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

by Scott Lynch

“You make it sound like it’s her or you—” “Of course it doesn’t have to be. But things will change—” “Change, yes. And improve. This doesn’t have to mean the end of anything.” “Take her with us? Three against the world? Start up the whole thing again, rebuild a gang? Haven’t we had this conversation before?”

“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.”

Locke let a bit of his actual relief show in his expression. This web of lies was growing so convoluted, so branching, and so delicate that a moth’s fart might knock it to pieces—but the two meetings of the night had bought what he and Jean needed. Another two months of life from Stragos, and another two months of tolerance from Requin. All they needed to do now was steal back to their boat without complication, and row themselves to safety.

“Lower your piece, for the love of the gods,” said Locke’s opponent. “We’ve been instructed not to kill you, if we don’t have to.” “And I’m sure you’d be honest if it were otherwise, of course,” said Locke. His smile grew. “I make it a point never to trust men with weapons at my windpipe. Sorry.”

Locke stared at the steel-tipped point of Jean’s quarrel, his mouth open in disbelief. The world around him seemed to fade to that tiny, gleaming point, alive with the orange reflection of the inferno blazing in the anchorage behind him. Jean would have given him a hand signal if he were lying.… Where the hell was the hand signal?

“Consider,” said Colvard, “that while Zamira’s course of action is too dangerous to tolerate, her logic was impeccable in one respect.” “And that is?” “Merely killing her, plus this Ravelle and Valora, would only serve to bandage a wound that already festers. The rot will deepen. We need to sate Maxilan Stragos’ ambition, not just foil it temporarily.” “Agreed. But I’m losing my taste for subtlety as fast as I’m depleting my supply, Colvard. I’m going to be blunt with Drakasha. Grant me the same courtesy.” “Stragos needs a victory not for the sake of his own vanity, but to rouse the people of his city. If that victory is lurking in the waters near Tal Verrar, and if that victory is colorful enough, what need would he have to trouble us down here?” “We put a sacrifice on the altar,” Rodanov whispered. “We put Zamira on the altar.”

“I’ve got him under my bolt. Tie him up. Get his hands and his feet, and make the knots tight.” One of their ambushers pointed his own crossbow into the air and fumbled for rope in a jacket pocket. The other lowered his bow and produced a knife. His eyes had just moved from Locke to his associate when Jean made his next move. With his own bow in one hand and Locke’s in the other, he calmly pivoted and put a bolt into the head of each of their attackers.

“Gods, you’re shaking. You believed me? How could you believe me?” Jean released him and stared at him, aghast. “I thought you were just playing along too intently!” “You didn’t give me a hand signal, Jean! What the hell was I supposed to think?” “Didn’t give you a hand signal? I flashed you the ‘lying’ sign, plain as that bloody burning ship!”

“I didn’t see a signal, Jean. Honest to all the gods.” “You missed it.” “Missed it? I—yeah, look, fine. I missed it. It was dark, crossbows everywhere, I should’ve known. I should’ve known we didn’t even need it. I’m sorry.”

“Rudder lines disabled, sir,” said Jean about half an hour after they’d boarded. “Halyards cut, braces cut,” shouted Delmastro, plainly enjoying her role as an ordinary buccaneer for this attack. She strolled along the larboard rail with a hatchet, chopping things seemingly at whim. “Whatever the hell that was, cut!”

“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.”

“Kosta,” said Drakasha, “you’re staring at me very strangely. Do you have an idea, or did I leave you out in the sun for too long today?” “Striking, colorful, and not threatening Tal Verrar directly,” Locke whispered. “Gods! Captain Drakasha, you would so honor me if you would consent to one humble suggestion.…”

