The Lies of Locke Lamora (Gentleman Bastard, #1)

by Scott Lynch

“Oh. You have a magic boy. Why didn’t you say so?” The priest scratched his forehead beneath the white silk blindfold that covered his eyes. “Magnificent. I’ll plant him in the fucking ground and grow a vine to an enchanted land beyond the clouds.”

The duke’s magistrates disposed of little thieves with the same rope they used on bigger ones, though they did see to it that the little ones went over the side of the bridge with weights tied to their ankles to help them hang properly.

nobody—and I mean nobody—has ever been hungry for it like this boy. If he had a bloody gash across his throat and a physiker was trying to sew it up, Lamora would steal the needle and thread and die laughing. He … steals too much.”

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.

well as the rotten stench of the stuff that had broken his fall. Well, when you jumped into a streetside pile of brown glop in Camorr, you knew going in that it wouldn’t smell like rosewater.

With graceful motions, he poured wine for Calo and Galdo, and then a nearly full glass for himself. Chains and the Sanzas raised their glasses; Locke quickly copied them. Silver sparkled under gold.

“Second touch this afternoon was easy. But we wouldn’t have gotten so far, so fast, if not for Bug’s quick action yesterday. What a stupid, reckless, idiotic, ridiculous damn thing to do! I haven’t the words to express my admiration.”

Black-cloaked riders on black horses, looming out of darkness and mist … It was easy to laugh at such conceits in full daylight. But night had a way of lending weight to phantasms.

“Well, I for one have no expressions of sympathy to spare, since he kicked my balls hard enough to make them permanent residents of my lungs.” Locke tried to push himself up off his hands and failed; Calo caught him under his right arm and eased him up until he was kneeling, shakily, on his knees alone.

“Seven and three,” said Locke. “I went to pains to get that particular piece.” “I have to pay extra because your ass and your brains switched places at birth? I think not; if that were the case I’d have heard about it before. Take your five and consider yourself lucky.”

“Well,” said Galdo, “this is the damnedest damn thing that ever dammed things up for us.”

Locke nodded, then stared down at his hands for a few seconds. “Calo, Galdo,” he said, “will you sit the steps tomorrow so I can think about this?” “Yes,” they said without hesitation, and Father Chains didn’t miss the note of hope in their voices. He would remember that moment ever after; the night the Sanzas conceded that Locke would be the brains of their operation. The night they were relieved to have him as the brains of their operation.

“This is the one, then. Honest. But I need those names.” “If it’s so, it’s so.” Chains leaned backward and stretched, grunting in satisfaction as his back creaked and popped. “I’ll get them for you tonight.” “And I’ll need some money.” “Ah. Well, I expected that. Take what you need from the vault and mark it on the ledger. Screw around with it, though …” “I know. Lead ingots; screaming; death.” “Something like that. You’re a little on the small side, but I suppose Jessaline might learn a thing or two from your corpse anyway.”

“Bugger me bloody with a boathook,” Chains said when they finished. “I don’t recall telling you that your leash was slipped enough for fucking street theater, Locke.” “We had to get our money back somehow,” said Locke. “Cost us fifteen silvers to get the body from the Palace of Patience. Now we’re up some, plus candles and bread and beer.” “Oranges,” said Calo. “Glow-globes,” said Galdo. “Don’t forget those; they’re pretty.” “Crooked Warden,” said Chains. “Just this morning I was suffering from the delusion that I was handing out the educations here.”

Were those dark circles under her eyes? Was there the slightest hint of wariness in her attitude toward him? She certainly wasn’t at ease. Locke made a mental note to avoid pushing her too far, too fast. It was a delicate dance, playing straight lines and smiles with someone who knew he was a mummer but didn’t know that he knew she knew.

“It’s the oldest rule of their guild, a rule without exceptions: kill a Bondsmage, and the whole guild drops whatever it’s doing to come after you. They seek you out by any means they need to use. They kill your friends, your family, your associates. They burn your home. They destroy everything you’ve ever built. Before they finally let you die, they make sure you know that your line has been wiped from the earth, root and branch.”

“Sorcery’s impressive enough, but it’s their fucking attitude that makes them such a pain. And that’s why, when you find yourself face to face with one, you bow and scrape and mind your ‘sirs’ and ‘madams.’ ” 5 “NICE BIRD, asshole,” said Locke.

Locke stared down at the fading glow of the hearthstone and rubbed his hands together. “I wonder, Jean. I really wonder. Is this what other people feel like when we’re through with them? After we get the goods and pull the vanish and there’s nothing they can do about it?”

“What, no crack about my moral education?” “Your moral education’s over.” Jean stared up into the sky as the dockside receded and Bug took them out into the canal’s heart. “Now you’re going to learn a thing or two about war.”

As he left the receiving room, he allowed himself a brief smirk of pleasure; the guards pinning Benjavier now looked almost as frightened of him as the waiter did. It was strange, how readily authority could be conjured with nothing but a bit of strutting jackassery.

“And then you may dress your own wounds, sir, and apply your own poultices—though I daresay it would be quicker and easier for the pair of you to simply dig your own graves and take your ease in them until your inevitable transition to a more quiet state of affairs!”

Doña Sofia led him to the west, past the bar and the long line of nobles waiting to take in the liquid courage of their choice; some of them were already obviously impaired in the fine art of standing up straight.