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

To their surprise, he strolled into the old tannery with a Vel Virazzo constable at his side. The woman was tall and muscular, dressed in a plum-purple coat reinforced with a lining of fine iron chain; she had brass epaulettes on her shoulders and long brown hair pulled back in a tight swordswoman’s tail with brass rings. Four more constables took up position just outside the door; they wore similar coats, but also carried long, lacquered sticks and heavy wooden shields slung over their backs.

‘Hello, lads,’ said Jean. All around the room, daggers, stilettos, broken bottles and sticks were disappearing from sight. ‘I’m sure some of you recognize Prefect Levasto and her men.’

‘Boys,’ said the prefect offhandedly, hooking her thumbs into her leather sword-belt. Alone of all the constables, she carried a cutlass in a plain black sheath.

‘Prefect Levasto,’ said Jean, ‘is a wise woman, and she leads wise men. They happen to enjoy money, which I am now providing as a consideration for the hardship and tedium of their duties. If anything should chance to happen to me, why, they would lose a new source of the very thing they enjoy.’

‘It would be heartbreaking,’ said the prefect.

‘And it would have consequences,’ said Jean.

The prefect set one of her boots on an empty wine bottle and applied steady pressure until it shattered beneath her heel. ‘Heartbreaking,’ she repeated with a sigh.

‘I’m sure you’re all bright lads,’ said Jean. ‘I’m sure you’ve all enjoyed the prefect’s visit.’

‘Shouldn’t like to have to repeat it,’ said Levasto with a grin. She turned slowly and ambled back out through the doorway. The sound of her squad marching away soon receded into the distance.

The Brass Coves looked down at Jean, glumly. The four boys closest to the door, with their hands behind their backs, were the ones wearing livid black and green bruises from before.

‘Why the fuck are you doing this to us?’ grumbled one of them.

‘I’m not your enemy, boys. Believe it or not, I think you’ll really come to appreciate what I can do for you. Now shut up and listen. First,’ said Jean, raising his voice so everyone could hear, ‘I’d like to say that it’s rather sad, how long you’ve been around without getting the city watch on the take. They were so eager for it when I made the offer. Like sad, neglected little puppies.’

Jean was wearing a long black vest over a stained white tunic. He reached up beneath his back, under the vest, with his right hand.

‘But,’ he continued, ‘at least the fact that your first thought was to kill me shows some spirit. Let’s see those toys again. Come on, show ’em off.’

Sheepishly, the boys drew out their weapons once again, and Jean inspected them with a sweep of his head. ‘Mmmm. Gimp steel, broken bottles, little sticks, a hammer . . . boys, the trouble with this set-up is that you think those are threats. They’re not. They’re insults.’

He started moving while the last few words were still coming out of his mouth; his left hand slid up beneath his vest beside his right. Both of his arms came out and up in a blur, and then he grunted as he let fly with both of his hatchets, overhand.

There was a pair of half-full wineskins hanging on pegs on the far wall; each one exploded in a gout of cheap Verrari red that spattered several boys nearby. Jean’s hatchets had impaled the wineskins dead-centre, and stuck in the wood behind them without quivering.

‘That was a threat,’ he said, cracking his knuckles. ‘And that’s why you now work for me. Anyone else really want to dispute that at this point?’

The boys standing closest to the wineskins edged backwards as Jean stepped over and wrenched his hatchets out of the wall. ‘Didn’t think so. But don’t take it amiss,’ Jean continued. ‘It works in your favour, too. A boss needs to protect what’s his if he’s going to stay the boss. If anyone other than me tries to shove you around, let me know. I’ll pay them a visit. That’s my job.’

The next day, the Brass Coves grudgingly lined up to pay their taxes. The last boy in line, as he dropped his copper coins into Jean’s hands, muttered: ‘You said you’d help if someone else gave us the business. Some of the Coves got kicked around this morning by the Black Sleeves, from over on the north side.’

Jean nodded sagely and slipped his takings into his coat pocket. The next night, after making inquiries, he sauntered into a north-side dive called the Sign of the Brimming Cup. The only thing the tavern was brimming with was thugs, a good seven or eight of them, all with dirty black cloths tied around the arms of their jackets and tunics. They were the only customers, and they looked up with suspicion as he closed the door behind him and carefully slid home the wooden bolt.

‘Good evening!’ He smiled and cracked his knuckles. ‘I’m curious. Who’s the biggest, meanest motherfucker in the Black Sleeves?’

The day after that, he collected his taxes from the Brass Coves with the bruised knuckles of his right hand wrapped in a poultice. For the first time, most of the boys paid enthusiastically. A few even started to call him ‘Tav’.