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

Locke’s thin supply of coins was parcelled out for wine; his poison of choice was a particularly cheap local slop. More purple than red, with a bouquet like turpentine, its scent soon saturated the room he shared with Jean at the Silver Lantern. Locke took it constantly ‘for the pain’; Jean remarked one evening that his pain must be increasing as the days went on, for the empty skins and bottles were multiplying proportionally. They quarrelled - or more accurately rekindled their ongoing quarrel - and Jean stomped off into the night, for neither the first nor the last time.

Those first few days in Vel Virazzo, Locke would totter down the steps to the common room some nights, where he would play a few desultory hands of cards with some of the locals. He conned them mirthlessly with whatever fast-fingers tricks he could manage with just one good hand. Soon enough they began to shun his games and his bad attitude, and he retreated back to the third floor, to drink alone in silence. Food and cleanliness remained afterthoughts. Jean tried to get a dog-leech in to examine Locke’s wounds, but Locke drove the man out with a string of invective that made Jean (whose speech could be colourful enough to strike fire from damp tinder) blush.

‘Of your friend I can find no trace,’ said the man. ‘He seems to have been eaten by one of the thin, hairless apes from the Okanti isles; all it does is screech at me. What became of the last leech to take a look at him?’

‘We left him in Talisham,’ said Jean. ‘I’m afraid my friend’s attitude moved him to bring an early end to his own sea voyage.’

‘Well, I might have done the same. I waive my fee, in profound sympathy. Keep your silver - you shall need it for wine. Or poison.’

More and more, Jean found himself spending time with the Brass Coves for no better reason than to avoid Locke. A week passed, then another. ‘Tavrin Callas’ was becoming a known and solidly respected figure in Vel Virazzo’s crooked fraternity. Jean’s arguments with Locke became more circular, more frustrating, more pointless. Jean instinctively recognized the downward arc of terminal self-pity, but had never dreamed that he’d have to drag Locke, of all people, out of it. He avoided the problem by training the Coves.

At first, he passed on just a few hints - how to use simple hand signals around strangers, how to set distractions before picking pockets, how to tell real gems from paste and avoid stealing the latter. Inevitably, he began to receive respectful entreaties to ‘show them a thing or two’ of the tricks he’d used to pound four Coves into the ground. First in line with these requests were the four who’d been pounded.

A week after that, the alchemy was fully under way. Half a dozen boys were rolling around in the dust of the tannery floor while Jean coached them on all the essentials of infighting - leverage, initiative, situational awareness. He began to demonstrate the tricks, both merciful and cruel, that had kept him alive over half a lifetime spent making his points with his fists and hatchets.

Under Jean’s influence, the boys began to take more of an interest in the state of their old tannery. He explicitly encouraged them to start viewing it as a headquarters, which demanded certain comforts. Alchemical lanterns appeared, hanging from the rafters. Fresh oilpaper was nailed up over the broken windows, and new planks and straw were raised up to the roof to plug holes. The boys stole cushions, cheap tapestries and portable shelves.

‘Find me a hearthstone,’ said Jean. ‘Steal me a big one, and I’ll teach you poor little bastards how to cook, too. You can’t beat Camorr for chefs; even the thieves are chefs back there. I’ve had years of training.’

He stared around at the increasingly well-maintained tannery, at the increasingly eager band of young thieves living in it, and he spoke wistfully to himself: ‘We all did.’

He’d tried to interest Locke in the project of the Brass Coves, but had been rebuffed. That night he tried again, explaining about their ever-increasing nightly take, their headquarters, the tips and training he was giving them. Locke stared at him for a long time, sitting on the bed with a chipped glass half-full of purple wine in his hands.

‘Well,’ he said at last. ‘Well, I can see you’ve found your replacements, haven’t you?’

Jean was too startled to say anything.

Locke drained his glass and continued, his voice flat and humourless, ‘That was certainly quick. Quicker than I expected. A new gang, a new burrow. Not a glass one, but you can probably fix that if you look around long enough. So here you are, playing Father Chains, lighting a fire under that kettle of happy horse-shit all over again.’

Jean exploded across the room and slapped the empty glass out of Locke’s hand; it shattered against the wall and showered half the room with glittering fragments, but Locke didn’t even blink. Instead, he leaned back against his sweat-stained pillows and sighed.

‘Got any twins yet? How about a new Sabetha? A new me?’

‘To hell with you!’ Jean clenched his fists until he could feel the warm, slick blood seeping out beneath his nails. ‘To hell with you, Locke! I didn’t save your gods-damned life so you could sulk in this gods-damned hovel and pretend you’re the man who invented grief. You’re not that gods-damned special!’

‘Why did you save me then, Saint Jean?’

‘Of all the stupid fucking questions—’

‘WHY?’ Locke heaved himself up off the bed and shook his fists at Jean; the effect would have been comical, but all the murder in the world was in his eyes. ‘I told you to leave me! Am I supposed to be grateful for this? This bloody room?’

‘I didn’t make this room your whole world, Locke. You did.’

‘This is what I was rescued for? Three weeks sick at sea, and now Vel Virazzo, arsehole of Tal Verrar? It’s the joke of the gods, and I’m the punch line. Dying with the Grey King would have been better. I told you to fucking leave me there!’

And then, ‘And I miss them,’ he said, his voice nearly a whisper. ‘Gods, I miss them. It’s my fault they’re dead. I can’t . . . I can’t stand it—’

‘Don’t you dare,’ growled Jean. He shoved Locke in the chest, forcefully. Locke fell backwards across his bed and hit the wall hard enough to rattle the window shutters. ‘Don’t you dare use them as an excuse for what you’re doing to yourself! Don’t you fucking dare.’

Without another word, Jean spun on his heels, walked out of the room and slammed the door behind him.