The Gentleman Bastard Series (27 page)

Julien writhed against his bonds, red-faced, shaking his head. “Please …”

“No gods, then. Didn’t think so. I was saying … well, I was saying that your little game is boring the hell out of me. Kindness.”

The round-headed man lowered his chin to his chest and stood with his palms out, facing upward, as though he were about to receive a gift.

“I want something creative. If Federico won’t talk, let’s give Julien one last chance to find his tongue.”

Federico began screaming before Barsavi had even finished speaking—the high, sobbing wail of the conscious damned. Locke found himself clenching his teeth to keep himself from shaking. So many meetings with slaughter as a backdrop … The gods could be perverse.

Sage Kindness moved to a small table to the side of the room, on which there was a pile of small glasses and a heavy cloth sack with a drawstring. Kindness threw several glasses into the sack and began banging it against the table; the sound of breaking, jangling glass wasn’t audible beneath Federico’s wild hollering, but Locke could imagine it easily enough. After a few moments, Kindness seemed satisfied, and walked slowly over to Federico.

“Don’t, don’t, no, don’t don’t
please no no …
”

With one hand holding the desperate young man’s head still, Kindness rapidly drew the bag up over the top of his head, over his face, all the way to Federico’s neck, where he cinched the drawstring tight. The bag muffled Federico’s screams, which had become high and wordless again. Kindness then began to knead the bag, gently at first, almost tenderly; the torturer’s long fingers pushed the jagged contents of the sack up and around Federico’s face. Red stains began to appear on the surface of the bag; Kindness manipulated the contents of the sack like a sculptor giving form
to his clay. Federico’s throat mercifully gave out just then, and for the next few moments the man choked out nothing more than a few hoarse moans. Locke prayed silently that he had already fled beyond pain to the temporary refuge of madness.

Kindness increased the vigor with which he massaged the cloth. He pressed now where Federico’s eyes would be, and on the nose, and the mouth, and the chin. The bag grew wetter and redder until at last Federico’s twitching stopped altogether. When Kindness took his hands off the bag they looked as though he’d been pulping tomatoes. Smiling sadly, he let his red hands drip red trails on the wood, and he walked over to Julien, staring intently, saying nothing.

“Surely,” said Capa Barsavi, “if I’ve convinced you of
anything
by this point, it must be the depth of my resolve. Will you not speak?”

“Please, Capa Barsavi,” whispered Julien, “there’s no need for this. I have nothing I can tell you. Ask me anything, anything at all. What happened last night is a blank. I don’t remember. I would tell you, please, gods, please believe me, I would tell you anything. We are loyal
pezon
, the most loyal you have!”

“I sincerely hope not.” Barsavi seemed to come to a decision; he gestured to the Berangias sisters and pointed at Julien. The dark-haired ladies worked quickly and silently, undoing the knots that held him to the wooden frame while leaving the ones that bound him from ankles to neck. They cradled the shivering man effortlessly, one at his shoulders and one at his feet.

“Loyal? Please. We are grown men, Julien. Refusing to tell me the truth of what happened last night is not a loyal act. You’ve let me down, so I give like for like.” On the far left side of the great hall a man-sized wooden floor panel had been slid aside; barely a yard down was the dark surface of the water beneath the Grave. The floor around the opening was wet with blood. “I shall let
you
down.”

Julien screamed one last time as the Berangias sisters heaved him into the opening, headfirst; he hit the water with a splash and didn’t come back up. It was the capa’s habit to keep something nasty down beneath the Grave at all times, constrained there by heavy nets of wire-reinforced rope that surrounded the underside of the galleon like a sieve.

“Kindness, you are dismissed. Boys, when I call you back you can get some people in here to clean up, but for now go wait on deck. Raiza, Cheryn—please go with them.”

Moving slowly, Capa Barsavi walked to his plain, comfortable old chair
and settled into it. He was breathing heavily and quivering all the more for his effort not to show it. A brass wine goblet with the capacity of a large soup tureen was set out on the little table beside his chair; the capa took a deep draught and seemed to brood over the fumes for a few moments, his eyes closed. At last he came back to life and beckoned for Locke and Nazca to step forward.

