The Lies of Locke Lamora (21 page)

“Close the door,” said Locke, and his voice was steady, rich with the absolute presumption of command. “Have a seat, m’lord, and don’t bother calling for your man. He is…indisposed.”

AN HOUR past midnight, two men left the Alcegrante district via the Eldren Arch. They wore black cloaks and had black horses; one of them rode with a leisurely air, while the other led his horse on foot, walking in a curiously bowlegged fashion.

“Un-fucking-believable,” said Calo. “It really did work out just as you planned. It’s a pity we can’t brag about this to anyone. Our biggest score ever, and all we had to do was tell our mark
exactly
what we were doing to him.”

“And get kicked around a bit,” muttered Locke.

“Yeah, sorry about that. What a beast that man was, eh? Take comfort that he’ll feel the same way when he opens his eyes again.”

“How very comforting. If reassurances could dull pain, nobody would ever go to the trouble of pressing grapes.”

“By the Crooked Warden, I never heard such self-pity dripping from the mouth of a wealthy man. Cheer up! Richer and cleverer than everyone else, right?”

“Richer and cleverer and walking funny, yes.”

The pair of thieves made their way south through Twosilver Green, toward the first of the stops where they would gradually lose their horses and shed their black clothes, until they were finally heading back to the Temple District dressed as common laborers. They nodded companionably at patrols of yellowjackets, stomping about in the mist with lanterns swaying on pike-poles to light their way. Not once were they given any reason to glance up.

The fluttering shadow that trailed them on their way through the streets and alleys was quieter than a small child’s breath; swift and graceful, it swooped from rooftop to rooftop in their wake, following their actions with absolute single-mindedness. When they slipped back into the Temple District, it beat its wings and rose into the darkness in a lazy spiraling circle, until it was up above the mists of Camorr and lost against the gray haze of the low-hanging clouds.

The Last Mistake

LOCKE’S FIRST experience with the mirror wine of Tal Verrar had even more of an effect on the boy’s malnourished body than Chains had expected. Locke spent most of the next day tossing and turning on his cot, his head pounding and his eyes unable to bear anything but the most gentle spark of light.

“It’s a fever,” Locke muttered into his sweat-soaked blanket.

“It’s a hangover.” Chains ran a hand through the boy’s hair and patted his back. “My fault, really. The Sanza twins are natural liquor sponges. I shouldn’t have let you live up to their standard on your first night with us. No work for you today.”

“Liquor does this? Even after you’re sober?”

“A cruel joke, isn’t it? The gods put a price tag on everything, it seems. Unless you’re drinking Austershalin brandy.”

“Auffershallow?”

“Austershalin. From Emberlain. Among its many other virtues, it doesn’t cause a hangover. Some sort of alchemical component in the vineyard soil. Expensive stuff.”

Falselight came after many hours of half-sleep, and Locke found himself able to walk once again, though the brain within his skull felt like it was attempting to dig a hole down through his neck and escape. Chains insisted that they would still be visiting Capa Barsavi (“The only people who break appointments with him are the ones that live in glass towers and have their pictures on coins, and even they think twice”), though he consented to allow Locke a more comfortable means of transportation.

It turned out that the House of Perelandro had a small stable tucked around the back, and in this smelly little stall there lived a Gentled goat. “He’s got no name,” Chains said as he set Locke atop the creature’s back. “I just couldn’t bring myself to give him one, since he wouldn’t answer to it anyway.”

Locke had never developed the instinctive revulsion most boys and girls felt for Gentled animals; he’d already seen too much ugliness in his life to care about the occasional empty stare from a docile, milky-eyed creature.

There is a substance called Wraithstone, a chalky white material found in certain remote mountain caverns. The stuff doesn’t occur naturally; it is found only in conjunction with glass-lined tunnels presumably abandoned by the Eldren—the same unsettling race that built Camorr, ages past. In its solid state, Wraithstone is tasteless, nearly odorless, and inert. It must be burned to activate its unique properties.

