Red Seas Under Red Skies: The Gentleman Bastard Sequence, Book Two (Gentleman Bastards 2)

‘Though he cannot speak,’ she said.

‘Though he cannot speak for himself . . .’ chorused the circle of merchants, now motionless in the darkness.

‘Though he is mad,’ said the girl, slowly spreading her hands toward Locke and Jean, palms out.

‘Mad with pain, mad beyond measure . . .’ whispered the circle.

‘His friends remain,’ said the girl. ‘His friends remember.’

Locke felt Jean move against his back, and then both of his hatchets were out, blackened-steel heads naked to the night. ‘These people are puppets. There are Bondsmagi somewhere around us,’ he hissed.

‘Show yourselves, you fucking cowards!’ said Locke, speaking to the girl.

‘We show our power,’ she replied.

‘What more do you need . . .’ whispered the chorus in their ragged circle, their eyes empty as reflecting pools.

‘What more do you need to see, Master Lamora?’ The little girl gave a sinister parody of a curtsey.

‘Whatever you want,’ said Locke, ‘leave these people out of it. Just fucking talk to us. We don’t want to hurt these people.’

‘Of course, Master Lamora . . .’

‘Of course . . .’ whispered the circle.

‘Of course, that’s the point,’ said the girl. ‘So you must hear what we have to say.’

‘State your gods-damned business, then.’

‘You must answer,’ said the girl.

‘Answer for the Falconer,’ said the chorus.

‘You must answer. Both of you.’

‘Of all the . . . fuck you!’ said Locke, his voice rising to a shout. ‘We did answer for the Falconer. Our answer was ten lost fingers and a lost tongue, for three dead friends. You got him back alive and it was more than he deserved!’

‘Not for you to judge,’ hissed the girl.

‘. . . judge the Magi of Karthain . . .’ whispered the circle.

‘Not for you to judge, nor for you to presume to grasp our laws,’ said the girl.

‘All the world knows it’s death to slay a Bondsmage,’ said Jean. ‘That, and little else. We let him live and took pains to return him to you. Our business is ended. If you wanted a more complicated treatment than that, you should have sent a fucking letter.’

‘This is not business,’ said the girl.

‘But personal,’ said the circle.

‘Personal,’ repeated the girl. ‘A brother has been blooded; we cannot let this stand unanswered.’

‘You sons of bitches,’ said Locke. ‘You really think you’re fucking gods, don’t you? I didn’t mug the Falconer in an alley and take his purse. He helped murder my friends! I’m not sorry he’s mad and I’m not sorry for the rest of you! Kill us and get on with your business, or piss off and let these people go free.’

‘No,’ said the scorpion-merchant. A whispered chorus of ‘no’ echoed around the circle.

‘Cowards. Pissants!’ Jean pointed one of his hatchets at the little girl as he spoke. ‘You can’t scare us with this penny-theatre bullshit!’

‘If you force us to,’ said Locke, ‘we’ll fight you with the weapons in our hands, all the way to Karthain. You bleed like the rest of us. Seems to me all you can do is kill us.’

‘No,’ said the girl, giggling.

‘We can do worse,’ said the fruit-seller.

‘We can let you live,’ said the scorpion-merchant.

‘Live, uncertain,’ said the girl.

‘Uncertain . . .’ chorused the merchants as they began to step backwards, widening their circle.

‘Watched,’ said the girl.

‘Followed,’ said the circle.

‘Now wait,’ said the girl. ‘Run your little games, and chase your little fortunes . . .’

‘And wait,’ whispered the chorus. ‘Wait for our answer. Wait for our time.’

‘You are always in our reach,’ said the little girl, ‘and you are always in our sight.’

‘Always,’ whispered the circle, slowly dispersing back to their stalls, back to the positions they’d held just a few minutes earlier.

‘You will meet misfortune,’ said the little girl as she slipped away. ‘For the Falconer of Karthain.’

Locke and Jean said nothing as the merchants around them resumed their places in the Night Market, as the lanterns and barrel-fires gradually rose once more to flush the area with warm light. Then the affair was ended; the merchants resumed their former attitudes of keen interest or watchful boredom, and the babble of conversation rose up around them again. Locke and Jean quickly slipped their weapons out of sight before anyone noticed them.

‘Gods,’ said Jean, shuddering visibly.