“WAS IT absolutely necessary to sack Salon Corbeau so thoroughly?” said Stragos. Locke and Jean were seated in the archon’s office, surrounded by the faint shadowy flutterings of his thousand mechanical insects. It might just have been the shadows of the low-lit room, but it seemed to Locke that the lines on Stragos’ face had deepened in the days since he’d last seen him. “It was loads of fun. You have some particular attachment to the place?” “Not for my own sake, Lamora—it’s just that I had the clear impression that you were going to focus your activities on shipping in the vicinity of Tal Verrar.” “Salon Corbeau is generally considered to be in the vicinity of—” “Is it a ship, Lamora?” “There were ships in the harbor—” “I have the gods-damned numbers here, from my agents,” said Stragos. He stabbed at a piece of parchment with two fingers. “Two feluccas sunk. Forty-six yachts, pleasure barges, and smaller craft, burned or sunk. One hundred and eighteen slaves stolen. Nineteen of Countess Saljesca’s private guard slain, sixteen wounded. The vast majority of Salon Corbeau’s residences and guest villas burnt, the gardens all but destroyed. Her replica stadium gutted.

“I mean to bring the fight before noon. Only one way to win when you’re being chased by someone bigger and tougher than you are. Turn straight around, punch their teeth out, and hope the gods are fond of you.”

“Paolo, love, Mommy needs you to help her hide you and your sister in the rope locker on the orlop deck, all right?” The little boy nodded, and Zamira kissed him on the forehead, burying her nose in his tangle of short dark curls with her eyes closed. “Oh, good,” she said a moment later. “Because after that, Mommy needs to fetch her armor and her sabers. And then she needs to go board that lying motherfucker’s ship and sink it like a stone.”

“What’s this?” “Lock of my hair,” she said. “Meant to give it to you days ago, but we got busy with all the raiding. You know. Piracy. Hectic life.” “Thank you, love,” he said. “Now, if you find yourself in trouble wherever you go, you can hold up that little bag to whoever’s bothering you, and you can say, ‘You have no idea who you’re fucking with. I’m under the protection of the lady who gave me this object of her favor.’ ” “And that’s supposed to make them stop?” “Shit no, that’s just to confuse them. Then you kill them while they’re standing there looking at you funny.”

“Oh, hell,” said Jean. “No, no, no,” Ezri whispered. “Children,” Jean found himself saying. “I can get them—” Ezri stared at the cargo hatch, aghast. She looked at him, then back to the hatch. “Not just them,” she said. “Whole ship.” “I’ll go,” said Jean. She grabbed him, wrapped her arms around his neck so tightly he could barely breathe, and whispered in his ear, “Gods damn you, Jean Tannen. You make this … you make it so hard.” And then she hit him in the stomach, harder than even he had thought possible. He fell backward, doubled in agony, realizing her intentions as she released him. He screamed in wordless rage and denial, reaching for her. But she was already running across the deck toward the hatch.

She made it to the larboard rail and with one last convulsive effort, as much back and legs as what was left of her arms, she heaved the shipbane sphere across the gap to the Dread Sovereign. It grew in brightness even as it flew, a molten-metal comet, and Rodanov’s crewfolk recoiled from it as it landed on their deck.

Locke heard the sounds of new fighting breaking out behind them, and thought briefly of paying attention to it, but then realized that if he left Jean now he would never forgive himself. Or deserve forgiveness. “Dear gods,” he whispered when he saw her, “please, no. Oh, gods.” Jean moaned, sobbing, his hands held out above her. Locke didn’t know where he would have touched her, either. There was so little her left—skin and clothing and hair burnt into one awful texture. And still she moved, trying feebly to rise. Still she fought for something resembling breath. “Valora,” said Scholar Treganne, hobbling toward them. “Valora don’t, don’t touch—” Jean pounded the deck and screamed. Treganne knelt beside what was left of Ezri, pulling a dagger from her belt sheath. Locke was startled to see tears trailing down her cheeks. “Valora,” she said. “Take this. She’s dead already. She needs you, for the gods’ sake.”

“Why didn’t you stop her?” Jean launched himself at Locke, pinning him to the deck, one hand around his throat. Locke gagged and fought back, and it did him about as much good as he expected. “Why didn’t you stop her?” “I tried,” said Locke. “She pushed you into me. She knew what we’d do, Jean. She knew. Please—” Jean released him and sat back as quickly as he had attacked. He looked down at his hands and shook his head. “Oh, gods, forgive me. Forgive me, Locke.” “Always,” said Locke. “Jean, I am so, so sorry—I wouldn’t, I wouldn’t have had it happen for the world. For the world, do you hear me?”

