The Lies of Locke Lamora - By Scott Lynch Page 0,240

entire city die. For propriety’s sake, Doña Vorchenza, for propriety’s sake—sink that gods-damned ship. I beg you.”

She stared at him over the edges of her half-moon optics, then turned to Reynart. “Captain,” she said slowly, “go to the lantern station on the embarkation platform. Flash messages to the Arsenal and the Dregs.”

She folded her hands over her stomach and sighed. “On my authority, in the name of Duke Nicovante, sink the Satisfaction and shoot down any survivor who tries to reach shore.”

Locke sighed with relief. “Thank you, Doña Vorchenza. Now—my elevator?”

“Your elevator, Master Thorn.” She actually ground her teeth together for a second. “As promised. I’ll have one made ready for you without delay. If the gods should give you Capa Raza before my men find him… may they give you strength.”

“I’m going to miss you, Doña Vorchenza,” said Locke. “And you as well, my lord and lady Salvara—all apologies for getting most of your fortune buried under shit. I hope we can still be friends.”

“Set foot in our house again,” said Sofia, “and you’ll become a permanent fixture in my laboratory.”

7

BLUE LIGHT flashed from the embarkation platform of Raven’s Reach; even against the shifting glimmer of Falselight, it stood out well enough to be seen at the relay station atop the Palace of Patience. In moments, shutters were falling rapidly open and closed over signal lanterns; the message passed through the air over the heads of thousands of revelers and arrived at its destinations—the Arsenal, the South Needle, the Dregs.

“Holy mother of shit,” said the watch-sergeant in the tower at the very tip of the South Needle, blinking to clear his eyes, wondering if he’d counted the signal flashes right. He slipped his illicit Day of Changes wineskin beneath his chair with pangs of guilt.

“Watch-sergeant,” said his younger companion, “that ship’s up to something awful funny.”

Out on the water of Old Harbor, the Satisfaction was slowly turning to larboard; sailors could just barely be seen atop the yards of the main and foremasts, preparing to unfurl topsails. Dozens of small dark shapes were moving on deck, doubly lit by the glow of yellow lamps and the glare of Falselight.

“She’s casting, sir. She’s going to make for sea—where’d all those people come from?” said the younger watchman.

“I don’t know,” said the sergeant, “but the signal’s just gone up. Merciful gods, they’re going to sink that yellow-lit bitch.”

Pinpoints of bright orange light began to erupt around the periphery of the Dregs; each little engine-tower had emergency oil lamps that served to signal when they were both manned and ready for action. Drums beat within the Arsenal, and whistles sounded from across the city, above the low echoing murmur of the Day of Changes crowds.

One of the engines on the Dregs’ shore loosed with an echoing crash. The stone was a blurred shadow in the air; it missed by yards and raised a white fountain on the frigate’s starboard side.

The next engine to let fly hurled an arc of orange-white fire that seemed to hang in the sky, a hypnotic banner of burning light. The South Needle watchmen stared in awe as it crashed down onto the Satisfaction’s deck, spraying hot tendrils in every direction. Men ran frantically about on the deck, some of them obviously on fire. One leapt from the vessel’s side, plunging into the water like a burning cinder thrown into a puddle.

“Gods, that’s fire-oil,” said the younger watchman. “It won’t stop burning even down there.”

“Well, even sharks like cooked meat,” said the sergeant with a chuckle. “Poor bastards.”

A stone crashed against the side of the frigate, shattering wooden rails and sending splinters flying. Men whirled and screamed and fell to the deck; the fire was rising into the sails and rigging, despite the frantic efforts of the Satisfaction’s crew to control it with sand. Another fire-barrel exploded against the quarterdeck; the men and women at the wheel were engulfed in a roaring nimbus of white flame. They didn’t even have time to scream.

Stones battered the ship and tore through her few fluttering sails; fires burned out of control at her bow, her stern, and amidships. Fingers of orange and red and white capered about the decks and rose into the sky, along with smoke in several colors. Under the arc of a dozen throwing-engines, the unarmed and nearly motionless frigate never had a chance. Five minutes after the signal had flashed forth from Raven’s Reach, the Satisfaction was a pyre—a mountain of red-and-white flame reaching up from the