‘I suddenly feel,’ Locke said quietly, ‘that I didn’t drink nearly enough from that bloody carousel.’ There was mist at the edges of his vision; he put a hand to his cheeks and was surprised to find himself crying. ‘Bastards,’ he muttered. ‘Infants. Wretched cowardly show-offs.’

‘Yes,’ said Jean.

Locke and Jean began to walk forward once again, glancing warily around. The little girl who had done most of the speaking for the Bondsmagi was now sitting beside an elderly man, sorting through little baskets of dried figs under his supervision. She smiled shyly as they passed.

‘I hate them,’ whispered Locke. ‘I hate this. Do you think they’ve really got something planned for us, or was that just a put-on?’

‘I suppose it works either way,’ said Jean with a sigh. ‘Gods. Strat pe’ti. Do we flinch, or do we keep betting? Worst case, we’ve got a few thousand solari on account at the ’Spire. We could cash out, take a ship, be gone before noon tomorrow.’

‘Where to?’

‘Anywhere else.’

‘There’s no running from these arseholes, not if they’re serious.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘Fuck Karthain.’ Locke clenched his fists. ‘You know, I think I understand. I think I understand how the Grey King could feel the way he did. I’ve never even been there, but if I could smash Karthain, burn the fucking place, make the sea swallow it . . . I’d do it. Gods help me, I’d do it.’

Jean suddenly came to a complete stop. ‘There’s . . . another problem, Locke. Gods forgive me.’

‘What?’

‘Even if you stay . . . I shouldn’t. I’m the one who should be gone, as far from you as possible.’

‘What the fuck nonsense is this?’

‘They know my name!’ Jean grabbed Locke by his shoulders, and Locke winced; that stone-hard grip didn’t agree with the old wound beneath his left clavicle. Jean immediately realized his mistake and loosened his fingers, but his voice remained urgent. ‘My real name, and they can use it. They can make me a puppet, like these poor people. I’m a threat to you every moment I’m around you.’

‘I don’t bloody well care that they know your name! Are you mad?’

‘No, but you’re still drunk, and you’re not thinking straight.’

‘I certainly am! Do you want to leave?’

‘No! Gods, no, of course not! But I’m—’

‘Shutting up right this second if you know what’s good for you.’

‘You need to understand that you’re in danger!’

‘Of course I’m in danger. I’m mortal. Jean, gods love you, I will not fucking send you away, and I will not let you send yourself away! We lost Calo, Galdo and Bug. If I send you away, I lose the last friend I have in the world. Who wins then, Jean? Who’s protected then?’

Jean’s shoulders slumped, and Locke suddenly felt the beginning of the transition from fading inebriation to pounding headache. He groaned.

‘Jean, I will never stop feeling awful for what I put you through in Vel Virazzo. And I will never forget how long you stayed with me when you should have tied weights around my ankles and thrown me in the bay. Gods help me, I will never be better off without you. I don’t care how many Bondsmagi know your damned name.’

‘I wish I could be sure you knew best about this.’

‘This is our life,’ said Locke. ‘This is our game, that we’ve put two years into. That’s our fortune, waiting for us to steal it at the Sinspire. That’s all our hopes for the future. So fuck Karthain. They want to kill us, we can’t stop them. So what else can we do? I won’t jump at shadows on account of those bastards. On with it! Both of us together.’

Most of the Night Market merchants had taken note of the intensity of Locke and Jean’s private conversation and had avoided making further pitches. But one of the last merchants on the northern fringe of the Night Market was either less sensitive or more desperate for a sale, and called out to them.

‘Carved amusements, gentlemen? Something for a woman or a child in your lives? Something artful from the City of Artifice?’ The man had dozens of exotic little toys on an upturned crate. His long, ragged brown coat was lined on the inside with quilted patches in a multitude of garish colours - orange, purple, cloth-of-silver, mustard yellow. He dangled the painted wood figure of a spear-carrying soldier by four cords from his left hand, and with little gestures of his fingers he made the figure thrust at an imaginary enemy. ‘A marionette? A little puppet, for memory of Tal Verrar?’

Jean stared at him for a few seconds before responding. ‘For memory of Tal Verrar,’ he said, quietly, ‘I would want anything, beg pardon, before I would want a puppet.’

Locke and Jean said nothing else to one another. With an ache around his heart to match the one growing in his head, Locke followed the bigger man out of the Great Gallery and into the Savrola, eager to be back behind high walls and locked doors, for what little it might prove to be worth.