“Which village?”
Chains favored him with a crooked smile. “Villa Senziano.”
“Oh.”
“Gods, it was a whole pile of us that went.” The horses and the cart rattled down the road for a few long moments before Chains continued. “There were three of us that came back. Or at least got out of it.”
“Only three?”
“That I know of.” Chains scratched at his beard. “One of them is the man I’m going to be leaving you with. Vandros. A good fellow; not book-smart but very wise in the everyday sense. He did his twenty-five years, and the duke gave him a spot of land as a tenancy.”
“Tenancy?”
“Most common folk outside the city don’t own their own land any more than city renters own their buildings. An old soldier with a tenancy gets a nice spot of land to farm until he dies; it’s a sort of allowance from the duke.” Chains chuckled. “Given in exchange for one’s youth and health.”
“You didn’t do the twenty-five, I’m guessing.”
“No.” Chains fiddled with his beard a bit more, an old nervous gesture. “Damn, I wish I could have a smoke. It’s a very frowned-on thing in the order of the Dama, mind you. No, I took sick after a battle. Something more than just the usual shits and sore feet. A wasting fever. I couldn’t march and I was like to die, so they left me behind…myself and many others. In the care of some itinerant priests of Perelandro.”
“But you didn’t die.”
“Clever lad,” said Chains, “to deduce that from such slender evidence after living with me for just three years.”
“And what happened?”
“A great many things,” said Chains. “And you know how it ends. I wound up in this cart, riding north and entertaining you.”
“Well, what happened to the third man from your village?”
“Him? Well,” said Chains, “he always had his head on right. He made banneret sergeant not long after I got laid up with the fever. At the Battle of Nessek, he helped young Nicovante hold the line together when old Nicovante took an arrow right between his eyes. He lived, got elevated, and served Nicovante in the next few wars that came their way.”
“And where is he?”
“At this very moment? How should I know? But,” said Chains, “later this afternoon, he’ll be giving Jean Tannen his usual afternoon weapons lesson at the House of Glass Roses.”
“Oh,” said Locke.
“Funny old world,” said Chains. “Three farmers became three soldiers; three soldiers became one farmer, one baron, and one thieving priest.”
“And now I’m to become a farmer, for a while.”
“Yes. Useful training indeed. But not just that.”
“What else?”
“Another test, my boy. Just another test.”
“Which is?”
“All these years, you’ve had me looking over you. You’ve had Calo and Galdo, and Jean, and Sabetha from time to time. You’ve gotten used to the temple as a home. But time’s a river, Locke, and we’ve always drifted farther down it than we think.” He smiled down at Locke with real affection. “I can’t stand watch on you forever, boy. Now we need to see what you can do when you’re off in a strange new place, all on your own.”
CHAPTER EIGHT. THE FUNERAL CASK
1
IT BEGAN LIKE this-with the slow, steady beat of mourning drums and the slow cadence of marchers moving north from the Floating Grave, red torches smoldering in their hands, a double line of bloodred light stretched out beneath the low dark clouds.
At its heart was Vencarlo Barsavi, Capa of Camorr, with a son at either hand. Before him was a covered casket draped in black silk and cloth of gold, carried at either side by six pallbearers-one for each of the twelve Therin gods-dressed in black cloaks and black masks. At Barsavi’s back was a huge wooden cask on a cart pulled by another six men, with a black-shrouded priestess of the Nameless Thirteenth close behind.
The drums echoed against stone walls; against stone streets and bridges and canals; the torches cast reflections of fire in every window and shred of Elderglass they passed. Folk looked on in apprehension, if they looked on at all; some bolted their doors and drew shutters over their windows as the funeral procession passed. This is how things are done in Camorr, for the rich and the powerful; the slow mournful march to the Hill of Whispers, the interment, the ceremony, and then the wild, tearful celebration afterward. A toast on behalf of the departed; a bittersweet revel for those not yet taken for judgment by Aza Guilla, Lady of the Long Silence. The funeral cask is what fuels this tradition.
The lines of marchers left the Wooden Waste just after the tenth hour of the evening and marched into the Cauldron, where no urchin or drunkard dared to get in their way, where gangs of cutthroats and Gaze addicts stood in silent attention as their master and his court walked past.
Through Coalsmoke they marched, and then north into the Quiet, as silvery mist rose warm and clinging from the canals around them. Not a single yellowjacket crossed their path; not one constable even caught sight of the procession-arrangements had been made to keep them busy elsewhere that night. The east belonged to Barsavi and his long lines of torches, and the farther north he went the more honest families bolted their doors and doused their lights and prayed that the business of the marchers lay far away from them.
Had there been many staring eyes, they might have noticed that the procession had already failed to turn toward the Hill of Whispers; that it had instead gone north and snaked toward the western tip of the Rust-water district, where the great abandoned structure called the Echo Hole loomed in the darkness and the fog.
A curious observer might have wondered at the sheer size of the procession-more than a hundred men and women-and at their accoutrements. Only the pallbearers were dressed for a funeral. The torchbearers were dressed for war, in armor of boiled leather with blackened studs, in collars and helmets and bracers and gloves, with knives and clubs and axes and bucklers at their belts. They were the cream of Barsavi’s gangs, the hardest of the Right People-cold-eyed men and women with murders to their names. They were from all of his districts and all of his gangs-the Red Hands and the Rum Hounds, the Gray Faces and the Arsenal Boys, the Canal Jumpers and the Black Twists, the Catchfire Barons and a dozen others.
The most interesting thing about the procession, however, was something no casual observer could know.
The fact was, Nazca Barsavi’s body still lay in her old chambers in the Floating Grave, sealed away under silk sheets, alchemically impregnated to keep the rot of death from setting in too quickly. Locke Lamora and a dozen other priests of the Nameless Thirteenth, the Crooked Warden, had said prayers for her the previous night and placed her within a circle of sacred candles, there to lie until her father finished his business this evening, which had nothing to do with the Hill of Whispers. The coffin that was draped in funeral silks was empty.
2
“I AM the Gray King,” said Locke Lamora. “I am the Gray King, gods damn his eyes, I am the Gray King.”
“A little lower,” said Jean Tannen, struggling with one of the gray cuffs of Locke’s coat, “and a little scratchier. Give it a hint of Tal Verrar. You said he had an accent.”
“I am the Gray King,” said Locke, “and I’ll be smiling out the other side of my head when the Gentlemen Bastards are through with me.”
“Oh, that’s good,” said Calo, who was streaking Locke’s hair with a foul-scented alchemical paste that was steadily turning it charcoal gray. “I like that one. Just different enough to be noticed.”