Physikers have begun to identify the various means and channels by which poisons attack the bodies of the living;
this
one stills the heart, while
this
one thins the blood, and still others damage the stomach or the intestines. Wraithstone smoke poisons nothing physical; what it does is burn out personality itself. Ambition, stubbornness, pluck, spirit, drive—all of these things fade with just a few breaths of the arcane haze. Accidental exposure to small amounts can leave a man listless for weeks; anything more than that and the effect will be permanent. Victims remain alive but entirely unconcerned by anything. They don’t respond to their names, or to their friends, or to mortal danger. They can be prodded into eating or excreting or carrying something, and little else. The pale white sheen that fills their eyes is an outward expression of the emptiness that takes hold in their hearts and minds.

Once, in the time of the Therin Throne, the process was used to punish criminals, but it has been centuries since any civilized Therin city-state allowed the use of Wraithstone on men and women. A society that still hangs children for petty theft and feeds prisoners to sea-creatures finds the results too disquieting to bear.

Gentling, therefore, is reserved for animals—mostly beasts of burden intended for urban service. The cramped confines of a hazard-rich city like Camorr are ideally suited to the process. Gentled ponies may be trusted never to throw the children of the wealthy. Gentled horses and mules may be trusted never to kick their handlers or dump expensive cargoes into a canal. A burlap sack with a bit of the white stone and a slow-smoldering match is placed over an animal’s muzzle, and the human handlers retreat to fresh air. A few minutes later the creature’s eyes are the color of new milk, and it will never do anything on its own initiative again.

But Locke had a throbbing headache, and he was just getting used to the idea that he was a murderer
and
a resident of a private glass fairyland, and the eerily mechanical behavior of his goat didn’t bother him at all.

“This temple will be exactly where I left it when I return later this evening,” said Father Chains as he finished dressing for his venture outside; the Eyeless Priest had vanished entirely, to be replaced by a hale man of middle years and moderate means. His beard and his hair had been touched up with some sort of brown dye; his vest and cheap cotton-lined half-cloak hung loosely over a cream-colored shirt with no ties or cravats.

“Exactly where you left it,” said one of the Sanzas.

“And not burned down or
anything
,” said the other.

“If you boys can burn down stone and Elderglass, the gods have higher aspirations for you than a place as my apprentices. Do behave. I’m taking Locke to get his, ahh…”

Chains glanced sideways at the Lamora boy. He then mimed taking a drink, and held his jaw afterward as though in pain.

“Ohhhhhhhhhhhh,” said Calo and Galdo in pitch-perfect unison.

“Indeed.” Chains settled a little round leather cap on his head and took the reins of Locke’s goat. “Wait up for us. This should be interesting, to say the least.”

“THIS CAPA Barsavi,” Locke said as Chains led the nameless goat across one of the narrow glass arches between the Fauria and Coin-Kisser’s Row, “my old master told me about him, I think.”

“You’re quite right. That time you got the Elderglass Vine burned down, I believe.”

“Ah. You know about that.”

“Well, once your old master started telling me about you, he just sort of…didn’t shut up for several hours.”

“If I’m your
pezon
, are you Barsavi’s
pezon
?”

“That’s a plain, neat description of our relationship, yes. All the Right People are Barsavi’s soldiers. His eyes, his ears, his agents, his subjects. His
pezon
. Barsavi is…a particular sort of friend. I did some things for him, back when he was coming to power. We rose together, you might say—I got special consideration and he got the, ah, entire city.”

“Special consideration?”

It was as pleasant a night for a stroll as Camorr ever produced during the summer. A hard rain had fallen not an hour before, and the fresh mist that spread its tendrils around buildings like the grasping hands of spectral giants was slightly cooler than usual, and its odor wasn’t yet saturated with the redolence of silt and dead fish and human waste. Other people were few and far between on Coin-Kisser’s Row after Falselight, so Locke and Chains spoke fairly freely.

“I’ve got the
distance
. Which means—well, there are a hundred gangs in Camorr, Locke. A hundred and more. Certainly I can’t remember them all. Some of them are too new or too unruly for Capa Barsavi to trust them as well as he might. So he keeps a close eye on them—insists on frequent reports, plants men in them, reins their actions in tightly. Those of us that don’t suffer such scrutiny”—Chains pointed to himself, then to Locke—“are sort of
presumed
to be doing things honestly until proven otherwise. We follow his rules and pay him a cut of our take, and he thinks he can more or less trust us to get it right. No audits, no spies, no bullshit. ‘The distance.’ It’s a privilege worth paying for.”

