Red Seas Under Red Skies by Scott Lynch
For Matthew Woodring Stover,
a friendly sail on the horizon.
Non destiti, nunquam desistam.
PROLOGUE
A Strained Conversation
1
Locke Lamora stood on the pier in Tal Verrar with the hot wind of a burning ship at his back and the cold bite of a loaded crossbow’s bolt at his neck.
He grinned and concentrated on holding his own crossbow level with the left eye of his opponent; they were close enough that they would catch most of each other’s blood, should they both twitch their fingers at the same time.
“Be reasonable,” said the man facing him. Beads of sweat left visible trails as they slid down his grime-covered cheeks and forehead. “Consider the disadvantages of your situation.”
Locke snorted. “Unless your eyeballs are made of iron, the disadvantage is mutual. Wouldn’t you say so, Jean?”
They were standing two-by-two on the pier, Locke beside Jean, their assailants beside one another. Jean and his foe were toe-to-toe with their crossbows similarly poised; four cold metal bolts were cranked and ready scant inches away from the heads of four understandably nervous men. Not one of them could miss at this range, not if all the gods above or below the heavens willed it otherwise.
“All four of us would seem to be up to our balls in quicksand,” said Jean.
On the water behind them, the old galleon groaned and creaked as the roaring flames consumed it from the inside out. Night was made day for hundreds of yards around; the hull was crisscrossed with the white-orange lines of seams coming apart. Smoke boiled out of those hellish cracks in little black eruptions, the last shuddering breaths of a vast wooden beast dying in agony. The four men stood at the very end of their pier, strangely alone in the midst of light and noise that was drawing the attention of the entire city.
“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.”
“Your hand will start to shake long before mine does.”
“I’ll rest the tip of my quarrel against your nose when I get tired. Who sent you after us? What are they paying you? We’re not without funds; a happy arrangement could be reached.”
“Actually,” said Jean, “I know who sent them.”
“Really?” Locke flicked a glance at Jean before locking eyes with his adversary once again.
“And an arrangement has been reached, but I wouldn’t call it happy.”
“Ah…Jean, I’m afraid you’ve lost me.”
“No.” Jean raised one hand, palm out, to the man opposite him. He then slowly, carefully shifted his aim to his left—until his crossbow was pointing at Locke’s head. The man he’d previously been threatening blinked in surprise. “You’ve lost me, Locke.”
“Jean,” said Locke, the grin vanishing from his face, “this isn’t funny.”
“I agree. Hand your piece over to me.”
“Jean—”
“Hand it over now. Smartly. You there, are you some kind of moron? Get that thing out of my face and point it at him.”
Jean’s former opponent licked his lips nervously, but didn’t move. Jean ground his teeth together. “Look, you sponge-witted dock ape, I’m doing your job for you. Point your crossbow at my gods-damned partner so we can get off this pier!”
“Jean, I would describe this turn of events as less than helpful,” said Locke, and he would have said more, except that Jean’s opponent chose that moment to take Jean’s advice.
It seemed to Locke that sweat was now veritably cascading down his face, as though his own treacherous moisture were abandoning the premises before anything worse happened.
“There. Three on one.” Jean spat on the pier and waved toward the two assailants with his free hand. “You gave me no choice but to cut a deal with the employer of these gentlemen before we set out—gods damn it, you forced me. I’m sorry. I thought they’d make contact before they drew down on us. Now give your weapon over.”
“Jean, what the hell do you think you’re—”
“Don’t. Don’t say another fucking thing. Don’t try to finesse me; I know you too well to let you have your say. Silence, Locke. Finger off the trigger and hand it over.”
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?
“I don’t believe this,” he whispered. “This is impossible.”
“This is the last time I’m going to say this, Locke.” Jean ground his teeth together and held his aim steady, directly between Locke’s eyes. “Take your finger off the trigger and hand over your gods-damned weapon. Right now.”
I
CARDS IN THE HAND
“If you must play, decide upon three things at the start:
the rules of the game, the stakes, and the quitting time.”
Chinese Proverb