The Lies of Locke Lamora - By Scott Lynch Page 0,11

and see to the doors, will you?”

The two robed boys set down the copper kettle and moved to one of the tapestries. Working together, they swept it aside and pulled at a concealed device. Some great mechanism creaked in the sanctuary walls, and the twin doors leading out to the temple steps began to draw inward. When they finished sliding together with the scrape of stone against stone, the alchemical globe suddenly flared into brighter luminescence.

“Now,” said the Eyeless Priest as he knelt, letting a great deal of slack chain gather in little steel mounds about him, “come over here, Locke Lamora, and let’s see if you have any of the gifts necessary to become an initiate of this temple.”

With Father Chains on his knees, Locke and he were roughly forehead to forehead. In response to Chains’ beckoning hands, Locke stepped close and waited. The priest wrinkled his nose.

“I see that your former master remains less than fastidious about the pungency of his wards; no matter. That will soon be rectified. For now, simply give me your hands, like so.” Chains firmly but gently guided Locke’s small hands until the boy’s palms rested over Chains’ blindfold. “Now… merely close your eyes and concentrate… concentrate. Let whatever virtuous thoughts you have within you bubble to the surface, let the warmth of your generous spirit flow forth from your innocent hands. Ah, yes, like that…”

Locke was half-alarmed and half-amused, but the lines of Father Chains’ weathered face drew downward, and his mouth soon hung open in beatific anticipation.

“Ahhhhhhh,” the priest whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “Yes, yes, you do have some talent… some power… I can feel it… It might almost be… a miracle!”

At that, Chains jerked his head back, and Locke jumped in the opposite direction. His chains clanking, the priest lifted manacled hands to his blindfold and yanked it off with a flourish. Locke recoiled, unsure of what eyeless sockets might look like, but the priest’s eyes were quite normal. In fact, Chains squinted in pain and rubbed them several times, wincing at the glare of the alchemical globe.

“Ahhhh-ha-ha-ha!” he cried, finally holding out his hands toward Locke. “I’m healed! I can see! once! more!”

Locke stared, gaping like a slackwit for the second time that night, unsure of what to say. Behind him, the two hooded boys started to giggle, and Locke’s eyebrows bent inward in suspicion.

“You’re not… really blind,” he said.

“And you’re clearly not stupid!” Chains cried, leaping up with a glee that brought wet-sounding pops from his kneecaps. He waved his manacled hands like a bird trying to take flight. “Calo! Galdo! Get these damn things off my wrists so we can count our daily blessings.”

The two hooded boys hurried over and did something to the manacles that Locke couldn’t quite follow; they slid open and fell to the floor with a jarring clatter. Chains gingerly rubbed the skin that had been beneath them; it was as white as the meat of a fresh fish.

“You’re not… really a priest!” Locke added while the older man caressed some color back into his forearms.

“Oh no,” Chains said, “I am a priest. Just not a priest of, um, Perelandro. Nor are my initiates initiates of Perelandro. Nor will you be an initiate of Perelandro. Locke Lamora, say hello to Calo and Galdo Sanza.”

The white-robed boys swept back their hoods, and Locke saw that they were twins, perhaps a year or two older than himself and far sturdier-looking. They had the olive skin and black hair of the true Camorri. Their identical long, hook-ended noses, however, were something of an anomaly. Smiling, they joined hands and bowed in unison from the waist.

“Um, hi,” Locke said. “Which of you is which?”

“Today, I am Galdo,” said the one on Locke’s left.

“Tomorrow, I will probably be Galdo,” said the other one.

“Or perhaps we’ll both want to be Calo,” added the one who had first spoken.

“In time,” Father Chains interrupted, “you’ll learn to tell them apart by the number of dents I’ve kicked in their respective asses; one of them always manages to be ahead of the other, somehow.” He stood behind Locke and placed both of his wide, heavy hands on Locke’s shoulders. “Idiots, this is Locke Lamora. As you can see, I’ve just bought him from your old benefactor, the master of Shades’ Hill.”

“We remember you,” said presumed-Galdo.

“A Catchfire orphan,” said presumed-Calo.

“Father Chains bought us just after you arrived,” they said in unison, grinning.

“Knock that bullshit off,” Father Chains said, his voice somehow