And then there were booted feet slapping the stones behind Eymon, and dark shapes rushing around him to grab at Locke. In the dancing light cast by two dozen moving torches, Locke found himself hauled back up to his feet, pinned by strong hands that clutched at his arms and his shoulders and his neck.
Capa Barsavi pushed through his eager crowd of men and women, forced Eymon more gently to the side, and stood face to face with Locke, his fat ruddy features alight with anticipation.
“Well, Your Majesty,” he said, “I’ll bet you’re one confused son of a bitch right about now.”
And then Barsavi’s people were laughing, cheering. And then the capa’s ham-hock fist planted itself in Locke’s stomach, and the air rushed out of his lungs, and black pain exploded in his chest. And then he knew just how deeply in the shit he truly was.
4
“YES, I’LL bet you’re pretty gods-damned curious at this point,” said Barsavi, strutting back and forth in front of Locke, who remained pinioned by half a dozen men, any one of them half again his size. “And so am I. Let’s throw that hood back, boys.”
Rough hands yanked at Locke’s hood and mantle, and the capa stared coldly at him, running one hand up and down his beards. “Gray, gray, gray. You look like you belong on a stage,” he laughed. “And such a skinny fellow, too. What a weak little man we’ve caught ourselves tonight-the Gray King, sovereign of fog and shadows and precious little else.”
The capa backhanded him, grinning; the stinging pain had just registered when he did it again, from the other direction. Locke’s head lolled. He was grabbed from behind by his hair and made to look the capa right in the face. Locke’s thoughts whirled. Had the capa’s men somehow located the Falconer? Had they distracted him? Was the capa mad enough to actually kill a Bondsmage, if he had the chance?
“Oh, we know you can’t be cut,” continued Barsavi, “and we know you can’t be pierced, more’s the pity. But bruised? It’s a curious thing about the spells of a Bondsmage. They’re so damn specific, aren’t they?”
And then he punched Locke in the stomach again, to a murmur of widespread amusement. Locke’s knees buckled beneath him, and his attendants hoisted him again, holding him upright, as bolts of pain radiated from his abdomen.
“One of your men,” said Barsavi, “strolled into my Floating Grave this very morning.”
A little chill crept down Locke’s spine.
“Seems I’m not the only one you pissed off when you sent my Nazca back to me the way you did,” said Barsavi, leering. “Seems that some of your men didn’t sign on with your merry little crew for that sort of gods-damned desecration. So your man and I, we had ourselves a talk. And we fixed a price. And then he told me all sorts of fascinating things about that spell of yours. And that story about you being able to kill men with a touch? Oh, he told me it was bullshit.”
Sewn up, said a little voice at the back of Locke’s head that most certainly was not the Falconer. Sewn up, sewn up. Of course the Falconer hadn’t been distracted, or taken by any of Barsavi’s men. Neat as a gods-damned hanging.
“But I was only willing to trust the fellow so far,” Barsavi said. “So I made a deal with Eymon, whom I’m sure you don’t recognize. Eymon is dying. He has the cold consumption, the tumors in his stomach and his back. The sort no physiker can cure. He’s got maybe two months, maybe less.” The capa clapped Eymon on the back as proudly as if the skinny man were his own flesh and blood.
“So I said, ‘Why don’t you step up and grab the filthy little bastard, Eymon? If he really can kill with a touch, well, you’ll go quick and easy. And if he can’t…’” Barsavi grinned, his red cheeks wrinkling grotesquely.
“Well, then.”
“A thousand full crowns,” said Eymon, giggling.
“For starters,” added Barsavi. “A promise I intend to keep. A promise I intend to expand. I told Eymon he’d die in his own villa, with gems and silks and half a dozen ladies of his choice from the Guilded Lilies to keep him company. I will invent pleasures for him. He’ll die like a fucking duke, because tonight I name him the bravest man in Camorr.”
There was a general roar of approval; men and women applauded, and fists banged on armor and shields.
“Quite the opposite,” Barsavi whispered, “of a sneaking, cowardly piece of shit who would murder my only daughter. Who wouldn’t even do it with his own hands. Who’d let some fucking hireling work a twisted magic on her. A poisoner.” Barsavi spat in Locke’s face; the warm spittle trickled down his cheek. “Your man told me, of course, that your Bondsmage had set his spell and left your service last night; that you were so very confident, you didn’t want to keep paying him. Well, I for one applaud your sense of economy.”
Barsavi gestured to Anjais and Pachero; grim-faced, the two men stepped forward. They slipped their optics off and put them in vest pockets; an ominous gesture conducted in unconscious unison. Locke opened his mouth to say something-and then the realization of exactly how sewn up he was struck him cold.
He could proclaim his true identity, have the capa tear off his false moustache and rub away the wrinkles, spill the entire story-but what would it gain him? He would never be believed. He’d already displayed a Bondsmage’s protection. If he confessed to being Locke Lamora, the hundred men and women here would be after Jean and Bug and the Sanzas next.
If he was going to save them, he had to play the Gray King until the capa was finished with him, and then he would pray for a quick and easy death. Let Locke Lamora just vanish one night; let his friends slip away to whatever better fate awaited them. Blinking back hot tears, he summoned up a grin, looked at the two Barsavi sons, and said, “By all means, you fucking curs, let’s see if you can do any better than your father.”
Anjais and Pachero knew how to strike a man with the intent to kill, but just now they had no such intent. They bruised his ribs, knuckle-punched his arms, kicked his thighs, slapped his head from side to side, and punched him in the neck until every breath was a chore. At last, Anjais had him hoisted back up, and took hold of his chin so that the two of them were looking eye to eye.
“By the way,” said Anjais, “this is from Locke Lamora.”
Anjais balanced Locke’s chin on one finger and walloped him with his other hand. White-hot pain shot through Locke’s neck, and in the red-tinted darkness around him he saw stars. He spat blood, coughed, and licked his sore, swollen lips.
“Now,” said Barsavi, “I’ll have a father’s justice for Nazca’s death.”
He clapped his hands three times.
Behind him, there was an audible noise of men cursing, and heavy footfalls banging against the stone steps. Through the door came eight more men, carrying a large wooden cask-a cask the size of the one Nazca Barsavi had been returned to her father in. The funeral cask. The crowd around Barsavi and his sons parted eagerly to let the cask haulers through. They set it on the ground beside the capa, and inside it Locke heard the slosh of liquid.
Oh, thirteen gods, he thought.
“Can’t be cut, can’t be pierced,” said the capa, as though he were musing out loud. “But you can certainly be bruised. And you certainly need to breathe.”
Two of the capa’s men popped the lid on the cask open, and Locke was dragged over to it. The eye-watering stench of horse urine spilled out into the air, and he gagged, sobbing.