“Bug,” he cried, “kindly make sure there aren’t any more of those damn things creeping up on us!”
There was a splash behind Jean as Bug hopped back into the waterway. A few seconds later the boy came up beside the cask and steadied it with his own thin arms. “None that I can see, Jean. Hurry.”
“I am”-crack, crack, crack-“fucking hurrying.” His hatchet blade bit through the wood at last; horse urine poured out into the water and Bug gagged. Working furiously, Jean widened the hole, then managed to pry off the end of the cask entirely. A wave of the foul yellow-slick stuff swept out across his chest. Tossing his hatchet away without a further thought, he reached inside and tugged out the motionless body of Locke Lamora.
Jean checked him frantically for cuts, slashes, or raised purple welts; his neck seemed to be quite intact.
Jean heaved Locke rather ungently up onto the stone walkway beside the dead spiders, some parts of which were still twitching, then pushed himself up out of the water to crouch beside Locke. He wrenched off Locke’s mantle and cloak; Bug appeared at his side just in time to yank them away and toss them in the water. Jean tore open Locke’s gray vest and began thumping on his chest.
“Bug,” he gasped. “Bug! Get up here and push his legs in for me. His warm humors are all snuffed out. Let’s get a rhythm going and maybe we can rekindle them. Gods, if he lives I swear I’ll get ten books on physik and memorize every single one.”
Bug clambered out of the water and began pumping Locke’s legs, moving them in and out one at a time, while Jean alternately pressed on Locke’s stomach, pounded on his chest, and slapped him on the cheeks. “Come on, gods damn it,” Jean muttered. “Be stubborn, you skinny little-”
Locke’s back arched convulsively, and harsh wet coughing noises exploded out of his throat; his hands scrabbled weakly at the stone, and he rolled over onto his left side. Jean sat back and sighed with relief, oblivious to the puddle of spider blood he’d settled into.
Locke vomited into the water, retched and shuddered, then vomited again. Bug knelt beside him, steadying him by the shoulders. For several minutes, Locke lay there shaking, breathing heavily and coughing.
“Oh, gods,” he said at last in a small hoarse voice. “Oh, gods. My eyes. I can barely see. Is that water?”
“Yes, running water.” Jean reached over and took one of Locke’s arms.
“Then get me in there. Thirteen gods, get this foulness off me.”
Locke rolled into the canal with a splash before Jean or Bug could even move to assist him; he dunked his head beneath the dark stream several times, then began tearing off his remaining clothes, until he was wearing nothing but a white undertunic and his gray breeches.
“Better?” asked Jean.
“I suppose I must be.” Locke retched again. “My eyes sting, my nose and throat burn, my chest hurts, I’ve got a pounding black headache the size of Therim Pel, I got slapped around by the entire Barsavi family, I’m covered in horse piss, and it looks like the Gray King just did something pretty clever at our expense.” He set his head against the edge of the stone pathway and coughed a few more times. When he raised his head again, he noticed the spider carcasses for the first time and jerked backward. “Ugh. Gods. Looks like there’s things I’ve missed, too.”
“Salt devils,” said Jean. “A whole pack of them, working together. They came on looking for a fight. Suicidal, like.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” said Locke.
“One thing could explain it,” Jean replied.
“A conspiracy of the gods,” Locke muttered. “Oh. Sorcery.”
“Yes, that bloody Bondsmage. If he can tame a scorpion hawk, he could-”
“But what if it’s just this place?” interrupted Bug. “You’ve heard the stories.”
“No need to fret about stories,” said Locke, “when there’s a live mage known to have it in for us. Jean’s right. I didn’t get stuffed in that barrel as a criticism of my playacting, and those biting bitches weren’t here for a rest holiday. You were both meant to be dead as well, or if not dead-”
“Scared off,” said Jean. “Distracted. The better for you to drown.”
“Seems plausible.” Locke rubbed at his stinging eyes once again. “Amazing how every time I think my tolerance for this affair has reached a final low, I find something new to hate. Calo and Galdo…we need to get to them.”
“They could be in a world of shit,” agreed Jean.
“They already are, but we’ll face it better once we’re back together.”
Locke attempted to heave himself up out of the water and failed. Jean reached down and pulled him up by the collar of his tunic. Locke nodded his thanks and slowly stood up, shaking. “I’m afraid my strength seems to have fled. I’m sorry, Jean.”
“Don’t be. You’ve taken a hell of a lot of abuse tonight. I’m just pleased we broke you out of that thing before it was too late.”
“I’m indebted to the pair of you, believe me. That was…It would have been…” Locke shuddered and coughed again. “It was pretty gods-damned awful.”
“I can only suppose,” said Jean. “Shall we go?”
“With all haste. Back out the way you two came in, quietly. Barsavi’s crowd may still be in the area. And keep your eyes open for, ah, birds.”
“Too right. We came in through a sort of crawlway, western canal-side.” Jean slapped his forehead and looked around. “Damn me, I’ve mislaid the Sisters.”
“Never fear,” said Bug, holding them up. “I figured you’d want them back, so I kept a watch on them.”
“Much obliged, Bug,” said Jean. “I’m of a mind to use them on some people before this night is done.”
3
RUSTWATER WAS as dead as ever when they snuck out the crawlway and scrabbled up onto the canal bank just to the west of the Echo Hole. Barsavi’s procession had vanished. And although the three Gentlemen Bastards crouched low and scanned the occulted sky for any hint of a swooping hawk, they caught not a glimpse.
“Let’s make for Coalsmoke,” said Locke. “Past Beggar’s Barrow. We can steal a boat and slip home through the culvert.” The drainage culvert on the south side of the Temple District, just beneath the House of Perelandro, had a concealed slide mechanism within the cage that covered it from the outside. The Gentlemen Bastards could open it at will to come and go quietly.
“Good idea,” said Jean. “I’m not comfortable being about on the streets and bridges.”
They crept south, grateful for the low, warm mists that swirled around them. Jean had his hatchets out and was moving his head from side to side, watchful as a cat on a swaying clothesline. He led them over a bridge, with Locke constantly stumbling and falling behind, then down the southeastern shore of the Quiet. Here the lightless black heap of Beggar’s Barrow loomed in the mists to their left, and the wet stink of pauper’s graves filled the air.
“Not a watchman,” whispered Locke. “Not a Shades’ Hill boy or girl. Not a soul. Even for this neighborhood, that’s damn peculiar.”
“Has anything about tonight been right yet?” Jean set as rapid a pace as he could, and they soon crossed another bridge, south into Coalsmoke. Locke labored to keep up, clutching his aching stomach and ribs. Bug brought up their rear, constantly peering over his shoulder.
On the northeastern edge of Coalsmoke there was a line of weathered docks, sagging stairs, and crumbling stone quays. All the larger, nicer boats and barges were locked and chained, but a few small cockleshells bobbed here and there, secured by nothing more than rope. In a city full of such little boats, no sane thief would bother stealing one-most of the time.
They clambered into the first one that chanced to have an oar; Locke collapsed at the stern, while Bug took up the oar and Jean cast off the rope.