“Well. My dear Master Lamora. How much money have you brought me this week?”

7

“THIRTY-SIX SOLONS, five coppers, Your Honor.”

“Mmm. A slender week’s work, it seems.”

“Yes, with all apologies, Capa Barsavi. The rain, well … sometimes it’s murder on those of us doing second-story work.”

“Mmmm.” Barsavi set the goblet down and folded his right hand inside his left, caressing the reddened knuckles. “You’ve brought me more, of course. Many times. Better weeks.”

“Ah … yes.”

“There are some that don’t, you know. They try to bring me the exact same amount, week after week after week, until I finally lose patience and correct them. Do you know what that sort of
garrista
must have, Locke?”

“Ah. A … very boring life?”

“Ha! Yes, exactly. How very
stable
of them to have the exact same income every single week, so they might give me the exact same percentage as a cut. As though I were an infant who would not notice. And then there are
garristas
such as yourself. I know you bring me the honest percentage, because you’re not afraid to walk in here and apologize for having less than last week.”

“I, ah, do hope I’m not considered shy about sharing when the balance tilts the other way.…”

“Not at all.” Barsavi smiled and settled back in his chair. Ominous splashing and muffled banging was coming from beneath the floor in the vicinity of the hatch that Julien had vanished down. “You are, if anything, the most reliably correct
garrista
in my service. Like Verrari clockwork. You deliver my cut yourself, promptly and without a summons. For four years, week in and week out. Unfailing, since Chains died. Never once did you suggest that anything took precedence over your personal appearance before me, with that bag in your hand.”

Capa Barsavi pointed at the small leather bag Locke held in his left hand, and gestured to Nazca. Her formal role in the Barsavi organization was to act as finnicker, or record-keeper. She could rattle off the running total of the payments made by any gang in the city, itemized week by week and year by year, without error. Locke knew she updated records on parchment for her father’s private use, but so far as the Capa’s subjects in general knew, every coin of his fabled treasure was catalogued solely behind her cold and lovely eyes. Locke tossed the leather purse to her, and she plucked it out of the air.

“Never,” said Capa Barsavi, “did you think to send a
pezon
to do a
garrista
’s job.”

“Well, ah, you’re most kind, Your Honor. But you made that very easy today, since only
garristas
are allowed past the door.”

“Don’t dissemble. You know of what I speak. Nazca, love, Locke and I must now be alone.”

Nazca gave her father a deep nod, and then gave a much quicker, shallower one to Locke. She turned and walked back toward the doors to the entrance hall, iron heels echoing on the wood.

“I have many
garristas
,” Barsavi said when she was gone, “tougher than yourself. Many more popular, many more charming, many with larger and more profitable gangs. But I have very few who are constantly at pains to be so courteous, so careful.”

Locke said nothing.

“My young man, while I take offense at many things, rest assured that courtesy is not one of them. Come, stand easy. I’m not fitting you for a noose.”

“Sorry, capa. It’s just … you’ve been known to begin expressing your displeasure in a very … ahhh …”

“Roundabout fashion?”

“Chains told me enough about scholars of the Therin Collegium,” said Locke, “to understand that their primary habit of speech is the, ah, booby trap.”

“Ha! Yes. When anyone tells you habits die hard, Locke, they’re lying—it seems they never die at all.” Barsavi chuckled and sipped from his wine before continuing. “These are … alarming times, Locke. This damn Gray King has finally begun to get under my skin. The loss of Tesso is particularly … Well, I had plans for him. Now I am forced to begin bringing other plans forward sooner than intended. Tell me,
pezon
 … What do you think of Anjais and Pachero?”

“Uh. Ha. Well … my honest opinion, Your Honor?”

“Full and honest,
pezon
. By my command.”

“Ah. They’re very respected, very good at their jobs. Nobody jokes about them behind their backs. Jean says they really know how to handle themselves in a fight. The Sanzas are nervous about playing fair card games with them, which is saying something.”

