“Do you see now, what consequences really are? Why you have to move slowly, think ahead, control the situation? Why you need to settle down and wait for time to give you sense to match your talent for mischief? We have years to work together, Locke. Years for you and my other little hellions to practice quietly. And that has to be the rule, if you want to stay here. No games, no cons, no scams, no anything except when and where I tell you. When someone like you pushes the world, the world pushes back. Other people are likely to get hurt. Am I clear?”
Locke nodded.
“Now.” Chains snapped his shoulders back and rolled his head from side to side; there was a series of snaps and cracks from somewhere inside him. “Ahhh. Do you know what a death-offering is?”
“No.”
“It’s something we do, for the Benefactor. Not just those of us who are initiates of the Thirteenth. Something all of us crooks do for one another, all the Right People of Camorr. When we lose someone we care about, we get something valuable and we throw it away. For real, you understand. Into the sea, into a fire, something like that. We do this to help our friends on their way to what comes next. Clear so far?”
“Yeah, but my old master…”
“Oh, he does it, trust me. He’s a wretched miser and he always does it in private, but he does it for each and every one of you he loses. Figures he wouldn’t tell you about it. But here’s the thing—there’s a rule that has to be followed with the offering. It can’t be given willingly, you understand? It can’t be something you already have. It has to be something you go out and steal from someone else, special, without their permission or their, ah, complicity. Get me? It has to be genuine theft.”
“Uh, sure.”
Father Chains cracked his knuckles. “You’re going to make a death-offering for every single boy or girl you got killed, Locke. One for Veslin, one for Gregor. One for each of your little friends in Streets. I’m sure I’ll know the count in just a day or two.”
“But I…they weren’t…”
“Of course they were your friends, Locke. They were your very good friends. Because they’re going to teach you that when you kill someone, there are consequences. It is one thing to kill in a duel, to kill in self-defense, to kill for vengeance. It is another thing entirely to kill simply because you are careless. Those deaths are going to hang over your head until you’re so careful you make the saints of Perelandro weep. Your death-offering will be a thousand full crowns per head. All of it properly stolen by your own hand.”
“But I…what? A thousand crowns? Each? A thousand?”
“You can take that death-mark off your neck when you offer up the last coin of it, and not a moment sooner.”
“But that’s impossible! It’ll take…forever!”
“It’ll take years. But we’re thieves, not murderers, here in my temple. And the price of your life with me is that you must show respect for the dead. Those boys and girls are your victims, Locke. Get that through your head. This is something you owe them, before the gods. Something you must swear to by blood before you can stay. Are you willing to do so?”
Locke seemed to think for a few seconds. Then he shook his head as though to clear it, and nodded.
“Then hold out your left hand.”
As Locke did so, Chains produced a slender blackened-steel stiletto from within his robe and drew it across his own left palm; then, holding Locke’s outstretched hand firmly, he scratched a shallow, stinging cut between the boy’s thumb and index finger. They shook hands firmly, until their palms were thick with mingled blood.
“Then you’re a Gentleman Bastard, like the rest of us. I’m your garrista and you’re my pezon, my little soldier. I have your oath in blood to do what I’ve told you to do? To make the offerings for the souls of the people you’ve wronged?”
“I’ll do it,” Locke said.
“Good. That means you can stay for dinner. Let’s get down off this roof.”