Chains stuck a hand in one of his cloak pockets; there was the pleasing jingle of coins. “I’ve got a little show of respect for him right here, in fact. Two-tenths of this week’s take from the charity kettle of Perelandro.”

“More than a hundred gangs, you said?”

“This city has more gangs than it has foul odors, boy. Some of them are older than many families on the Alcegrante, and some of them have stricter rituals than some of the priestly orders. Hell, at one point there were nearly thirty capas, and each one had four or five gangs under his thumb.”

“Thirty capas? All like Capa Barsavi?”

“Yes and no. Yes, that they ran gangs and gave orders and cut men open from cock to eyeballs when they got angry; no, that they were anything like Barsavi otherwise. Five years ago, there were the thirty bosses I talked about. Thirty little kingdoms, all fighting and thieving and spilling each other’s guts in the street. All at war with the yellowjackets, who used to kill twenty men a week. In
slow
weeks.

“Then Capa Barsavi walked in from Tal Verrar. Used to be a scholar at the Therin Collegium, if you can believe it. Taught
rhetoric
. He got a few gangs under his thumb and he started
cutting
. Not like a back-alley slasher, but more like a physiker cutting out a chancre. When Barsavi took out another capa, he took their gangs, too. But he didn’t lean on them if he didn’t have to. He gave them full territories and let them choose their own
garristas
, and he cut them in on his take.

“So—five years ago, there were thirty. Four years ago, there were ten. Three years ago, there was one. Capa Barsavi and his hundred gangs. The whole city—all the Right People, present company included—in his pocket. No more open war across the bloody canals. No more platoons of thieves getting strung up all at once at the Palace of Patience. Nowadays they have to do them two or three at a time.”

“Because of the Secret Peace? The one I broke?”

“The one you broke, yes. Good guess, presuming I’d know about that. Yes, my boy, it’s the key to Barsavi’s peculiar success. What it comes down to is, he has a standing agreement with the duke, handled through one of the duke’s agents. The gangs of Camorr don’t touch the nobles; we don’t lay a finger on ships or drays or crates that have a legitimate coat of arms on them. In exchange, Barsavi is the actual ruler of a few of the city’s more charming points. Catchfire, the Narrows, the Dregs, the Wooden Waste, the Snare, and parts of the docks. Plus the city watch is much more…relaxed than they ought to be.”

“So we can rob anyone who isn’t a noble?”

“Or a yellowjacket, yes. We can have the merchants and the money-changers and the incoming and the outgoing. There’s more money passing through Camorr than any other city on this coast, boy. Hundreds of ships a week; thousands of sailors and officers. We don’t have any problem laying off the nobility.”

“Doesn’t that make the merchants and the money-changers and the other people angry?”

“It might if they knew about it. That’s why there’s that word ‘Secret’ in front of ‘Peace.’ And that’s why Camorr’s such a lovely, fine, safe place to live. You really only need to worry about losing your money if you don’t have much of it in the first place.”

“Oh,” said Locke, fingering his little shark’s-tooth necklace. “Okay. But now I wonder…You said my old master bought and paid for, um, killing me. Will you get in trouble with Barsavi for not…killing me?”

Chains laughed. “Why would I be taking you to see him if that’d get me in trouble, boy? No, the death-mark’s mine to use, or not, as I see fit. I bought it. Don’t you see? He doesn’t care if we actually use ’em, only that we acknowledge that the
power
of granting life or death is his. Sort of like a tax only he can collect. You see?”

Locke nodded, then allowed himself to be trundled along silently for a few minutes, absorbing all of this. His aching head made the scale of what was going on a bit difficult to grasp.

“Let me tell you a story,” said Father Chains after a while. “A story that will let you know just what sort of man you’re going to meet and swear fealty to this evening. Once upon a time, when Capa Barsavi’s hold on the city was very new and very delicate, it was an open secret that a pack of his
garristas
was plotting to get rid of him just as soon as the chance presented itself. And they were very alert for his countermoves, see; they’d helped him take over the city, and they knew how he worked.