“This I could hear from two dozen spies any time I wanted to. This I know. What is
your
personal opinion of my sons?”

Locke swallowed and looked Capa Barsavi straight in the eyes. “Well, they
are
worthy of respect. They
are
good at their jobs, and they must know their business in a fight. They’re fairly hard workers and they’re bright enough … but … Your Honor, begging your pardon, they tease Nazca when they should be heeding her warnings and taking her advice. She has the patience and the subtlety that … that …”

“Elude them?”

“You knew what I was going to say, didn’t you?”

“I said you were a careful and considerate
garrista
, Locke. Those are your distinguishing characteristics, though they imply many other qualities. Since the time of your prodigious early cock-ups, you have been the very
picture
of a careful thief, firmly in control of his own greed. You
would
be very sensitive to any opposing lack of caution in others. My sons have lived all their lives in a city that fears them because of their last name. They expect deference in an aristocratic fashion. They are incautious, a bit brazen. I need to make arrangements to ensure that they receive good counsel, in the months and years to come. I can’t live forever, even after I deal with the Gray King.”

The jovial certainty that filled Capa Barsavi’s voice when he said this made the hair on the back of Locke’s neck stand up. The capa was sitting in a fortress he hadn’t left in more than two months, drinking wine in air still rank with the blood of eight members of one of his most powerful and loyal gangs.

Was Locke speaking to a man with a far-ranging and subtle scheme? Or had Barsavi finally cracked, like window glass in a fire?

“I should very much like,” said the capa, “to have you in a position to give Anjais and Pachero the counsel they’ll require.”

“Ah … Your Honor, that’s extremely … flattering, but—I get along well enough with Anjais and Pachero, but I’m not exactly what you’d call a close friend. We play some cards every now and then, but … let’s be honest. I’m not a very important
garrista
.”

“As I said. Even with the Gray King at work in my city, I have many who are tougher than you, more daring than you, more popular. I don’t say this to strike a blow, because I’ve already discussed your own qualities. And it is
those
qualities they sorely need. Not toughness, daring, or charm, but cold and steady caution. Prudence. You are my most prudent
garrista
; you only think of yourself as the least important because you make the least noise. Tell me, now—what do you think of Nazca?”

“Nazca?” Locke was suddenly even warier than before. “She’s … brilliant, Your Honor. She can recite conversations we had ten years ago and get every word right, especially if it embarrasses me. You think I’m prudent? Compared to her I’m as reckless as a bear in an alchemist’s lab.”

“Yes,” said the capa. “Yes. She should be the next Capa Barsavi when I’m gone, but that won’t happen. It’s nothing to do with her being a woman, you know. Her older brothers would simply never stand to have their little sister lording it over them. And I should prefer not to have my children murdering one another for scraps of the legacy I intend to leave them, so I cannot push them aside in her favor.

“What I can do, and what I must do, is ensure that when the time comes, they will have a voice of sobriety in such a place that they cannot get rid of it. You and Nazca are old friends, yes? I remember the first time you met, so many years ago … when she used to sit on my knee and pretend to order my men around. In all the years since, you have always stopped to see her, always given her kind words? Always been her good
pezon
?”

“Ah … I certainly hope so, Your Honor.”

“I know you have.” Barsavi took a deep draught from his wine goblet, then set it back down firmly, a magnanimous smile on his round, wrinkled face. “And so I give you my permission to court my daughter.”

Let’s start wobbling, shall we?
said Locke’s knees, but this offer was met by a counterproposal from his better judgment to simply freeze up and do nothing, like a man treading water who sees a tall black fin coming straight at him. “Oh,” he finally said, “I don’t … I didn’t expect …”

“Of course not,” said Barsavi. “But in this our purposes are complementary. I know you and Nazca have feelings for one another. A union between the two of you would bring you into the Barsavi family. You would become Anjais and Pachero’s responsibility … and they yours. Don’t you see? A brother-by-bonding would be much harder for them to ignore than even their most powerful
garrista
.” Barsavi set his left fist inside his right and smiled broadly once again, like a red-faced god dispensing benevolence from a celestial throne.