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

Standing at the larboard rail, staring once again at the islands and towers of Tal Verrar, Locke felt anxiety and melancholy mingling like liquors. The clouds were low and dark above the city, reflecting the orange light of the festival fire burning in the main anchorage.

‘Ready for this?’ asked Jean.

‘Ready and sweating heavily,’ said Locke.

They were dressed in borrowed finery, linen caps and cloaks. The cloaks were too warm, but not so rare on the streets of many neighbourhoods; they meant that the wearer was probably carrying weapons and not to be trifled with. Hopefully, the added clothing would help protect them from a casual glimpse by anyone inconvenient who might recognize them.

‘Heave out,’ cried Oscarl, in charge of the party putting their boat over the side. With the creak of rope and tackle, the little craft swung out into darkness and splashed down into the water. Utgar shimmied down the boarding net to unfasten everything and prepare the oars. As Locke stepped to the entry port and prepared to go down, Delmastro caught his arm.

‘Whatever else happens,’ she whispered, ‘just bring him back.’

‘I won’t fail,’ said Locke. ‘And neither will he.’

‘Zamira said to give you this.’ Delmastro passed over a heavy leather purse, packed tight with coins. Locke nodded his gratitude and slipped it into an inner cloak pocket.

As Locke crawled down to the boat, he passed Utgar, who gave a cheery salute and kept climbing. Locke hopped down into the boat, but continued clinging to the boarding net so he could stand upright. He glanced up, and by the light of the ship’s lanterns he saw Jean and Ezri saying farewell with a kiss. She whispered something to him, and then they parted.

‘This is infinitely preferable to the last time we shared this boat alone,’ said Jean as they settled onto the rowing bench and fitted the oars to their locks.

‘You told her your real name, didn’t you?’

‘What?’ Jean’s eyes grew wide, and then he scowled. ‘Is that a guess?’

‘I’m not much of a lip-reader, but the last thing she said to you had one syllable, not two.’

‘Oh,’ sighed Jean. ‘Well, aren’t you the clever little bastard.’

‘Yes on all three counts, actually.’

‘I did, and I’m not sorry—’

‘Gods, I’m not angry, Jean. I’m just showing off.’ They began to row together, pulling hard, driving the boat across the dark, choppy water toward the channel between the Galezzo District and the Emerald Galleries.

Minutes of rowing passed without conversation; the oars creaked, the water splashed and the Poison Orchid fell away to stern, the whiteness of her furled sails vanishing into the darkness until all that remained of her was a faint constellation of lantern-lights.

‘The alchemist,’ said Locke, without any warning.

‘Huh?’

‘Stragos’s alchemist. He’s the key to this mess.’

‘If by “key” you mean “cause”—’

‘No, listen. How likely is it that Stragos is ever going to just accidentally leave us the glasses he uses to give us our antidote? Or let a dose slip out of his pocket?’

‘Easy question,’ said Jean. ‘It’s bloody impossible.’

‘Right. So it’s no use waiting for him to make a mistake – we’ve got to make contact with that alchemist.’

‘He’s one of the Archon’s personal retinue,’ said Jean. ‘Maybe the most important person in Stragos’s service, if Stragos makes a habit of doing this frequently. I doubt he has a nice, convenient, out-of-the way house where we can pay him a visit. He probably lives at the Mon Magisteria.’

‘But there’s got to be something we can do,’ said Locke. ‘The man has to have a price. Think of what we’ve got at the Sinspire, or what we could get with Drakasha’s help.’

‘I’ll admit it’s the best idea yet,’ said Jean. ‘Which isn’t saying much.’

‘Eyes wide, ears open and hope in the Crooked Warden,’ Locke muttered.

On this side of the city, Tal Verrar’s inner harbour was thick with pleasure-boats, barges and hired gondolas. The wealthy (and the not-so-wealthy who didn’t care whether or not they woke up without a centira the next day) were in full migration from the professional crescents to the bars and coffee houses of the Emerald Galleries. Locke and Jean slipped into the stream and rowed against the prevailing current, dodging larger vessels and exchanging choice vulgarities with the shouting, leering, bottle-throwing customers on some of the rowdier barges.

Having dished out more abuse than they’d received, they slipped at last between the Artificers’ Crescent and the Alchemists’ Crescent, admiring the vivid blue and green fireballs that the alchemists were hurling, presumably in support of the Festa (though one never knew) forty or fifty feet into the air over their private docks. The prevailing wind was toward Locke and Jean, and as they rowed they found themselves pursued by a brimstone-scented rain of sparks and burned paper scraps.

Their destination was easy enough to find; at the north-western end of the Castellana lay the entrance grotto to the Elderglass caverns from which they’d emerged with Merrain, the first night she’d kidnapped them on the Archon’s behalf.

Security at the Archon’s private landing had been enhanced. As Locke and Jean rowed around the final bend into the prismatic glass hollow, a dozen Eyes hefted crossbows and knelt behind curved iron shields, five feet high, set into the floor to provide cover. Behind them a squad of regular Verrari soldiers manned a ballista, a minor siege engine capable of shattering their boat with a ten-pound quarrel. An Eye officer pulled a chain leading into a wall aperture, presumably ringing an alarm above.

‘Use of this landing is forbidden,’ shouted the officer.

‘Please listen carefully,’ shouted Locke. The dull roar of the waterfall high above echoed throughout the cavern, and there was no room for error. ‘We have a message for the waiting lady.’

Their boat bumped up against the edge of the landing. It was disconcerting, thought Locke, having so many crossbows large and small dedicated to their intimidation. However, the Eye officer stepped over and knelt beside them. His voice echoed metallically through the speaking holes of his featureless mask.

‘You’re here on the waiting lady’s business?’

‘We are,’ said Locke. ‘Tell her precisely this: “Two sparks were kindled, and two bright fires returned.”’

‘I shall,’ said the officer. ‘In the meantime ...’

After carefully setting their crossbows down, half a dozen Eyes stepped out from behind their shields to haul Locke and Jean from their boat. They were restrained and patted down; their boot-daggers were confiscated, along with Locke’s bag of gold. An Eye examined it, and then passed it to the officer.

‘Solari, sir. Confiscate it?’

‘No,’ said the officer. ‘Take them to the waiting lady’s chamber and give it back to them. If money alone could kill the Protector, the Priori would already have done it, eh?’