The Lies of Locke Lamora (66 page)

“Capa Raza,” said Doña Vorchenza, “you are plucking at strings of conscience that will yield no sound; I am not the duke’s Spider because I have a soft heart. I mean you no insult, truly, but let me frame it in these terms; you have been Capa now for barely one week. I have only begun to form my opinion of you. You remain a stranger, sir; if you rule a year from now, and you maintain stability among the Right People, and preserve the Secret Peace, well then—perhaps some consideration
could
be given to what you propose.”

“And that is how it must be?”

“That is how it must be—for now.”

“Alas,” said Capa Raza. “This refusal pains me more than you could know; I have gifts that I simply cannot wait until next year to reveal to all the peers of this fair city. I must, with all apologies, refuse your refusal.”

“What on earth do you mean?”

“Falconer…”

The Bondsmage stood up at Doña Vorchenza’s writing desk; he’d taken a quill in his hands and set one of her sheets of parchment out before him. “Doña Vorchenza,” he said as he wrote in a bold, looping script; “Angiavesta Vorchenza, is it not? What a lovely name…what a very lovely, very
true
name…”

In his left hand the silver thread wove back and forth; his fingers flew, and on the page a strange silver-blue glow began to arise; ANGIAVESTA VORCHENZA was outlined in that fire, and across the room the Doña moaned and clutched her head.

“I am sorry to press my case by less than amiable means, Doña Vorchenza,” said Capa Raza, “but can you not see that it would be to the duke’s very great advantage to have me as his guest? Surely you would not want to deny him those gifts which I would place at his feet, with all due respect.”

“I…I cannot say…”

“Yes,” said the Falconer. “Oh yes, you would be very pleased to accept this idea; to ensure that Capa Raza was invited to the Day of Changes feast, in the most cordial spirit of good fellowship.”

The words on the parchment in his hands glowed more brightly.

“Capa Raza,” said Doña Vorchenza slowly, “you must…of course…accept the duke’s hospitality.”

“You will not be denied,” said the Falconer. “Capa Raza
must
agree to accept your invitation; you simply will not settle for a refusal.”

“I will not…take no…for an answer.”

“And I will not give it,” said Raza. “You are most kind, Doña Vorchenza. Most kind. And my gifts? I have four exquisite sculptures I should like to give to the duke. I have no need to intrude on his affairs; my men can simply leave them somewhere at the feast, with your cooperation. We can bring them to his attention when he is less pressed for time.”

“How lovely,” said the Falconer. “You are very fond of this suggestion.”

“Nothing…would please me more…Capa Raza. Very…proper of you.”

“Yes,” said Capa Raza, “it is
very
proper of me. It is only just.” He chuckled, then rose from his seat and waved to the Falconer.

“Doña Vorchenza,” said the Bondsmage, “this conversation has pleased you greatly. You will look forward to seeing Capa Raza at the Day of Changes, and to lending him every assistance in bringing his important gifts into Raven’s Reach.” He folded the parchment and slipped it into a waistcoat pocket, then made a few more gestures with his silver thread.

Doña Vorchenza blinked several times, and breathed deeply. “Capa Raza,” she said, “must you really go? It has made for a pleasant diversion, speaking to you this evening.”

“And I, for my part, have found you the most charming of hostesses, my lady Vorchenza.” He bowed from the waist, right foot forward in perfect courtly fashion. “But business is pressing everywhere; I must be about mine, and leave you to yours.”

“So be it, dear boy.” She began to rise, and he gestured for her to stay seated.

“No, no; don’t trouble yourself on our account. We can find our way back down your lovely tower on our own; pray return to whatever you were doing before I interrupted.”

“It was hardly an interruption,” said Doña Vorchenza. “I shall see you, then, on the Day of Changes? You will accept the invitation?”

“Yes,” said Capa Raza. He turned and favored her with a smile before he stepped out through the solarium door. “I gladly accept your invitation. And I shall see you on the Day of Changes, at Raven’s Reach.”

