Red Seas Under Red Skies

  “I see,” said Stragos. “I would have preferred not to have her aware of my actual intentions—”

  “If there are any survivors in the Ghostwinds,” said Locke, “she can hardly speak of her role in the matter to them, can she? And if there are no survivors…who can she talk to at all?”

  “Indeed,” muttered Stragos.

  “However,” said Jean, “if the two of us don’t return quite soon, the Orchid will head for the open sea, and you’ll lose your one chance to make use of her.”

  “And I will have wasted the Messenger, and poisoned my reputation, and endured the abuse of your company, all for nothing. Yes, Tannen, I’m well aware of the angles of what you no doubt believe to be a terribly clever argument.”

  “Our antidote, then?”

  “You’ve not earned a final cure yet. But you’ll have the consequences further postponed.”

  Stragos pointed to one of the Eyes, who bowed and left the room. He returned a few moments later and held the door open for two people. The first was Stragos’ personal alchemist, carrying a domed silver serving tray. The second was Merrain.

  “Our two bright fires have returned,” she said. She was dressed in a long-sleeved gown that matched the sea-green portions of Stragos’ cape, and her slender waist was accented by a tight cloth-of-gold sash. Threaded into her hair was a circlet of red and blue rose blossoms.

  “Kosta and de Ferra have earned another temporary sip of life, my dear.” He held out his arm and she crossed over to him, taking his elbow in the light and friendly fashion of a chaperone rather than a lover.

  “Have they, now?”

  “I’ll tell you about it when we return to the gardens.”

  “Some sort of Festa Iono affair, Stragos? You’ve never struck me as the celebratory type,” said Locke.

  “For the sake of my officers,” said Stragos. “If I throw galas for them, the Priori spread rumors that I am profligate. If I do nothing, they whisper that I am austere and heartless. Regardless, my officers suffer far more in society when they have no private functions from which to exclude their jealous rivals. Thus I put my gardens to use, if nothing else.”

  “I weep again for your hardship,” said Locke. “Forced by cruel circumstance to throw garden parties.”

  Stragos smiled thinly and gestured at his alchemist. The man swept the dome from the silver tray, revealing two white-frosted crystal goblets full of familiar pale amber liquid.

  “You may have your antidote in pear cider tonight,” said the archon. “For old times’ sake.”

  “Oh, you funny old bastard.” Locke passed a goblet to Jean, emptied his in several gulps, and then tossed it into the air.

  “Heavens! I slipped.”

  The crystal goblet struck the stone floor with a loud clang rather than a shattering explosion into fragments. It bounced once and rolled into a corner, completely unharmed.

  “A little gift from the master alchemists.” Stragos looked extraordinarily amused. “Hardly Elderglass, but just the thing to deny rude guests their petty satisfactions.”

  Jean finished his own cider and set his glass back down on the bald man’s serving tray. One of the Eyes fetched the other goblet, and when they were both covered by the silver dome once again, Stragos dismissed his alchemist with a wave.

  “I…um…,” said Locke, but the man was already out the door.

  “This evening’s business is concluded,” said Stragos. “Merrain and I have a gala to return to. Kosta and de Ferra, you have the most important part of your task ahead of you. Please me…and I may just yet make it worth your while.”

  Stragos led Merrain to the door, turning only to speak to one of his Eyes. “Lock them in here for ten minutes. After that, escort them back to their boat. Return their weapons and see that they’re on their way. With haste.”

  “I…but…damn,” Locke sputtered as the door slammed closed behind the two Eyes.

  “Antidote,” said Jean. “That’s all that matters for now. Antidote.”

  “I suppose.” Locke put his head against one of the room’s stone walls. “Gods. I hope our visit to Requin goes more smoothly than this.”

  11

  “SERVICE ENTRANCE, you ignorant bastard!”

  The Sinspire bouncer came out of nowhere. He doubled Locke over his knee, knocking the wind out of him in one cruel slam, and hurled him back onto the gravel of the lantern-lit courtyard behind the tower. Locke hadn’t even stepped inside, merely approached the door after failing to spot anyone he could easily bribe for an audience with Selendri.

  “Oof,” he said as the ground made his acquaintance.

  Jean, guided more by loyal reflex than clear thinking, got involved as the bouncer came forth to offer Locke further punishment. The bouncer growled and swung a too-casual fist at Jean, who caught it in his right hand and then broke several of the bouncer’s ribs with the heel of his left. Before Locke could say anything, Jean kicked the bouncer in the groin and swept his legs out from beneath him.

  “Urrrrgh-ack,” the man said as the ground made his acquaintance.

  The next attendant out the door had a knife; Jean broke the fist that held it and bounced the attendant off the Sinspire wall like a handball from a stone court surface. The next six or seven attendants who surrounded them, unfortunately, had short swords and crossbows.

  “You have no idea who you’re fucking with,” said one of them.

