The Lies of Locke Lamora - By Scott Lynch Page 0,41
every color from old-copper green to stormcloud black. Anyone actually working the waterfront in Camorr and on the nearby coast could tell you that wolf sharks are big aggressive bastards that like to jump.
Carefully caged, starved, and maddened by blood, wolf sharks are the key to the customary highlight of the Shifting Revel. Other cities have gladiatorial games; other cities pit men against animals. But only in Camorr can you see a specially armed gladiator (a contrarequialla) battle a live, leaping shark, and in Camorr only women are allowed by tradition to be contrarequialla.
This is the Teeth Show.
6
LOCKE COULDN’T tell if the four women were truly beautiful, but they were undeniably striking. They were all dark-skinned Camorri with muscles like farm girls, imposing even at a distance, and they wore next to nothing—tight black cotton shifts across their chests, wrestler’s loincloths, and thin leather gloves. Their black hair was pulled back under the traditional red bandannas and threaded with brass and silver bangles that caught the sunlight in chains of white flashes. The purpose of these bangles was a matter of argument; some claimed that they confused the poor eyesight of the sharks, while just as many claimed that their glare helped the monsters better sight their prey.
Each contrarequialla carried two weapons; a short javelin in one hand and a special axe in the other. These axes had grips enclosed by full handguards, making them difficult to lose; they were double-headed, with the expected curved blade on one side and a long, sturdy pick-head on the other. A skilled fighter usually tried to slash a shark’s fins and tail to nothing before making a kill; few but the very best could kill with anything but the spike. Wolf shark skin could be like tree bark.
Locke stared at the grim women and felt his usual melancholy admiration. They were, to his eyes, as mad as they were courageous.
“I know that’s Cicilia de Ricura there, on the far left.” Don Lorenzo was pointing the women out for Lukas Fehrwight’s benefit, taking a break from more than an hour of rapid negotiations. “She’s decent. And beside her is Aganesse, who carries her javelin but never, ever uses it. The other two, well, they must be new. At least new to the Revel.”
“It’s so unfortunate,” said the Doña, “that the Berangias sisters aren’t out there today, Master Fehrwight. They’re the best.”
“Probably the best there ever has been.” Don Salvara squinted to cut some of the glare rising off the water and tried to estimate the size of the sharks, barely visible as shadows within their cages. “Or ever will be. But they haven’t been at the Revel for the past few months.”
Locke nodded and chewed on the inside of one of his cheeks. As Locke Lamora, garrista of the Gentlemen Bastards and respectable sneak thief, he knew the Berangias twins personally. He also knew exactly where they’d been for those past few months.
Out on the water, the first fighter was taking her position. Contrarequialla fought across a series of stepping-stone platforms, each about two feet wide and raised half a foot off the water. These platforms were set out in a square grid, four or five feet apart, leaving plenty of room for the opposition to swim between them. The women would have to hop between these platforms at a rapid pace to strike out at the sharks while dodging leaps in return; a slip into the water was usually the end of the contest.
Beyond the line of shark cages (opened by chain pulleys connected to a barge well beyond the periphery of any possible shark activity) there was a little boat, crewed by (extremely well-paid) volunteer rowers and carrying the three traditional observers of any Teeth Show. First, there was a priest of Iono in his sea-green robes fringed with silver. Beside him there was a black-robed, silver-masked priestess of Aza Guilla, Lady of the Long Silence, Goddess of Death. Lastly, there was a physiker, whose presence had always struck Locke as an extremely optimistic gesture.
“Camorr!” The young woman—apparently Cicilia de Ricura—raised her weapons into the air over her head. The heavy murmur of the crowd subsided, leaving only the noise of water lapping against boats and breakwaters. Fifteen thousand watchers held their collective breath. “I dedicate this death to Duke Nicovante, our lord and patron!” Such was the traditional phrasing of the contrarequialla’s salute; “this death” could conveniently refer to either participant in the battle.