The Daughters of Camorr

THE FIRST true revolution in Camorr’s criminal affairs came long before Capa Barsavi. It predated his rise by nearly fifty years, in fact, and it came about entirely as the result of a certain lack of self-control on the part of a pimp called Rude Trevor Vargas.

Rude Trevor had a great many other nicknames, most of them used privately in his little stable of whores. To say that he was an intemperate, murderous lunatic would wound the feelings of most intemperate, murderous lunatics. As was often the case, he was a greater danger to his own whores than the marks they plied for coppers and silvers. The only protection he really offered them was protection from his own fists, which could be had by giving him all but a tiny fraction of the money they worked for.

One night, a particularly put-upon whore found herself unwilling to participate in his preferred evening diversion, which was to take his pleasure from her mouth while pulling on her hair until she screamed in pain. Her bodice dagger was out before she realized it; she planted it just to the left of Trevor’s manhood, in the joint of his thigh, and slashed to his right. There was an
awful
lot of blood, not to mention screaming, but Trevor’s attempts to first fight back and then to flee were greatly hampered by the speed with which his life was gushing out between his legs. His (former) whore pulled him to the ground and sat on his back to keep him from crawling out of the room. His strength ebbed, and he died in very short order, mourned by exactly no one.

The next night, Trevor’s capa sent another man around to take over Trevor’s duties. The women in Trevor’s old stable welcomed him with smiling faces, and offered him a chance to try out their services for free. Because he had a small pile of broken bricks where most people kept their brains, he accepted. When he was neatly undressed and separated from his weapons, he was stabbed to death from several directions at once. That
really
caught the attention of Trevor’s old capa. The next night, he sent five or six men to straighten the situation out.

But a curious thing had happened. Another two or three packs of whores had gotten rid of their pimps; a growing nucleus of women claimed a warehouse in the northern Snare as their headquarters. The capa’s men found not six or seven frightened whores, as they’d been told, but nearly two dozen angry women, who’d seen fit to arm themselves using all the coin they could muster.

Crossbows are quite an equalizer, especially at close range, with the advantage of surprise. Those five or six men were never seen again.

So the war began in earnest. Those capas who had lost pimps and whores attempted to correct the situation, while with every passing day the number of women joining the rebellion grew. They hired several other gangs to serve as their own protection; they established houses of pleasure to their own standards, and began to work out of them. The service they offered, in comfortable and well-appointed chambers, was greatly superior to that which could be had from the gangs of whores still run by men, and prospective customers began to weigh in with their coin on the side of the ladies.

There was a great deal of blood. Dozens of whores were brutally murdered, and several of their bordellos were burnt to the ground. But for every lady of the night that fell, some capa’s man would get the same. The ladies gave like for like as viciously as any capa in Camorr’s history. Less than a year after Rude Trevor’s death, the last few pimps clinging brutally to their livelihood were convinced (convinced to death, in most cases) to give up their fight. An uneasy truce fell into place between the capas and the city’s whores.

Eventually, this truce grew into a stable and mutually beneficial arrangement.

The whores of the city split amiably into two groups, defined by territory. The Docksies took the west side of Camorr, while the Guilded Lilies ruled in the east; and both organizations mingled comfortably in the Snare, where business was most plentiful. They continued to prosper; they hired loyal muscle of their own and ceased renting cutthroats from other gangs. While their lives could not be deemed pleasant, in light of their trade, at least they were now firmly in control of their own affairs, and free to enforce certain rules of decorum on their customers.

They built and preserved a monopoly, and in exchange for promising not to become involved in any other forms of crime, they secured the right to mercilessly crush any attempt to pimp women outside the purview of their two gangs. Naturally, some men didn’t pay close attention to the rules the women set; they attempted to slap their whores around, or renege on their payments for services, or ignore the standards the ladies set concerning cleanliness and drunkenness.

Hard lessons were handed out. As many men learned to their sorrow, it’s
impossible
to be intimidating when one angry woman has your cock between her teeth and another is holding a stiletto to your kidneys.