I have the deck, thought Locke, staring around at the shambles left by the battle: swaying rigging, damaged shrouds, splintered railings, arrows embedded damn near everywhere. Bodies crowded every corner of the waist and forecastle; survivors moved through them like ghosts, many of them hobbling on spears and bows for makeshift canes. Gods. 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.”

“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?”

“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.”

“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.

“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.

“You stupid bastards,” said Locke. “The Bondsmagi used you, Cordo. Think on that next time you consider giving them money. We—Master de Ferra and myself—are on their fuck-with list, and they tossed us between you and Stragos for a laugh. That’s all! We didn’t come here to do anything to the Priori.” “So you say—” “Why aren’t I murdering you right now, then?” “A simultaneously pleasing and vexing point,” said Cordo, biting his lip. “The fact is,” said Locke, “that for reasons which are forever going to remain way the hell beyond your understanding, I’ve broken into your manor to do one thing—give you the head of Maxilan Stragos on a platter.”

“Oh, for Perelandro’s sake, I’m not even going to pretend,” said Locke. He passed the dagger back to the elder Cordo, who held it between two fingers like some sort of captured insect. “Look. There. What sort of whimsical assassin am I, then? Sheathe your sword, shut the door, and open your ears. We have a lot of business to discuss.”

“What are you taking from Requin?” asked Stragos, after a long, silent rumination. “Nothing that can’t be transported by one man in a serious hurry.” “Requin’s vault is impenetrable.” “We know,” said Locke. “What we’re after isn’t in it.”

Calo, Galdo, and Bug, Locke thought. Ezri. All he and Jean had ever wanted to do was steal as much as they could carry and laugh all the way to a safe distance. Why had it cost them so many loved ones? Why did some stupid motherfucker always have to imagine that you could cross a Camorri with impunity? Because you can’t, Locke thought, sucking air through gritted teeth as the Sinspire loomed overhead, throwing blue-and-red light into the dark sky. You can’t. We proved it once and we’ll prove it again tonight, before all the gods.

“Selendri, listen, please—” “I knew you were a poor investment,” she said. “I just never realized the situation would turn so quickly.” “Yes, you were right. I was a bad investment, and I don’t doubt that Requin will listen more closely to you in the future. Because I never wanted to kill Jerome de Ferra. Jerome de Ferra isn’t a real person. Neither is Calo Callas. “In fact,” he said, grinning broadly, “you have just delivered us to exactly where we need to be, for the payoff to two long years of hard work, so we can rob the fucking hell out of you and your boss.”

“Oh, you think this is for you?” Locke smiled. “Selendri. I thought we knew each other better than that. As for the vault, who the hell said anything about it?” “Your work to find a way in—” “I lied, Selendri. I’ve been known to do that. You think I was really experimenting on clockwork locks and keeping notes for Maxilan Stragos? Like hell. I was sipping brandies on your first and second floors, trying to pull myself back together after I nearly got cut to pieces. Your vault’s fucking impenetrable, sweetheart. I never wanted to go anywhere near it.” Locke glanced around, pretending to notice the room for the very first time. “Requin sure does keep a lot of really expensive paintings on his walls, though, doesn’t he?”

The sergeant of the arresting Eyes stepped forward and drew his blade. He turned it hilt-first toward the archon. “Stragos,” said Jean. “One last thing.” Locke turned toward him, and saw that he was smiling thinly. “I’m going to remember this moment for the rest of my gods-damned life.” “I—” Stragos never finished his sentence, since the Eye sergeant suddenly drew back his sword arm and slammed the hilt of the weapon into the archon’s face.

MERRAIN MADE her decision then. If the antidote couldn’t be duplicated, and she could knock the vial to the ground … the troublesome anomalies Kosta and de Ferra were as good as dead. That would leave only Stragos and Xandrin. If they were dealt with, all those with any direct knowledge of the fact that she served a master beyond Tal Verrar would be silenced.

