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

But Locke could not stay away. Morning, afternoon and evening, he found himself in the public gallery, standing alone, eating and drinking nothing. He saw crowd after crowd, War after War, humiliation after humiliation. The Demons made gruesome mistakes on several occasions; beatings and stranglings got out of control. Those aspirants that were accidentally roughed up beyond hope of recovery had their skulls crushed on the spot, to the polite applause of the crowd. It would not do to be unmerciful.

‘Crooked Warden,’ Locke muttered to himself the first time it happened. ‘They don’t even have a priest . . . not a single one . . .’

He realized, dimly, what he was doing to himself. He felt the stirring within, as though his conscience were a deep, still lake with a beast struggling to rise to its surface. Each brutal humiliation, each painful default excitedly decreed by some spoiled noble child while their parents laughed in appreciation, gave strength to that beast as it beat itself against his better judgment, his cold calculation, his willingness to stick to the plan.

He was trying to make himself angry enough to give in.

The Thorn of Camorr had been a mask he’d half-heartedly worn as a game. Now it was almost a separate entity, a hungry thing, an increasingly insistent ghost prying at his resolve to stand up for the mandate of his faith.

Let me out, it whispered. Let me out. The rich must remember. By the gods, I can make damn sure they never forget.

‘I hope you’ll pardon my intrusion if I observe that you don’t appear to be enjoying yourself!’

Locke was snapped out of his brooding by the arrival of another man in the free gallery. The stranger was tanned and fit-looking, perhaps five or six years older than Locke, with brown curls down to his collar and a precisely trimmed goatee. His long velvet coat was lined with cloth-of-silver and he held a gold-topped cane behind his back with both hands.

‘But forgive me. Fernand Genrusa, peer of the Third, of Lashain.’

Peer of the Third Order - a baron - a purchased Lashani patent of nobility, just as Locke and Jean had toyed with possibly acquiring. Locke bent slightly at the waist and inclined his head. ‘Mordavi Fehrwight, m’lord. Of Emberlain.’

‘A merchant, then? You must be doing well for yourself, Master Fehrwight, to take your leisure here. So what’s behind your long face?’

‘What makes you think I’m displeased?’

‘You stand here alone, taking no refreshment, and you watch each new War with such an expression on your face . . . as though someone were slipping hot coals into your breechclout. I’ve seen you several times from my own gallery. Are you losing money? I might be able to share some insights I’ve cultivated on how to best place wagers at the Amusement War.’

‘I have no wagers outstanding, m’lord. I am merely . . . unable to stop watching.’

‘Curious. Yet it does not please you.’

‘No.’ Locke turned slightly toward Baron Genrusa and swallowed nervously. Etiquette demanded that a lowborn like Mordavi Fehrwight, and a Vadran at that, should defer even to a banknote-baron like Genrusa and offer no unpleasant conversation, but Genrusa seemed to be inviting explanation. Locke wondered how much he might get away with. ‘Have you ever seen a carriage accident, m’lord, or a man run over by a team of horses? Seen the blood and wreckage and been completely unable to take your eyes off the spectacle?’

‘I can’t say that I have.’

‘There I would beg to differ. You have a private gallery to see it three times a day if you wish. ‘M’lord.’

‘Ahhhh. So you find the Amusement War, what, indecorous?’

‘Cruel, m’lord Genrusa. Most uncommonly cruel.’

‘Cruel? Compared to what? War? Times of plague? Have you ever seen Camorr, by chance? Now there’s a basis for comparison that might have you thinking more soundly, Master Fehrwight.’

‘Even in Camorr,’ said Locke, ‘I don’t believe anyone is allowed to beat old women in broad daylight on a whim. Or tear their clothes off, stone them, rape them, slash their hair off, splash them with alchemical caustics . . . it’s like . . . like children tearing off an insect’s wings. So they might watch and laugh.’

‘Who forced them to come here, Fehrwight? Who put a sword to their backs and made them march all the way to Salon Corbeau along those hot, empty roads? That pilgrimage takes days from anywhere worthy of note.’

‘What choice do they have, m’lord? They’re only here because they’re desperate. Because they could not sustain themselves where they were. Farms fail, businesses fail . . . it’s desperation, is all. They cannot simply decide not to eat.’

‘Farms fail, businesses fail, ships sink, empires fall.’ Genrusa brought his cane out from behind his back and punctuated his statements by gesturing at Locke with the gold head. ‘That’s life, under the gods, by the will of the gods. Perhaps if they’d prayed harder, or saved more, or been less thoughtless with what they had, they wouldn’t need to come crawling here for Saljesca’s charity. Seems only fair that she should require most of them to earn it.’

‘Charity?’

‘They have a roof over their heads, food to eat and the chance of earning money. Those that earn the gold prizes seem to have no trouble taking their coin and leaving.’

‘One in eighty wins a solari, m’lord. No doubt more money than they’ve ever seen at once in their lives. And for the other seventy-nine that gold is just a promise, holding them here day after day, week after week, default after default. And those that die because the Demons get out of hand? What good is gold or the promise of gold to them? Anywhere else, it would be plain murder.’

‘It’s Aza Guilla who takes them from the arena floor, not you or me or anyone mortal, Fehrwight.’ Genrusa’s brows were furrowed and his cheeks were reddening. ‘And yes, anywhere else it might be plain murder. But this is Salon Corbeau, and they’re here of their own free will. As are you and I. They could simply choose not to come—’

‘And starve and die elsewhere.’

‘Please. I have seen the world, Master Fehrwight. I might recommend it to you for perspective. Certainly, some of them must be down on their luck. But I wager you’d find that most of them are just hungry for gold, hoping for an easy break. Look out at those on the arena floor now . . . quite a few young and healthy ones, aren’t there?’

‘Who else might be expected to make the journey here on foot without extraordinary luck, m’lord Genrusa?’

‘I can see there’s no talking sense to sentiment, Master Fehrwight. I’d thought you coin-kissers from Emberlain were a harder lot than this.’

‘Hard perhaps, but not vulgar.’

‘Now mind yourself, Master Fehrwight. I wanted a word because I was genuinely curious about your disposition; I think I can see now what it stems from. A bit of advice . . . Salon Corbeau might not be the healthiest place to harbour your sort of resentment.’

‘My business here will be . . . concluded shortly.’

‘All for the better, then. But perhaps your business at the Amusement War might be curtailed even sooner. I’m not the only one who’s taken an interest in you. Lady Saljesca’s guards are . . . sensitive about discontent. Above the arena floor as well as on it.’

I could leave you penniless and sobbing, whispered the voice in Locke’s head. I could have you pawning your piss-buckets to keep your creditors from slitting your throat.

‘Forgive me, m’lord. I will take what you say most seriously,’ muttered Locke. ‘I doubt . . . that I shall trouble anyone here again.’