Red Seas Under Red Skies (Gentleman Bastard, #2)

by Scott Lynch

“If you must play, decide upon three things at the start: the rules of the game, the stakes, and the quitting time.”

The real magic of the Sinspire was woven from its capricious exclusivity; deny something to enough people and sooner or later it will grow a mystique as thick as fog.

It was eccentric and hypnotic.… Locke had never before known anyone to decorate a room with a literal pile of money.

Difficult. ‘Difficult’ and ‘impossible’ are cousins often mistaken for one another, with very little in common.”

“As for history, we are living in its ruins. And as for biographies, we are living with the consequences of all the decisions ever made in them. I tend not to read them for pleasure. It’s not unlike carefully scrutinizing the map when one has already reached the destination.”

“This is where we’re headed, Thorn—or at least you are. Look for us in history books and you’ll find us in the margins. Look for us in legends, and you might just find us celebrated.”

“Words are cheap. Cheap and meaningless.”

“Distrust everyone,” she said, “and you can never be betrayed. Opposed, but never betrayed.”

And if some small part of him felt sour at twisting her emotions (gods damn it, that part of him had rarely spoken up before!), well—he reminded himself that he could do as he pleased and feel as he pleased while he was Leocanto Kosta. Leocanto Kosta wasn’t real.

“Crooked Warden,” Locke muttered under his breath, speaking quickly. “A glass poured on the ground for a stranger without friends. Lord of gallants and fools, ease this man’s passage to the Lady of the Long Silence.

“The world is cruel enough without our compounding it; I approve. I meant that it was damned strange that anyone should do such a thing at all.”

Rogues must be ruled. I believe you can do that, Lamora … by faking it, if necessary. That makes you the best possible choice in some respects. You can fake confidence when a sincere man might be inclined to panic.

I want you to use your misplaced acorn of a brain before the squirrel comes looking for it again.

Seems kind of a waste to spit in the face of the god that looks out for you and yours, doesn’t it?

Know something? I’d lay even odds that between the people following us and the people hunting us, we’ve become this city’s principal means of employment. Tal Verrar’s entire economy is now based on fucking with us.”

“When you go to sea, there’s two necessities, for luck. First, you’re courting an awful fate if you take a ship to sea without at least one woman officer. It’s the law of the Lord of the Grasping Waters. His mandate. He’s got a fixation for the daughters of the land; he’ll smash any ship that puts to sea without at least one aboard. Plus, it’s plain common sense. They’re good officers. Decent plain sailors, but finer officers than you or I. Just the way the gods made ’em.

“Second, it’s powerful bad luck to put out without cats on board. Not only as they kill the rats, but as they’re the proudest creatures anywhere, wet or dry. Iono admires the little fuckers. Got a ship with women and cats aboard, you’ll have the finest luck you can hope for.

“Gamblers play just as lovers make love and drunkards drink—blindly and of necessity, under domination of an irresistible force.”

feeling like you wanted desperately to die was fine evidence that you had yet to do so.

Locke Lamora was small, but the Thorn of Camorr was larger than any of this. The Thorn couldn’t be touched by blade or spell or scorn. Locke thought of the Falconer, bleeding at his feet. He thought of the Gray King, dead beneath his knife. He thought of the fortunes that had run through his fingers, and he smiled.

“Unbound by your own hands, you are outlaw brethren of the Sea of Brass,” said Captain Drakasha, “and crewmen of the Poison Orchid.”

“Am I making myself clear, Orrin? I don’t regret how I’ve lived these past few years. I move where I will. I set no appointments. I guard no borders. What land-bound king has the freedom of a ship’s captain? The Sea of Brass provides. When I need haste, it gives me winds. When I need gold, it gives me galleons.”

Thieves prosper, thought Locke. The rich remember.

“Mew,” the kitten retorted, locking gazes with him. It had the expression common to all kittens, that of a tyrant in the becoming. I was comfortable, and you dared to move, those jade eyes said. For that you must die.

“Crooked Warden, I will fear no darkness for the night is yours,” muttered Locke, pointing the first two fingers of his left hand into the darkness. The Dagger of the Thirteenth, a thief’s gesture against evil. “Your night is my cloak, my shield, my escape from those who hunt to feed the noose. I will fear no evil, for you have made the night my friend.”

‘Let us speak behind our hands, lest our lips be read as the book of our designs, and let us find some place where only gods and rats may hear our words aloud.’ ”

There was no wine, no food, and no sitting when the council of captains was called. Sitting only made people more inclined to waste time. Discomfort stripped sentiment from everyone’s words and brought them to the heart of their problems with haste.

“Gods, I’m not angry, Jean. I’m just showing off.”

“I think piracy’s a bit like drinking,” said Jean. “You want to stay out all night doing it, you pay the price the next day.”

So this is what a command is. Staring consequences in the eye and pretending not to flinch.

“CROOKED WARDEN, Silent Thirteenth, your servant calls. Place your eyes upon the passing of this woman, Ezri Delmastro, Iono’s servant and yours. Beloved of a man who is beloved by you.” Locke’s voice broke, and he struggled for self-control. “Beloved of a man who is my brother. We … we grudge you this one, Lord, and I don’t mind saying so.”

“This is the woman who saved us all. This is the woman who beat Jaffrim Rodanov. We deliver her, body and spirit, to the realm of your brother Iono, mighty lord of the sea. Lend her aid. Carry her soul to She who weighs us all. This we pray with hopeful hearts.”

“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?”

He and Jean should have been loving it, laughing about it together, reveling in their usual breathless joy at crime well executed. Richer and cleverer than everyone else.

The black kitten looked up at him, stretched, and began to rub himself against Locke’s right boot, purring loudly. “Welcome to your new home, kid. All that you survey is yours,” said Locke. “But this doesn’t mean I’m getting attached to you.”