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

Camorr, years before. The wet, seeping mists enclosed Locke and Father Chains in curtains of midnight grey as the old man led the boy back home from his first meeting with Capa Vencarlo Barsavi. Locke, drunk and sweat-soaked, clung to the back of his Gentled goat for dear life.

‘. . . You don’t belong to Barsavi,’ Chains said. ‘He’s good enough for what he is, a good ally to have on your side and a man that you must appear to obey at all times. But he certainly doesn’t own you. In the end, neither do I.’

‘So I don’t have to—’

‘Obey the Secret Peace? Be a good little pezon? Only for pretend, Locke. Only to keep the wolves from the door. Unless your eyes and ears have been stitched shut with rawhide these past two days, by now you must have realized that I intend you and Calo and Galdo and Sabetha to be nothing less,’ Chains confided through a feral grin, ‘than a fucking ballista bolt right through the heart of Vencarlo’s precious Secret Peace.’

‘Uh . . .’ Locke collected his thoughts for several moments. ‘Why?’

‘Heh. It’s . . . complicated. It has to do with what I am, and what I hope you’ll someday be. A priest in the sworn service of the Crooked Warden.’

‘Is the capa doing something wrong?’

‘Well,’ said Chains, ‘well, lad, now there’s a question. Is he doing right by the Right People? Gods, yes - the Secret Peace tames the city watch, calms everyone down, gets less of us hanged. Still, every priesthood has what we call mandates - laws handed down by the gods themselves to those who serve them. In most temples, these are complex, messy, annoying things. In the priesthood of the Benefactor, things are easy. We only have two. The first one is, thieves prosper. Simple as that. We’re ordered to aid one another, hide one another, make peace whenever possible and see to it that our kind flourishes, by hook or by crook. Barsavi’s got that mandate covered, never doubt that.

‘But the second mandate,’ said Chains, lowering his voice and glancing around into the fog to make doubly sure that they were not overheard, ‘is this - the rich remember.’

‘Remember what?’

‘That they’re not invincible. That locks can be picked and treasures can be stolen. Nara, Mistress of Ubiquitous Maladies, may Her hand be stayed, sends disease among men so that men will never forget that they are not gods. We’re sort of like that, for the rich and powerful. We’re the stone in their shoe, the thorn in their flesh, a little bit of reciprocity this side of divine judgement. That’s our second mandate, and it’s as important as the first.’

‘And . . . the Secret Peace protects the nobles, and so you don’t like it?’

‘It’s not that I don’t like it.’ Chains mulled his next few words over before he let them out. ‘Barsavi’s not a priest of the Thirteenth. He’s not sworn to the mandates like I am; he’s got to be practical. And while I can accept that, I can’t just let it go. It’s my divine duty to see that the bluebloods with their pretty titles get a little bit of what life hands the rest of us as a matter of routine - a nice, sharp jab in the arse every now and again.’

‘And Barsavi . . . doesn’t need to know about this?’

‘Bleeding shits, no. As I see it, if Barsavi takes care of thieves prosper and I look after the rich remember, this’ll be one holy, holy city in the eyes of the Crooked Warden.’