“Kosta, don’t throw away what I can offer—” “We call it a death-offering,” said Locke. “Means we steal something of value, proportional to the life we lost. Except in this case I don’t think there’s anything in the world that qualifies. But we’re doing our best.” Jean stepped up beside him and cracked his knuckles. “Ezri Delmastro,” he said, very quietly, “I give you the archon of Tal Verrar.” He punched Stragos so hard that the archon’s feet left the gravel. In a moment, he was stuffing the unconscious old man into the burlap sack. Another moment, and the sack was tied off, and slung over his shoulder like a bag of potatoes.

“You’re going in the orlop, Stragos. You’re going into the dark. And we’re going to treat it as a special privilege, to carry you around with us wherever we go. In any weather, in any sea, in any heat. We’re going to haul you a mighty long way. You and your irons. Long after your clothes fall off, I guarantee, you’ll still have those to wear.” “Drakasha, please …” “Throw him as far down as we got,” she said, and half a dozen crewfolk began carrying him toward a main-deck hatch. “Chain him to the bulkhead. Then let him get cozy.” “Drakasha,” he screamed, “you can’t! You can’t! I’ll go mad!” “I know,” she said. “And you’ll scream. Gods, how you’ll wail down there. But that’s okay. We can always do with a bit of music at sea.”

“Will you need anything else, then?” “Well,” said Locke, “for safety’s sake, given our past history … perhaps you’d let us consider borrowing one of your ship’s cats?”

“Will this be your own transition to life as a respectable citizen?” asked Tiga. “Here I thought I already was,” said Requin. “Gods, no. I have no desire to turn away from the responsibilities I currently enjoy. But it just so happens that I have an ideal candidate in mind to head our new organization. Someone who shares my qualms about the manner in which Stragos employed his Eyes, and should be taken all the more seriously for the fact that she used to be one.” Selendri couldn’t help smiling as the Priori turned in their seats to stare at her.

“I know how long you worked to acquire those paintings—” “Ah, the paintings, yes.” Requin grinned mischievously. “Well, as for that … the walls have been left somewhat underdecorated. How would you like to go down to the vault with me to start fetching out the real ones?” “What do you mean, the real ones?”

“TWENTY-FIVE HUNDRED,” said Locke for the fifteenth time as their carriage rattled toward Vel Virazzo’s marina. “I don’t fucking believe it.” “It’s more than a lot of people have, I suppose,” muttered Jean. “But it’s not what I promised,” said Locke. “I’m sorry, Jean. I fucked up again. Tens of thousands, I said. Huge score. Put us back at the top of our games. Lashani noblemen. Gods above.” He put his head in his hands. “Crooked Warden, why the hell do you ever listen to me?” “It wasn’t your fault,” said Jean. “We did pull it off. We did get out with everything we planned. It’s just … it was the wrong everything. There was no way we could know.” “Shit,” said Locke.

“Will you require assistance?” “We had expected a third,” said Locke quietly. “But the two of us will suffice.” He stared at their new boat, at the once-alien arrangement of sails, rigging, mast, tiller. “We’re always sufficient.”

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.”

“I’ll take my chances with lingering on,” said Locke. “I won’t,” said Jean. “Please drink it, Locke.” “Or what?” “Or you know what,” said Jean. “You can’t overpower me. The reverse is definitely not true.”

“That’s just water in a vial I picked up in town.” Locke reached once more into his pocket, withdrew an empty glass vial, and slowly set it down beside the fake. “I have to say, knowing me the way you do, I’m surprised you agreed to let me pour your wine.”

“I can’t watch you die,” said Locke flatly. “I can’t. You couldn’t ask me to—” “So you didn’t even give me a choice!” “You were going to fucking force-feed it to me!” Locke stood up, brushing crumbs and chicken-bone fragments from his tunic. “I knew you’d try something like that. Do you blame me for doing it first?”

“I don’t understand any of this,” Jean whispered. “You son of a fucking bitch, how can you do this? I want to hug you. And I want to tear your gods-damned head off. Both at once.” “Ah,” said Locke. “Near as I can tell, that’s the definition of ‘family’ right there.”

“And what if you—” “When I do I do,” said Locke. “Forgive me.” “Yes,” said Jean. “And no. Never.”