The Lies of Locke Lamora - By Scott Lynch Page 0,78
a wiry old fellow with faded shark tattoos running up his neck and his cheeks all the way to his temples, reached out; they grasped left forearms. “Heard about Tesso?”
“Yeah, hullo yourself, Bernell. One of the Gray Faces told us on the way down. So it’s true? Nailed up, balls, the whole bit?”
“Balls, the whole bit. You can imagine how the boss feels about it. Speaking of which, Nazca left orders. Just this morning—next time you came by she wanted to see you. Said not to let you pay your taxes until she’d had a word. You are here for taxes, right?”
Locke shook a little gray purse; Jean’s twenty solons plus Harza’s sixteen and change. “Here to do our civic duty, indeed.”
“Good. Not passing many folks for any other reason. Look, I know you’ve got the distance and Nazca’s a friend and all, but maybe you want to take it real easy today, right? Lots of pezon around, obvious and not so obvious. Tight as it’s ever been. Capa’s making inquiries with some of the Full Crowns right now, as regards their whereabouts last night.”
“Inquiries?”
“In the grand old fashion. So mind your manners and don’t make any sudden moves, right?”
“Savvy,” said Locke. “Thanks for the warning.”
“No trouble. Crossbow bolts cost money. Shame to waste them on the likes of you.”
Bernell waved them through, and they strolled down the wooden walkway, which was about a hundred yards long. It led to the stern of the wide, motionless vessel, where the timbers of the outer hull had been cut away and replaced with a pair of iron-reinforced witchwood doors. Another pair of guards stood here, one male and one female, the dark circles under their eyes plainly evident. The woman knocked four times at their approach, and the doors swung inward just a few seconds later. Stifling a yawn, the female guard leaned back against the outer wall and pulled the hood of her oilcloak up over her head. The dark clouds were sweeping in from the north, and the heat of the sun was starting to fade.
The reception hall of the Floating Grave was nearly four times Locke’s height, as the cramped horizontal decks of the old galleon had been torn out long ago, save for the upper castle and waist decks, which now served as roofs. The floor and walls were coffee-colored hardwood; the bulkheads were hung with black and red tapestries on which shark’s-teeth border patterns were embroidered in gold and silver thread.
A half dozen bravos stood facing the Gentlemen Bastards, crossbows leveled. These men and women wore leather bracers and leather doublets over silk tunics reinforced with light metal bands; their necks were girded with stiff leather collars. A more genteel foyer would have been decorated with glow-lamps and flower arrangements; the walls of this one held wicker baskets of crossbow quarrels and racks of spare blades.
“Ease up,” said a young woman standing behind the gaggle of guards. “I know they’re suspicious as hell, but I don’t see a Gray King among ’em.”
She wore men’s breeches and a loose black silk blouse with billowing sleeves, under a ribbed leather dueling harness that looked to have seen more use than storage. Her iron-shod boots (a taste she had never lost) clicked against the floor as she stepped between the sentries. Her welcoming smile didn’t quite reach all the way to her eyes, which darted nervously behind the lenses of her plain, black-rimmed optics.
“My apologies for the reception, loves,” said Nazca Barsavi, addressing all the Bastards but placing a hand on Locke’s left shoulder. She was a full two inches taller than he was. “And I know it’s cramped in here, but I need the four of you to wait around. Garristas only. Papa’s in a mood.”
There was a muffled scream from behind the doors that led to the inner chambers of the Floating Grave, followed by the faint murmur of raised voices—shouts, cursing, another scream.
Nazca rubbed her temples, pushed back a few stray curls of her black hair, and sighed. “He’s making a vigorous case for… full disclosure from some of the Full Crowns. He’s got Sage Kindness in there with him.”
“Thirteen gods,” said Calo. “We’re happy to wait.”
“Indeed.” Galdo reached into his coat and pulled out a slightly soggy deck of playing cards. “We can certainly keep ourselves entertained out here. Indefinitely, if need be.”
At the sight of a Sanza brother offering cards, every guard in the room took a step back; some of them visibly struggled with