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

‘Where are they?’

‘Across the street. Watching this courtyard. They moved when we moved, just now.’

‘Shit,’ muttered Locke. ‘Would that this city’s entire population of lurking arseholes shared just one set of balls, so I could kick it repeatedly.’

‘At the edge of the courtyard, let’s make a really obvious, sudden dash for it,’ said Jean. ‘Hide yourself. Whoever comes running after us—’

‘Gets to explain some things the hard way.’

At the rear of the courtyard was a hedge twice Locke’s height. An archway surrounded by empty crates and casks led to the dark and little-used backside of the Golden Steps. About ten yards from this archway, acting in unison by some unspoken signal, Locke and Jean broke into a sprint.

Through the arch, into the shadowed alley beyond; Locke knew they had just moments to hide themselves. They needed to be far enough from the courtyard to prevent any of the Sinspire attendants from glimpsing a scuffle. Past the backs of gardens and walled lawns they ran, scant yards from buildings where hundreds of the richest people in the Therin world were losing money for fun. At last they found two stacks of empty casks on either side of the alley - the most obvious ambush spot possible, but if their opponents thought they were hell-bent on escape, they might just ignore the possibility.

Jean had already vanished into his place. Locke pulled his boot dagger, feeling the hammer of his own heartbeat, and crouched behind the casks on his side of the alley. He threw his cloaked arm across his face, leaving only his eyes and forehead exposed.

The rapid slap of leather on stones, and then - two dark shapes flew past the piles of casks. Locke deliberately delayed his own movement half a heartbeat, allowing Jean to strike first. When the pursuer closest to Locke turned, startled by the sound of Jean’s attack on his companion, Locke slipped forward, dagger out, filled with grim elation at the thought of finally getting some answers to this business.

His grab for the attacker was good; he slipped his left arm around the man’s neck at the exact instant he shoved his blade up against the soft junction of neck and chin on the other side. ‘Drop your weapon or I’ll—’ was all he had time to say, however, before the man did the absolute worst thing possible. He jerked forward in an attempt to break Locke’s hold, perhaps reflexively, not realizing the angle at which Locke’s blade was poised. Whether it was supreme optimism or miserable foolishness, Locke would never know, as the man sliced half the contents of his neck open and died that instant, spewing blood. A weapon clattered to the stones from his limp fingers.

Locke put his hands up in disbelief and let the corpse drop, only to find himself facing Jean, who was breathing heavily over the unmoving form of his own opponent.

‘Wait a minute,’ said Locke, ‘you mean—’

‘Accident,’ said Jean. ‘I caught his knife, we fought a bit and he got it beneath his own rib cage.’

‘Gods damn it, Locke muttered, flicking blood from his right hand. ‘You try to keep a bastard alive and look what happens—’

‘Crossbows,’ said Jean. He pointed to the ground, where Locke’s adjusting eyes could see the dim shapes of two small hand crossbows. Alley-pieces, the sort of thing you used within ten yards or not at all. ‘Grab them. There may be more of them after us.’

‘Hell.’ Locke grabbed one of the bows and gingerly handed the other to Jean. The little quarrels might be poisoned; the thought of handling someone else’s envenomed weapon in the dark made his skin crawl. But Jean was right: they’d need the advantage if they had other pursuers.

‘I say discretion is a pastime for other people,’ said Locke. ‘Let’s run our arses off.’

They sprinted at a wild tear through the forgotten places of the Golden Steps, north to the edge of the vast Elderglass plateau, where they scrambled down flight after flight of nauseatingly wobbly wooden steps, glancing frantically above and below for pursuit or ambush. The world was a dizzy whirl around Locke by the middle of the staircase, painted in the surreal colours of fire and alien glass. Out on the harbour the fourth and final ship of the festival was bursting into incandescence, a sacrifice of wood and pitch and canvas before hundreds of small boats packed with priests and revellers.

Down to the feet of the stairs and across the wooden platforms of the inner docks they stumbled, past the occasional drunkard or beggar, waving their daggers and crossbows wildly. Before them was their pier, long and empty, home only to a long stack of crates. No beggars, no drunks. Their boat bobbed welcomingly on the waves, just a hundred feet away now, brightly lit by the glare of the inferno.

Stack of crates, Locke thought, and by then it was too late.

Two men stepped from the shadows as Locke and Jean passed, from the most obvious ambush spot possible.

Locke and Jean whirled together; only the fact that they were carrying their stolen crossbows in their hands gave them any chance to bring them up in time. Four arms flew out; four men standing close enough to hold hands drew on their targets. Four fingers quivered, each separated from their triggers by no more than the width of a single droplet of sweat.

Locke Lamora stood on the pier in Tal Verrar with the hot wind of a burning ship at his back and the cold bite of a loaded crossbow’s bolt at his neck.