The Lies of Locke Lamora - By Scott Lynch Page 0,87

managed to get them the rooms on the seventh floor of the Broken Tower.

The night was dark and full of rain, and none of the gang were particularly eager to make their way back onto the creaking exterior stairs that staggered down the north side of the tower. Hissing rain rattled the window shutters, and the wind made an eerie rising-and-falling sigh as it passed over the gaps and crevices in the old tower. The Gentlemen Bastards sat on floor cushions in the light of paper lanterns and nursed the last of their beer, the pale sweet sort that most Camorr natives preferred to the bitter Verrari dark. The air was stuffy, but at least tolerably dry.

Locke had given them the whole story over dinner.

“Well,” said Galdo, “this is the damnedest damn thing that ever dammed things up for us.”

“I say again,” said Jean, “that we should pull an early blow-off on the Don Salvara game and get ready to ride out a storm. This Gray King business is getting scary, and we can’t have our attention diverted if Locke’s going to be mixed up at the middle of things.”

“Where do we cut ourselves off?” asked Calo.

“We cut ourselves off now,” said Jean. “Now, or after we get one more note out of the don. No later.”

“Mmmm.” Locke stared down at the dregs in the bottom of his tin cup. “We’ve worked hard for this one. I’m confident we can run it for another five or ten thousand crowns, at least. Maybe not the twenty-five thousand we were hoping to squeeze out of Salvara, but enough to make ourselves proud. I got the crap kicked out of me, and Bug jumped off a building for this money, you know.”

“And got rolled two miles inside a bloody barrel!”

“Now, Bug,” said Galdo, “it’s not as though the nasty old barrel jumped you in an alley and forced you to crawl inside it. And I concur with Jean. I said it this afternoon, Locke. Even if you won’t seriously consider using them, can we at least make some arrangements to get you under cover in a hurry? Maybe even out of town?”

“I still can’t believe I’m hearing a Sanza counsel caution,” Locke said with a grin. “I thought we were richer and cleverer than everyone else.”

“You’ll hear it again and again when there’s a chance you’ll get your throat slit, Locke.” Calo picked up his brother’s argument. “I’ve changed my mind about the Gray King, that’s for damn sure. Maybe the lone lunatic does have it over the three thousand of us. You might be one of his targets. And if Barsavi wants you even tighter with his inner circle, it invites further trouble.”

“Can we set aside talk of slitting throats, just for a moment?” Locke rose and turned toward the shuttered seaward window. He pretended to stare out of it with his hands folded behind his back. “Who are we, after all? I admit I was almost ready to jump into the gods-damned bay when the capa sprang this on me. But I’ve had time to think, so get this straight—we’ve got the old fox dead to rights. We’ve got him in the palms of our hands. Honestly, boys. We’re so good at what we do that he’s asking the Thorn of fucking Camorr to marry his daughter. We’re so far in the clear it’s comical.”

“Nonetheless,” said Jean, “it’s a complication that could mess up our arrangements forever, not an accomplishment we can crow about.”

“Of course we can crow about it, Jean. I’m going to crow about it right now. Don’t you see? This is nothing we don’t do every day. It’s a plain old Gentlemen Bastards sort of job—only we’ll have Nazca working with me to pull it off as well. We can’t lose. I’m no more likely to marry her than I am to be named Duke Nicovante’s heir tomorrow morning.”

“Do you have a plan?” Jean’s eyes said he was curious but wary.

“Not even remotely. I don’t have the first damned clue what we’re going to do. But all my best plans start just like this.” Locke tipped the last of his beer down his throat and tossed the tin cup against the wall. “I’ve had my beer and I’ve had my apricot tarts, and I say the hell with them both, Gray King and Capa Barsavi. Nobody’s going to scare us out of our Don Salvara game, and nobody’s going to hitch me and Nazca against our will. We’ll