6
LOCKE STARED at the little girl, jaw half-open. She glided forward like an apparition, until just two paces separated them. Locke felt a pang of foolishness at holding a stiletto on a girl not yet three feet high, but then she smiled coldly in the near darkness, and the malice behind that smile steadied his hand on the hilt of the blade. The little girl reached up to touch her chin.
“Though he cannot speak,” she said.
“Though he cannot speak for himself…,” chorused the circle of merchants, now motionless in the darkness.
“Though he is mad,” said the girl, slowly spreading her hands toward Locke and Jean, palms out.
“Mad beyond measure…,” whispered the circle.
“His friends remain,” said the girl. “His friends remember.”
Jean moved beside Locke, and then both of his hatchets were out, blackened steel heads naked to the night. “These people are puppets. There are Bondsmagi somewhere around us,” he hissed.
“Show yourselves, you fucking cowards!” said Locke, speaking to the girl.
“We show our power,” she replied.
“What more do you need?” whispered the chorus in their ragged circle, their eyes empty as reflecting pools.
“What more do you need to see, Master Lamora?” The little girl gave a sinister parody of a curtsy.
“Whatever you want,” said Locke, “leave these people out of it. Just fucking talk to us. We don’t want to hurt these people.”
“Of course, Master Lamora….”
“Of course…,” whispered the circle.
“Of course, that’s the point,” said the girl. “So you must hear what we have to say.”
“State your gods-damned business, then.”
“You must answer,” said the girl.
“Answer for the Falconer,” said the chorus.
“You must answer. Both of you.”
“Of all the…fuck you!” said Locke, his voice rising to a shout. “We did answer for the Falconer. Our answer was ten lost fingers and a lost tongue, for three dead friends. You got him back alive and it was more than he deserved!”
“Not for you to judge,” hissed the girl.
“…judge the Magi of Karthain…,” whispered the circle.
“Not for you to judge, nor for you to presume a grasp of our laws,” said the girl.
“All the world knows it’s death to slay a Bondsmage,” said Jean. “That, and little else. We let him live and took pains to return him to you. Our business is ended. If you wanted a more complicated treatment than that, you should have sent a fucking letter.”
“This is not business,” said the girl.
“But personal,” said the circle.
“Personal,” repeated the girl. “A brother has been blooded; we cannot let this stand unanswered.”
“You sons of bitches,” said Locke. “You really think you’re fucking gods, don’t you? I didn’t mug the Falconer in an alley and take his purse. He helped murder my friends! I’m not sorry he’s mad and I’m not sorry for the rest of you! Kill us and get on with your business, or piss off and let these people go free.”
“No,” said the scorpion merchant. A whispered chorus of “no” came from around the circle.
“Cowards. Pissants!” Jean pointed one of his hatchets at the little girl as he spoke. “You can’t scare us with this penny-theater bullshit!”
“If you force us to,” said Locke, “we’ll fight you with the weapons in our hands, all the way to Karthain. You bleed like the rest of us. Seems to me all you can do is kill us.”
“No,” said the girl, giggling.
“We can do worse,” said the fruit seller.
“We can let you live,” said the scorpion merchant.
“Live, uncertain,” said the girl.
“Uncertain…,” said the chorus of merchants as they began to step backward, widening their circle.
“Watched,” said the girl.
“Followed,” said the circle.
“Now wait,” said the girl. “Run your little games, and chase your little fortunes….”
“And wait,” whispered the chorus. “Wait for our answer.”
“Wait for our time.”
“You are always in our reach,” said the little girl, “and you are always in our sight.”
“Always,” whispered the circle, slowly dispersing back to their stalls, back to the positions they’d held just a few minutes earlier.
“You will meet misfortune,” said the little girl as she slipped away. “For the Falconer of Karthain.”
Locke and Jean said nothing as the merchants around them resumed their places in the Night Market, as the lanterns and barrel fires gradually rose once more to flush the area with warm light. Then the affair was ended; the merchants resumed their former attitudes of keen interest or watchful boredom, and the babble of conversation rose up around them again. Locke and Jean slipped their weapons out of sight before anyone seemed to notice them.
“Gods,” said Jean, shuddering visibly.
“I suddenly feel,” Locke said quietly, “that I didn’t drink nearly enough from that bloody carousel.” There was mist at the edges of his vision; he put a hand to his cheeks and was surprised to find himself crying. “Bastards,” he muttered. “Infants. Wretched cowardly show-offs.”
“Yes,” said Jean.
Locke and Jean began to walk forward once again, glancing warily around. The little girl who had done most of the speaking for the Bondsmagi was now sitting beside an elderly man, sorting through little baskets of dried figs under his supervision. She smiled shyly as they passed.
“I hate them,” whispered Locke. “I hate this. Do you think they’ve really got something planned for us, or was that just a put-on?”
“I suppose it works either way,” said Jean with a sigh. “Gods. Strat péti. Do we flinch, or do we keep betting? Worst case, we’ve got a few thousand solari on record at the ’Spire. We could cash out, take a ship, be gone before noon tomorrow.”
“Where to?”
“Anywhere else.”