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

On the morning of Locke’s ninth day in Salon Corbeau, the Baumondains were finished with his chairs.

‘They look magnificent,’ said Locke, running his fingers lightly over the lacquered wood and padded leather. ‘Very fine, as fine as I had reason to hope. And the . . . additional features?’

‘Built to your specifications, Master Fehrwight. Exactly to your specifications.’ Lauris stood beside her father in the Baumondain workshop, while ten-year-old Parnella was struggling to brew tea over an alchemical hearthstone at a corner table covered with unidentifiable tools and half-empty jars of woodworking oils. Locke made a mental note to smell any tea offered to him very carefully before drinking.

‘You have outdone yourselves, all of you.’

‘We were, ah, financially inspired, Master Fehrwight,’ said the elder Baumondain.

‘I like building weird things,’ Parnella added from the corner.

‘Heh. Yes, I suppose these would qualify.’ Locke stared at his suite of four matching chairs and sighed in mingled relief and aggravation. ‘Well, then. If you’d be so kind as to ready them for transport, I shall hire two carriages and take my leave this afternoon.’

‘In that much of a hurry to leave?’

‘I hope you’ll forgive me if I say that every unnecessary moment I spend in this place weighs on me. Salon Corbeau and I do not agree.’ Locke removed a leather purse from his coat pocket and tossed it to Master Baumondain. ‘An additional twenty solari. For your silence, and for these chairs never to have existed. Is this clear?’

‘I . . . well, I’m sure we can accommodate your request . . . I must say, your generosity is—’

‘A subject that needs no further discussion. Humour me, now. I’ll be gone soon enough.’

So that’s all, said the voice in Locke’s head. Stick to the plan. Leave this all behind, and do nothing, and return to Tal Verrar with my tail between my legs.

While he and Jean enriched themselves at Requin’s expense and cheated their way up the luxurious floors of the Sinspire, on the stone floor of Lady Saljesca’s arena the defaults would go on, and the faces of the spectators would be the same, day after day. Children tearing the wings from insects to laugh at how they flailed and bled . . . and stepping on one every now and again.

‘Thieves prosper,’ muttered Locke under his breath. He tightened his neck-cloths and prepared to go and summon his carriages, feeling sick to his stomach.