Locke wasted half a second wondering how Ferenz had gotten back upstairs so quickly, and another half second realizing that the man in the doorway wasn’t Ferenz.
He giggled, briefly but uncontrollably.
The night wind slammed the shutter against the open window behind him.
The woman made a noise somewhere in the back of her throat; a noise not unlike a cat falling down a deep, dark well.
“You filthy bitch,” the man said, his speech a thick slow drawl. “Filthy, filthy bitch. I jus’ knew it. Knew you weren’ alone.” He spat, then shook his head at Locke and Jean. “Two guys at once, too. Damn. Go figure. Guess it takes that many t’ replace me.
“Hope you boys had y’rselves a fun time with ’nother man’s woman,” he continued, drawing nine inches of blackened-steel stiletto from his left boot, “’cause now I’m gonna make you women.”
Jean spread his feet and moved his left hand under his cloak, ready to draw the Sisters. With his right hand, he nudged Locke a pace behind him.
“Hold it!” Locke cried, waving both of his hands. “I know what this looks like, but you’ve got the wrong idea, friend.” He pointed at the petrified woman clinging to the hanging bed. “She came before we came!”
“Gathis,” hissed the woman. “Gathis, these men attacked me! Get them! Save me!”
Gathis charged at Jean, growling. He held his knife out before him in the grip of an experienced fighter, but he was still drunk and he was still angry. Locke dodged out of the way as Jean caught Gathis by his wrist, stepped inside his reach, and sent him sprawling to the floor with a quick sweep of the legs.
There was an unappetizing snapping noise, and the blade fell from Gathis’ grip; Jean had retained a firm hold on his wrist, and then twisted as the man went down on his back. For a moment Gathis was too bewildered to cry out; then the pain broke through to his dulled senses and he roared.
Jean hoisted him up off the ground with one quick yank by the front of his tunic, and then he shoved Gathis with all his might into the stone wall to the left of the window. The big man’s head bounced off the hard surface and he stumbled forward; the blurred arc of Jean’s right fist met his jaw with a crack, abruptly canceling his forward momentum. He flopped to the ground, boneless as a sack of dough.
“Yes!” cried the woman. “Now throw him out the window!”
“For the love of the gods, madam,” snapped Locke. “Can you please pick one man in your bedroom to cheer for and stick with him?”
“If he’s found dead in the alley beneath your window,” said Jean. “I’ll come back and give you the same.”
“And if you tell anyone that we came through here,” added Locke, “you’ll only wish he’d come back and given you the same.”
“Gathis will remember,” she screeched. “He’ll certainly remember!”
“A big man like him? Please.” Jean made a show of arranging his cloak and redonning his hat. “He’ll say it was eight men and they all had clubs.”
Locke and Jean hurried out the door through which Gathis had entered, which led to the landing of the fifth-floor steps on the north side of the tower. With the trellis damaged, there was nothing else for it but to proceed quickly down on foot and pray to the Crooked Warden. Locke drew the door closed behind them, leaving the bewildered woman sprawled on her hanging bed with the unconscious Gathis curled up beside her window.
“The luck of the gods must certainly be with us,” said Locke as they hurried down the creaking steps. “At least we didn’t lose these stupid fucking hats.”
A small dark shape hissed past them, wings fluttering, a sleek shadow visible as it swooped between them and the lights of the city.
“Well,” Locke added, “for better or worse, from this point on, I suppose we’re under the Falconer’s wing.”
INTERLUDE
Up the River
1
Jean was away at the House of Glass Roses the afternoon that Locke found out he was going to be sent up the Angevine to live on a farm for several months.
Hard rains were pounding Camorr that Idler’s Day, so Chains had taken Locke, Calo, and Galdo down into the dining room to teach them how to play Rich-Man, Beggar-Man, Soldier-Man, Duke-a card game that revolved around attempting to cheat one’s neighbor out of every last bent copper at his disposal. Naturally, the boys took to it quickly.
“Two, three, and five of Spires,” said Calo, “plus the Sigil of the Twelve.”
“Die screaming, half-wit,” said Galdo. “I’ve got a run of Chalices and the Sigil of the Sun.”
“Won’t do you any good, quarter-wit. Hand over your coins.”
“Actually,” said Father Chains, “a Sigil run beats a Sigil stand, Calo. Galdo would have you. Except-”
“Doesn’t anyone care what I’ve got in my hand?” asked Locke.
“Not particularly,” said Chains, “since nothing in the game tops a full Duke’s Hand.” He set his cards on the table and cracked his knuckles with great satisfaction.
“That’s cheating,” said Locke. “That’s six times in a row, and you’ve had the Duke’s Hand for two of them.”
“Of course I’m cheating,” said Chains. “Game’s no fun unless you cheat. When you figure out how I’m cheating, then I’ll know you’re starting to improve.”
“You shouldn’t have told us that,” said Calo.
“We’ll practice all week,” said Galdo.
“We’ll be robbing you blind,” said Locke, “by next Idler’s Day.”
“I don’t think so,” said Chains, chuckling, “since I’m sending you off on a three-month apprenticeship on Penance Day.”
“You’re what?”
“Remember last year, when I sent Calo off to Lashain to pretend to be an initiate in the Order of Gandolo? And Galdo went to Ashmere to slip into the Order of Sendovani? Well, your turn’s come. You’ll be going up the river to be a farmer for a few months.”
“A farmer?”
“Yes, you might have heard of them.” Chains gathered the cards from around the table and shuffled them. “They’re where our food comes from.”
“Yes, but…I don’t know anything about farming.”
“Of course not. You didn’t know how to cook, serve, dress like a gentleman, or speak Vadran when I bought you, either. So now you’re going to learn something else new.”
“Where?”
“Up the Angevine, seven or eight miles. Little place called Villa Senziano. It’s tenant farmers, mostly beholden to the duke or some of the minor swells from the Alcegrante. I’ll dress as a priest of Dama Elliza, and you’ll be my initiate, being sent off to work the earth as part of your service to the goddess. It’s what they do.”
“But I don’t know anything about the Order of Dama Elliza.”
“You won’t need to. The man you’ll be staying with understands that you’re one of my little bastards. The story’s just for everyone else.”
“What,” said Calo, “are we going to do in the meantime?”
“You’ll mind the temple. I’ll only be gone two days; the Eyeless Priest can be sick and locked away in his chambers. Don’t sit the steps while I’m away; people always get sympathetic if I’m out of sight for a bit, especially if I cough and hack when I return. You two and Jean can amuse yourselves as you see fit, so long as you don’t make a bloody mess of the place.”
“But by the time I get back,” said Locke, “I’ll be the worst card player in the temple.”