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

by Scott Lynch

“No, no—the gentlemen choose to confer,” said Locke, leaning to his left to place his mouth close to Jean’s ear. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “What’s your hand look like?” “A parched desert,” Jean murmured, casually moving his right hand up to cover his mouth. “How’s yours?” “A wasteland of bitter frustration.” “Shit.”

One of the odder services the Villa Candessa provided for its long-term guests was its “likeness cakes”—little frosted simulacra fashioned after the guests by the inn’s Camorr-trained pastry sculptor. On a silver tray beside the looking glass, a little sweetbread Locke (with raisin eyes and almond-butter blond hair) sat beside a rounder Jean with dark chocolate hair and beard. The baked Jean’s legs were already missing. A few moments later, Jean was brushing the last buttery crumbs from the front of his coat. “Alas, poor Locke and Jean.” “They died of consumption,” said Locke.

“Hell,” said Jean. “I’m sorry,” muttered Locke. “I was so keen to come to Tal fucking Verrar.” “It’s not your fault. We were both eager to hop in bed with the wench; it’s just shit luck she turned out to have the clap.”

Here were the richest and freest people in the Therin world, those with positions and money but no political duties to constrict them, gathered together to do what law and custom forbade beyond Saljesca’s private fiefdom—to humiliate and brutalize their lessers however they saw fit, for their own gleeful amusement. The arena and the Amusement War itself were obviously just frames. Means to an end.

“Any man can fart in a closed room and say that he commands the wind,”

“You should have no trouble making the acquaintance of the Ghostwind pirates, because you yourselves will become perfectly respectable pirates. Captain and first mate of a pirate sloop, as a matter of fact.”

“The Death of a Thousand Pecks,” said Jean. “You would have been legends, dying so gruesomely. I’d have written a book on the man-eating pigeons of Camorr and joined the Therin Collegium. Gone respectable. Bug and I would’ve built a memorial statue to the Sanzas, with a nice plaque.” “What about me?” “Footnote on the plaque. Space permitting.”

Once Locke and Jean had stripped down to their tunics and breeches, Caldris led them over to a large covered basket that sat on the stones near the docked dinghy. He undid the cover, reached in, and removed a live kitten. “Hello, you monstrous little necessity.” “Mrrrrwwwwww,” said the monstrous little necessity.

As Chains had once said, feeling like you wanted desperately to die was fine evidence that you had yet to do so.

The Poison Orchid slid slowly onto the larboard tack. She put the last faint halo of the lost sun behind her, as though sailing out of some ghostly golden portal, and gathered way beneath the first stars of evening, which waxed steadily brighter in the inky eastern sky.

Dear gods, he was going into battle. What the fuck was the matter with him?

“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.

She settled onto her favorite chair with a groan and welcomed Paolo and Cosetta onto her lap. She lost herself in the familiar smell of their curly dark hair, and gazed with absolute satisfaction at their little fingers as she caught them in her own rough hands. Cosetta’s, still so tiny and uncertain … Paolo’s, growing longer and more dexterous by the week. Gods, they were growing too fast, too fast.

For a few brief moments every night, she could imagine that her ship was traveling neither to nor from danger, and she could imagine herself more mother than captain, alone with the ordinary concerns of her children— “Mommy,” said Paolo without any warning, “I want to learn how to fight with a sword.” Zamira couldn’t help herself; she stared at him for several seconds, and then cracked up laughing. Ordinary? Gods, how could any child born to this life be anything resembling ordinary?

So saying, he squeezed Jean’s hand. “I’m happy for you. You’ve gone and stolen something back from this whole dead-end distraction Stragos has shoved us into. Hold it tight.”

“You told her your real name, didn’t you?” “What?” Jean’s eyes grew wide, and then he scowled. “Is that a guess?” “I’m not much of a lip-reader, but the last thing she said to you had one syllable, not two.” “Oh,” sighed Jean. “Well, aren’t you the clever little bastard.” “Yes on all three counts, actually.” “I did, and I’m not sorry—” “Gods, I’m not angry, Jean. I’m just showing off.”

“Now tell me, Lamora, just what sort of reaction were you hoping for when you brought me this news?” “Well, a fucking heart attack would have been nice, but I’d settle for a bit of patience while I explain further.” “Yes,” said the archon. “Do.”