The Lies of Locke Lamora - By Scott Lynch Page 0,228

matter?” Locke reached out and carefully took the dagger from the dog-leech’s hand; its blade glowed red. “Afraid of fire? Why ever should that be?” Locke grinned, an expression utterly without humor.

“Fire’s the only thing that’s going to keep you from bleeding to death.”

Jean rose from the sleeping pallet and knelt on the Falconer’s left arm. He pressed it down at the wrist, and Locke slowly came over to stand beside him, hatchet in one hand and glowing knife in the other.

“I heartily approve, in theory,” said Ibelius, “but in practice I believe I shall… absent myself.”

“By all means, Master Ibelius,” said Locke.

The curtain swished, and the dog-leech was gone.

“Now,” said Locke, “I can accept that it would be a bad idea to kill you. But when I finally let you slink back to Karthain, you’re going as an object lesson. You’re going to remind your pampered, twisted, arrogant fucking brethren about what might happen when they fuck with someone’s friends in Camorr.”

The blade of Jean’s hatchet whistled down, severing the Bondsmage’s little finger of his left hand. The Falconer screamed.

“That’s Nazca,” said Locke. “Remember Nazca?”

He swung down again; the ring finger of the left hand rolled in the dirt, and blood spurted.

“That’s Calo,” said Locke.

Another swing, and the middle finger was gone. The Falconer writhed and pulled at his bonds, whipping his head from side to side in agony.

“Galdo, too. Are these names familiar, Master Bondsmage? These little footnotes to your fucking contract? They were awfully real to me. Now this finger coming up—this one’s Bug. Actually, Bug probably should have been the little finger, but what the hell.” The hatchet fell again; the index finger of the Falconer’s left hand joined its brethren in bloody exile.

“Now the rest,” said Locke, “the rest of your fingers and both of your thumbs, those are for me and Jean.”

3

IT WAS tedious work; they had to reheat the dagger several times to cauterize all the wounds. The Falconer was quivering with pain by the time they’d finished; his eyes were closed and his teeth clenched. The air in the enclosed room stank of burnt flesh and scalded blood.

“Now,” said Locke, sitting on the Falconer’s chest. “Now it’s time to talk.”

“I cannot,” whispered the Bondsmage. “I cannot… betray my client’s secrets.”

“You no longer have a client,” said Locke. “You no longer serve Capa Raza; he hired a Bondsmage, not a fingerless freak with a dead bird for a best friend. When I removed your fingers, I removed your obligations to Raza. At least, that’s the way I see it.”

“Go to hell,” the Falconer spat.

“Oh, good. You’ve decided to do it the hard way.” Locke smiled again and tossed the now-cool dagger to Jean, who set it over the flame and began to heat it once again. “If you were any other man, I’d threaten your balls next. I’d make all sorts of cracks about eunuchs; but I think you could bear that. You’re not most men. I think the only thing I can take from you that would truly pain you to the depths of your soul would be your tongue.”

The Bondsmage stared at him, his lips quivering. “Please,” he croaked hoarsely, “have pity, for the gods’ sakes. Have pity. We had a contract. I was merely carrying it out.”

“When that contract became my friends,” said Locke, “you exceeded your mandate.”

“Please,” whispered the Falconer.

“No,” said Locke. “I will cut it out; I will cauterize it while you lay there writhing. I will make you a mute—I’m guessing you might eventually be able to conjure some magic without fingers, but without a tongue?”

“No! Please!”

“Then speak,” said Locke. “Tell me what I want to know.”

“Gods,” sobbed the Falconer, “gods forgive me. Ask. Ask your questions.”

“If I catch you in a lie,” said Locke, “it’s balls first, and then the tongue. Don’t presume on my patience. Why did Capa Raza want us dead?”

“Money,” whispered the Falconer. “That vault of yours; I spied it out while I was first making my observations of you. He’d intended just to use you as a distraction for Capa Barsavi; when we discovered how much money you’d already stolen, he wanted to have it—to pay for me. Almost another month of my services. To help him finish his tasks here in the city.”

“You murdered my fucking friends,” said Locke, “and you tried to murder Jean and myself, for the metal in our vault?”

“You seemed the type to hold a grudge,” coughed the Falconer. “Isn’t that funny? We figured we’d be better