  “Actually,” came a harsh feminine whisper from the service entrance, “I suspect they do.”

  Selendri wore a blue-and-red silk evening gown that must have cost as much as a gilded carriage. Her ruined arm was covered by a sleeve that led down to her brass hand, while the fine muscles and smooth skin of her other arm were bare, accentuated by gold and Elderglass bangles.

  “We caught them trying to steal into the service entrance, mistress,” said one of the attendants.

  “You caught us getting near the service entrance, you dumb bastard.” Locke rose to his knees. “Selendri, we need to—”

  “I’m sure you do,” she said. “Let them go. I’ll deal with them myself. Act as though nothing happened.”

  “But he…gods, I think he broke my ribs,” wheezed the first man Jean had dealt with. The other was unconscious.

  “If you agree that nothing happened,” said Selendri, “I’ll have you taken to a physiker. Did anything happen?”

  “Unnnh…no. No, mistress, nothing happened.”

  “Good.”

  As she turned to reenter the service area, Locke stumbled to his feet, clutching his stomach, and reached out to grab her gently by the shoulder. She whirled on him.

  “Selendri,” he whispered, “we cannot be seen on the gaming floors. We have—”

  “Powerful individuals rather upset about your failure to give them a return engagement?” She knocked his hand away.

  “Forgive me. And yes, that’s exactly it.”

  “Durenna and Corvaleur are on the fifth floor. You and I can take the climbing closet from the third.”

  “And Jerome?”

  “Stay here in the service area, Valora.” She pulled them both in through the service entrance so tray-bearing attendants, studiously ignoring the injured men on the ground, could get on with earning festival-night tips from the city’s least inhibited.

  “Thank you,” said Jean, taking a half-hidden spot behind tall wooden racks full of unwashed dishes.

  “I’ll give instructions to ignore you,” said Selendri. “As long as you ignore my people.”

  “I’ll be a saint,” said Jean.

  Selendri grabbed a passing attendant with no serving tray and whispered a few terse instructions into his ear. Locke caught the words “dog-leech” and “dock their pay.” Then he was following Selendri into the crowd on the ground floor, hunched over as though trying to shrink down beneath his cloak and cap, praying that the next and only person who’d recognize him would be Requin.

  12

  “SEVEN WEEKS,” said
the master of the Sinspire. “Selendri was so sure we’d never see you again.”

  “Three weeks down and three weeks back,” said Locke. “Barely spent a week in Port Prodigal itself.”

  “You certainly look as though you passed some time on deck. Working for your berth?”

  “Ordinary sailors attract much less notice than paying passengers.”

  “I suppose they do. Is that your natural hair color?”

  “I think so. Swap it as often as I have and you start to lose track.”

  The wide balcony doors on the eastern side of Requin’s office were open, but for a fine mesh screen to keep out insects. Through it, Locke could see the torchlike pyres of two ships in the harbor, surrounded by hundreds of specks of lantern-light that had to be spectators in smaller craft.

  “They’re burning four this year,” said Requin, noticing that the view had caught Locke’s attention. “One for each season. I think they’re just finishing the third. The fourth should go up soon, and then all will be well. Fewer people in the streets, and more crowding into the chance houses.”

  Locke nodded, and turned to admire what Requin had done with the suite of chairs he’d had crafted for him. He tried to keep a smirk of glee off his face, and managed to look only vaguely appreciative. The four replica chairs were placed around a thin-legged table in a matching style, holding bottles of wine and an artful flower arrangement.

  “Is that—”

  “A replica as well? I’m afraid so. Your gift spurred me to have it made.”

  “My gift. Speaking of which…”

  Locke reached beneath his cloak, removed the purse, and set it down atop Requin’s desk.

  “What’s this?”

  “A consideration,” said Locke. “There are an awful lot of sailors in Port Prodigal with more coins than card sense.”

  Requin opened the satchel and raised an eyebrow. “Handsome,” he said. “You really are trying very hard not to piss me off, aren’t you?”

  “I want my job,” said Locke. “Now more than ever.”

  “Let’s discuss your task, then. Does this Calo Callas still exist?”

  “Yes,” said Locke. “He’s down there.”

  “Then why the hell didn’t you bring him back with you?”

  “He’s out of his fucking mind,” said Locke.

  “Then he’s useless—”

  “No. Not useless. He feels persecuted, Requin. He’s delusional. He imagines that the Priori and the Artificers have agents on every corner in Port Prodigal, every ship, every tavern. He barely leaves his house.” Locke took pleasure at the speed with which he was conjuring an imaginary life for an imaginary man. “But what he does inside that house. What he has! Locks, hundreds of them. Clockwork devices. A private forge and bellows. He’s as insatiable about his trade as he ever was. It’s all he has left in the world.”

  “How is a madman’s detritus significant?” asked Selendri. She stood between two of Requin’s exquisite oil paintings, leaning against the wall with her arms folded.