When Vencarlo Barsavi slew his opponents and rose to prominence as the sole Capa of Camorr, even he dared not disturb the equilibrium that had grown between the traditional gangs and the two guilds of whores. He met with representatives from the Docksies and the Lilies; he agreed to let them preserve their quasi-autonomous status, and they agreed to regular payments for his assistance—payments, as a percentage of profits, significantly lower than any other dues paid to the capa by the Right People of Camorr.

Barsavi realized something that too many men in the city were slow to grasp; an idea that he reinforced years later when he took the Berangias sisters to be his primary enforcers. He was wise enough to understand that the women of Camorr could be underestimated only at
great peril
to one’s health.

Spiderbite

“CAN YOU ASSURE me,” said Ibelius, “that you will take better care for yourself than you did previously, or that your friend Jean has taken for himself, this past week?”

“Master Ibelius,” said Locke, “you are our physiker, not our mother. And as I have already told you a dozen times this afternoon, I am entirely prepared—body and mind—for this affair at Raven’s Reach. I am the soul of caution.”

“La, sir, if that is the case, I should hope never to meet the soul of recklessness.”

“Ibelius,” groaned Jean, “let him alone; you are henpecking him without having the decency to marry him first.”

Jean sat upon the sleeping pallet, haggard and rather scruffy; the darkness of the hairs thickening on his face only emphasized his own unnatural pallor. His injuries had been a close thing. A great wad of cloth was tied around his naked chest, and similar bandages wrapped his leg beneath his breeches and his upper right arm.

“These physikers are handy things,” said Locke, adjusting his (formerly Meraggio’s) coat cuffs, “but I think next time we should pay a bit extra for the silent version, Jean.”

“And then you may dress your own wounds, sir, and apply your own poultices—though I daresay it would be quicker and easier for the pair of you to simply
dig your own graves
and take your ease in them until your inevitable transition to a more quiet state of affairs!”

“Master Ibelius,” said Locke, grasping the old man by the arms, “Jean and I are more grateful than we can say for your aid; I suspect that we
would
both be dead without your intervention. I mean to repay you for the time you’ve endured with us here in this hovel; I expect to come into a few thousand crowns in very short order. Some of it is yours; you shall have a new life far from here with very full pockets. And the rest will be used to put Capa Raza under the earth; take heart. Look what Jean has already done to his sisters.”

“A feat I’m in no condition to perform again,” said Jean. “Take care of yourself, Locke; I won’t be able to come running to the rescue if something goes awry tonight.”

“Though I have no doubt you would
try
,” muttered Ibelius.

“Don’t worry, Jean. It’ll be nothing but a routine evening with the duke and his entire fucking court, assembled in a glass tower six hundred feet in the air. What could
possibly
go wrong?”

“That sarcasm sounds halfhearted,” said Jean. “You’re really looking forward to this, aren’t you?”

“Of course I am, Jean. Chains would be beside himself with glee if he were alive; I’m going to play Lukas Fehrwight in front of the gods-damned duke, not to mention all the other peers of our acquaintance. The de Marres, the Feluccias, old Javarriz…Glory to the Crooked Warden, it’s going to be
fantastic
fucking fun. Assuming I’m on top of my game. And then…money in our pockets. And then revenge.”

“When are you expected at the Salvara manor?”

“Third hour of the afternoon, which means I’ve no more time to dawdle. Jean, Ibelius…how do I look?”

“I would hardly recognize the man we laid on that sickbed not so many days ago,” said Ibelius. “I’ll confess, you’ve a surprising degree of professional skill; I’d never conceived of such a thing as this false-facing of yours.”

“That’s to our advantage, Master Ibelius,” said Jean. “Very few have. You look ready for the evening, Master Fehrwight. Now, you’re going to take the long way round to the Isla Durona, right?”

“Gods, yes. I’m only mad to a certain measure. I’ll go north through the graveyards and up through the Quiet; I expect I won’t see a soul once I’m out of Ashfall.”

As he spoke, he draped himself with the oilcloak Jean had brought back from his encounter with the Berangias sisters, despite the sweltering heat. It would conceal his fine garments from sight until he reached the Hill of Whispers. A man dressed in evening best might attract too much attention from some of the lurkers in the dark places of Ashfall.