way past a problem. And some coshes. If you don’t have any, there’s sand and sail canvas—”

“And a pair of hatchets,” said Jean.

“There’s two in my cabin. I took them out of your chest, actually.”

“What?” A flicker of excitement actually crossed Jean’s face. “You have them?”

“I needed a pair. I didn’t know they were special; otherwise I’d have given them back when you came off the scrub watch—”

“Special? They’re more like family than weapons,” said Locke.

“So how does this all fall together, then?” said Jean.

“As I said, excellent question, one I intend to ponder at length—”

“We won’t see Tal Verrar again until tomorrow night if this weather holds,” said Zamira. “I guarantee you’ll have a good long time to ponder. And you’ll be doing most of it up the foremast as top-eyes. I still need you to make yourself useful.”

“Of course,” said Locke. “Of course. Captain, when we come in to Tal Verrar, bring us from the north, if you would. Whatever else we do, our first stop needs to be the Merchants’ Quarter.”

“Cordo?” asked Jean.

“Cordo,” said Locke. “Older or Younger, I don’t care. They’ll see us if we have to crawl in through their gods-damned windows.”

2

“WHAT THE—,” said a portly, well-dressed servant who had the misfortune to walk around the corner, past the alcove containing the fourth-floor window Locke and Jean had just crawled in through.

“Hey,” said Locke. “Congratulations! We’re reverse burglars, here to give you fifty gold solari!” He tossed his coin purse at the servant, who caught it in one hand and gaped at its weight. In the next second and a half the man spent not raising an alarm, Jean coshed him.

They’d come in through the northwest corner of the top story of the
Cordo family manor; battlements and iron spikes had made a climb to the roof unattractive. It was just shy of the tenth hour of the evening, a perfect mid-Aurim night on the Sea of Brass, and Locke and Jean had already squirmed through a thorny hedgerow, dodged three parties of guards and gardeners, and spent twenty minutes scaling the damp, smooth stone of Cordo Manor just to get this far.

Their makeshift priestly robes of Callo Androno, along with most of their other needs, were tucked into backpacks sewn with haste by Jabril. Possibly thanks to those robes, no one had loosed a crossbow bolt at them since they’d set foot on solid Verrari ground, but the night was young, thought Locke—so very, very young.

Jean dragged the unconscious servant into the window alcove and glanced around for other complications while Locke quietly slipped the double frosted-glass windows shut and rehitched their latch. Only a slender, carefully bent piece of metal had allowed him to open that latch; the Right People of Camorr called the tool a “breadwinner,” because if you could get in and out of a household rich enough to own latching glass windows, your dinner was assured.

As it happened, Locke and Jean had stolen into just enough great houses much like this one—if none quite so vast—to know vaguely where to look for their quarry. Master bedchambers were often located adjacent to comforts like smoking rooms, studies, sitting parlors, and—

“Library,” muttered Jean as he and Locke padded quietly down the right-hand corridor. Alchemical lights in tastefully curtained alcoves gave the place a pleasantly dim orange-gold glow. Through a pair of open doors in the middle of the hall, on their left, Locke could just glimpse shelves of books and scrolls. No other servants were in sight.

The library was a thing of minor wonder; there must have been a thousand volumes, as well as hundreds of scrolls in orderly racks and cases. Charts of the constellations, painted on alchemically bleached leather, decorated the few empty spots on the walls. Two closed doors led to other inner rooms, one to their left and one in front of them.

Locke flattened himself against the left-hand door, listening. He heard a faint murmur and turned to Jean, only to find that Jean had halted in his tracks next to one of the bookshelves. He reached out, plucked a slim octavo volume—perhaps six inches in height—from the stacks, and hurriedly stuffed it into his backpack. Locke grinned.

At that moment, the left-hand door opened directly into him, giving him a harmless but painful knock on the back of the head. He whirled to
find himself face-to-face with a young woman carrying an empty silver tray. She opened her mouth to scream and there was nothing else for it; Locke’s left hand shot out to cover her mouth while his right went for a dagger. He pushed her back into the room from which she’d come, and past the door Locke felt his feet sinking into plush carpet an inch deep.

Jean came through right behind him and slammed the door. The servant’s tray fell to the carpet, and Locke pushed her aside. She fell into Jean’s arms with an “Oooomph!” of surprise, and Locke found himself at the foot of a bed that was roughly ten feet on a side, draped in enough silk to sail a rather substantial yacht.