  “I experimented with all kinds of things back when I thought I might have a chance to crack this tower’s vault. Acids, oils, abrasives, different types of picks and tools. I’d call myself a fair judge of mechanisms as well as lockbreaking. And the things this bastard can do, the things he builds and invents, even with a magpie mind—” Locke spread his hands and shrugged theatrically. “Gods!”

  “What will it take to bring him here?”

  “He wants protection,” said Locke. “He’s not averse to leaving Port Prodigal. Hell, he’s eager to. But he imagines death at every step. He needs to feel that someone with power is reaching out to put him under their cloak.”

  “Or you could just hit him over the head and haul him back in chains,” said Selendri.

  “And risk losing his actual cooperation forever? Worse—deal with him on a three-week voyage after he wakes up? His mind is delicate as glass, Selendri. I wouldn’t recommend knocking it around.”

  Locke cracked his knuckles. Time to sweeten the pitch.

  “Look, you want this man back in Tal Verrar. He’ll drive you mad. You may even have to appoint some sort of nurse or minder for him, and you’ll definitely have to hide him from the Artificers. But the things he can do could make it worthwhile a hundred times over. He’s the best lockbreaker I’ve ever seen. He just needs to believe that I truly represent you.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “You have a wax sigil, on your ledgers and letters of credit. I’ve seen it, making my deposits. Put your seal on a sheet of parchment—”

  “And incriminate myself,” said Requin. “No.”

  “Already thought about that,” said Locke. “Don’t write a name on it. Don’t date it, don’t sign it to anyone, don’t even add your usual ‘R.’ Just write something pleasant and totally nonspecific. ‘Look forward to comfort and hospitality.’ Or, ‘Expect every due consideration.’”

  “Trite bullshit. I see,” said Requin. He removed a sheet of parchment from a desk drawer, touched a quill to ink, and scrawled a few sentences. After sprinkling the letter with alchemical desiccant, he looked back at Locke. “And this childish device will be sufficient?”

  “As far as his fears are concerned,” said Locke, “Callas is a child. He’ll grab at this like a baby grabbing for a tit.”

  “Or a grown man,” muttered Selendri.

  Requin smiled. Gloved as always, he removed the glass cylinder from a small lamp atop his desk, revealing a candle at its heart. With this, he heated a stick of black wax, which he allowed to drip into a pool on the sheet of parchment. At last, he withdrew a heavy signet ring from a jacket pocket and pressed it into the wax.

  “Your bait, Master Kosta.” He passed the sheet over. “The fact that you’re skulking at the service entrance and trying to hide beneath that cloak both suggest you’re not planning on staying in the city for long.”

  “Back south in a day or two, as soon as my shipmates finish offloading the, ah, completely legitimate and responsibly acquired cargo we picked up in Port Prodigal.” That was a safe lie; with dozens of ships offloading in the city every day, at least a few of them had to be carrying goods from criminal sources.

  “And you’ll bring Callas back with you.”

  “Yes.”

  “If the sigil isn’t sufficient, promise him anything else reasonable. Coin, drugs, drink, women. Men. Both. And if that’s not enough, take Selendri’s suggestion and let me worry about his state of mind. Don’t come back empty-handed.”

  “As you wish.”

  “What then, for you and the archon? With Callas in hand, you’ll likely be back to this scheme for my vault….”

  “I don’t know,” said Locke. “I’ll be at least six or seven weeks away before I can come back with him; why don’t you ponder how I can best serve you in that time? Whatever plan you deem suitable. If you want me to turn him over to the archon as a double agent, fine. If you want me to tell the archon that he died or something…I just don’t know. My skull aches. You’re the man with the big picture. I’ll look forward to new orders.”

  “If you can stay this polite,” said Requin, hefting the purse, “bring me Callas, and continue to be so satisfied with your place in the scheme of things…you may well have a future in my service.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “Go. Selendri will show you out. I still have a busy night lying in wait for me.”

  Locke let a bit of his actual relief show in his expression. This web of lies was growing so convoluted, so branching, and so delicate that a moth’s fart might knock it to pieces—but the two meetings of the night had bought what he and Jean needed.

  Another two months of life from Stragos, and another two months of tolerance from Requin. All they needed to do now was steal back to their boat without complication, and row themselves to safety.

  13

  “WE’RE BEING followed,” said Jean as they crossed the Sinspire service courtyard. They wer
e headed back toward the maze of alleys and hedgerows from which they’d come, the little-used block of gardens and service paths behind the lesser chance houses. Their boat was tied up at a pier along the inner docks of the Great Gallery; they’d snuck up to the top of the Golden Steps on rickety stairs, ignoring the lift-boxes and streets on which a thousand complications might lurk.

  “Where are they?”

  “Across the street. Watching this courtyard. They moved when we moved, just now.”

  “Shit,” muttered Locke. “If only this city’s entire population of lurking assholes shared 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.