7
THEY LET the windows in their rooms stay open this time, with thin sheets of translucent mesh drawn down to keep out biting insects. The sky was turning gray, with lines of red visible just beneath the eastern windowsills, when Locke finished relating the events of the night. His listeners had shadows beneath their bleary eyes, but none showed any indication of sleepiness just then.
“At least we know now,” Locke finished, “that he won’t be trying to kill me like he did the other garristas.”
“Not until three nights hence, anyway,” said Galdo.
“Bastard simply can’t be trusted,” said Bug.
“But for the time being,” said Locke, “he must be obeyed.”
Locke had changed into spare clothes; he now looked much more suitably low-class. Jean had insisted on washing his arm with reinforced wine, heated to near boiling on an alchemical hearthstone. Locke now had a compress of brandy-soaked cloth pressed to it, and he bathed it in the light of a small white glow-globe. It was common knowledge among the physikers of Camorr that light drove back malodorous air and helped prevent lingering infections.
“Must he?” Calo scratched a stubbly chin. “How far do you figure we can get if we run like hell?”
“From the Gray King, who knows?” Locke sighed. “From the Bondsmage, not far enough, ever.”
“So we just sit back,” said Jean, “and let him pull your strings, like a marionette onstage.”
“I was rather taken,” said Locke, “with the whole idea of him not telling Capa Barsavi about our confidence games, yes.”
“This whole thing is mad,” said Galdo. “You said you saw three rings on this Falconer’s wrist?”
“The one that didn’t have the damn scorpion hawk, yeah.”
“Three rings,” Jean muttered. “It is mad. To keep one of those people in service…. It must be two months now since the first stories of the Gray King appeared. Since the first garrista got it…. Who was it, again?”
“Gil the Cutter, from the Rum Hounds,” said Calo.
“The coin involved has to be…ludicrous. I doubt the duke could keep a Bondsmage of rank on for this long. So who the fuck is this Gray King, and how is he paying for this?”
“Immaterial,” said Locke. “Three nights hence, or two and a half now that the sun’s coming up, there’ll be two Gray Kings, and I’ll be one of them.”
“Thirteen,” said Jean. He put his head in his hands and rubbed his eyes with his palms.
“So that’s the bad news. Capa Barsavi wants me to marry his daughter and now the Gray King wants me to impersonate him at a secret meeting with Capa Barsavi.” Locke grinned. “The good news is I didn’t get any blood on that new promissory note for four thousand crowns.”
“I’ll kill him,” said Bug. “Get me poisoned quarrels and an alley-piece and I’ll drill him in the eyes.”
“Bug,” said Locke, “that makes leaping off a temple roof sound reasonable by comparison.”
“But who would ever expect it?” Bug, sitting beneath one of the room’s eastern windows, turned his head to stare out it for a few moments, as he had been intermittently doing all night. “Look, everyone knows that one of you four could kill them. But nobody would expect me! Total surprise. One shot in the face, no more Gray King!”
“Assuming the Falconer allowed your crossbow bolts to hit his client,” said Locke, “he would probably cook us where we stood right after that. Also, I very much doubt that fucking bird is going to be fluttering around this tower where we can see it.”
“You never know,” said Bug. “I think I saw it before, when we made first touch on Don Salvara.”
“I’m pretty sure I did, too.” Calo was knuckle-walking a solon on his left hand, without looking at it. “While I was strangling you, Locke. Something flew overhead. Damn big and fast for a wren or a sparrow.”
“So,” said Jean, “he really has been watching us and he really knows all there is to know about us. Knuckling under might be wiser for the time being, but we’ve got to have some contingencies we can cook up.”
“Should we call off the Don Salvara game now?” asked Bug, meekly.
“Hmmm? No.” Locke shook his head vigorously. “There’s absolutely no reason, for the time being.”
“How,” said Galdo, “do you figure that?”
“The reason we discussed shortening the game was to keep our heads down and try to avoid getting killed by the Gray King. Now we can be pretty damn sure that won’t happen, at least not for three days. So the Salvara game stays in play.”
“For three days, yes. Until the Gray King has no further use for you.” Jean spat. “Next step in whatever the plans are: ‘Thanks for your cooperation, here’s a complimentary knife in the back for all of you.’”
“It’s a possibility,” said Locke. “So what we do is this: Jean, you scuttle around today after you’ve had some sleep. Cancel those arrangements for sea travel. If we need to run, waiting for a ship to put out will take too long. Likewise, drop more gold at the Viscount’s Gate. If we go out, we go out by land, and I want that gate swinging wider and faster than a whorehouse door.
“Calo, Galdo, you find us a wagon. Stash it behind the temple; set it up with tarps and rope for fast packing. Get us food and drink for the road. Simple stuff, sturdy stuff. Spare cloaks. Plain clothing. You know what to do. If any Right People spot you at work, maybe drop a hint that we’re after a fat score in the next few days. Barsavi would like that, if it gets back to him.
“Bug, tomorrow you and I are going to go through the vault. We’ll bring up every coin in there, and we’re going to pack them in canvas sacks, for easy transport. If we have to run, I want to be able to throw the whole mess on the back of our wagon in just a few minutes.”
“Makes sense,” said Bug.
“So, Sanzas, you stick together,” said Locke. “Bug, you’re with me. Nobody goes it alone, for any length of time, except Jean. You’re the least likely to get troubled, if the Gray King’s got anything less than an army hidden in the city.”
“Oh, you know me.” Jean reached behind his neck, down behind the loose leather vest he wore over his simple cotton tunic. He withdrew a pair of matching hatchets, each a foot and a half in length, with leather-wrapped handles and straight black blades that narrowed like scalpels. These were balanced with balls of blackened steel, each as wide around as a silver solon. The Wicked Sisters—Jean’s weapons of choice. “I never travel alone. It’s always the three of us.”
“Right, then.” Locke yawned. “If we need any other bright ideas, we can conjure them when we wake up. Let’s set something heavy against the door, shut the windows, and start snoring.”
The Gentlemen Bastards had just stumbled to their feet to begin putting this sensible plan into action when Jean held up one hand for silence. The stairs outside the door on the north wall of the chamber were creaking under the weight of many feet. A moment later, someone was banging on the door itself.
“Lamora,” came a loud male voice, “open up! Capa’s business!”
Jean slipped his hatchets into one hand and put that hand behind his back, then stood against the north wall, a few feet to the right of the door. Calo and Galdo reached under their shirts for their daggers, Galdo pushing Bug back behind him as they did so. Locke stood in the center of the room, remembering that his stilettos were still wrapped up in his Fehrwight coat.
“What’s the price of a loaf,” he shouted, “at the Shifting Market?”
“One copper flat, but the loaves ain’t dry,” came the response. Locke untensed just a bit—that was this week’s proper greeting and countersign, and if they’d been coming to haul him off for anything bloody, well, they’d have simply kicked in the door. Signaling with his hands for everyone to stay calm, he drew out the bolt and slid the front door open just wide enough to peek out.
There were four men on the platform outside his door, seventy feet in the air above the Last Mistake. The sky was the color of murky canal water behind them, with just a few twinkling stars vanishing slowly here and there. They were hard-looking men, standing ready and easy like trained fighters, wearing leather tunics, leather collars, and red cloth bandannas under black leather caps. Red Hands—the gang Barsavi turned to when he needed muscle work and he needed it fast.
“Begging your pardon, brother.” The apparent leader of the Red Hands put one arm up against the door. “Big man wants to see Locke Lamora right this very moment, and he don’t care what state he’s in, and he won’t let us take no for an answer.”