“He must’ve had his reasons. If it really was a good first touch, he gave it to us. I hope he’s well enough for us to beat the piss out of him.”
Stray shapes hurried past in the backlit mist; there was very little Elderglass on the Old Citadel island, so most of the dying glow poured through from a distance. The sound of a horse’s hooves on cobbles was coming from the south, and getting louder.
At that moment, Locke was no doubt skulking near the Palace of Patience, eyeballing the patrols coming and going across the Black Bridge, making sure that they carried no small, familiar prisoners. Or small, familiar bodies. Jean would be off at another rendezvous point, pacing and cracking his knuckles. Bug would never return straight to the Temple of Perelandro, nor would he go near the Tumblehome. The older Gentlemen Bastards would sit their vigils for him out in the city and the steam.
Wooden wheels clattered and an annoyed animal whinnied; the sound of the horse-drawn cart came to a creaking halt not twenty feet from the Sanza brothers, shrouded in the mist. “Avendando?” A loud but uncertain voice spoke the name. Calo and Galdo leapt to their feet as one-“Avendando” was their private recognition signal for an unplanned rendezvous.
“Here!” Calo cried, dropping his thin cigarette and forgetting to step on it. A man materialized out of the mist, bald and bearded, with the heavy arms of a working artisan and the rounded middle of moderate prosperity.
“I dunno exactly how this works,” the man said, “but if one of you is Avendando, I was told I’d have ten solons for delivering this here cask to this, ah, doorway.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, toward the cart.
“Cask. Indeed.” Galdo fumbled with a coin purse, heart racing. “What’s, ahhh, in this cask?”
“Ain’t wine,” said the stranger. “Ain’t a very polite lad, neither. But ten silvers is what he promised.”
“Of course.” Galdo counted rapidly, slapping bright silver disks down into the man’s open palm. “Ten for the cask. One more for forgetting all about this, hmmm?”
“Holy hell, my memory must be cacked out, because I can’t remember what you’re paying me for.”
“Good man.” Galdo slipped his purse back under his nightcloak and ran to help Calo, who had mounted the cart and was standing over a wooden cask of moderate size. The cork stopper that would ordinarily be set into the top of the barrel was gone, leaving a small dark air-hole. Calo rapped sharply on the cask three times; three faint taps came right back. With grins on their faces, the Sanza twins muscled the cask down off the cart and nodded farewell to the driver. The man remounted his cart and soon vanished into the night, whistling, his pockets jingling with more than twenty times the value of the empty cask.
“Well,” Calo said when they’d rolled the cask back to the shelter of their doorway, “this vintage is probably a little young and rough for decanting.”
“Put it in the cellar for fifty or sixty years?”
“I was thinking we might just pour it in the river.”
“Really?” Galdo drummed his fingers on the cask. “What’s the river ever done to deserve that?”
There was a series of noises from inside the cask that sounded vaguely like some sort of protest. Calo and Galdo leaned down by the air-hole together.
“Now, Bug,” Calo began, “I’m sure you have a perfectly good explanation for why you’re in there, and why we’re out here worrying ourselves sick over you.”
“It’s a magnificent explanation, really.” Bug’s voice was hoarse and echoed faintly. “You’re going to love it. But first tell me how the game went!”
“It was a thing of beauty,” said Galdo.
“Three weeks, tops, and we’re going to own this don down to his wife’s last set of silk smallclothes,” added Calo.
The boy groaned with obvious relief. “Great. Well, what happened was, there was this pack of yellowjackets heading right for you. What I did to distract them pissed them off pretty fierce, so, um, I ran for this cooper’s that I know in Old Citadel. He does business with some of the wine places upriver, so he’s got this yard of barrels just sitting around. Well, I just sort of invited myself in, jumped in one, and told him that if I could stay there until he delivered me here after Falselight, there’d be eight solons in it for him.”
“Eight?” Calo scratched his chin. “The cheeky bastard just asked for ten, and got eleven.”
“Yeah, well, that’s okay.” Bug coughed. “I got bored sitting around the cask-yard so I lifted his purse. Had about two solons worth of copper in it. So we got some back.”
“I was going to say something sympathetic about you lying around inside a cask for half the day,” said Galdo, “but that was a damn silly thing to do.”
“Oh, come on!” Bug sounded genuinely stung. “He thought I was in the cask the whole time, so why would he suspect me? And you just gave him a load of money, so why would he suspect you? It’s perfect! Locke would appreciate it.”
“Bug,” Calo said, “Locke is like a brother to us, and our love for him has no bounds. But the four most fatal words in the Therin language are ‘Locke would appreciate it.’”
“Rivaled only by ‘Locke taught me a new trick,’” added Galdo.
“The only person who gets away with Locke Lamora games-”
“-is Locke Lamora-”
“-because we think the gods are saving him up for a really big death. Something with knives and hot irons-”
“-and fifty thousand cheering spectators.”
The brothers cleared their throats in unison.
“Well,” Bug said finally, “I did it and I got away with it. Can we go home now?”
“Home,” Calo mused. “Sure. Locke and Jean are going to sob over you like grandmothers when they find out you’re alive, so let’s not keep them waiting.”
“No need to get out; your legs are probably cramped up,” said Galdo.
“They are!” Bug squeaked. “But you two really don’t need to carry me all that way…”
“You’ve never been more right about anything in your entire life, Bug!” Galdo took up position at one side of the cask and nodded at Calo. Whistling in unison, the two brothers began rolling the cask along the cobbles, steering for the Temple District, not necessarily by the fastest or smoothest route available.
INTERLUDE
Locke Explains
“It was an accident,” Locke said at last. “They were both accidents.”
“Excuse me? I must not have heard you.” Father Chains’ eyes narrowed in the faint red glow of Locke’s tiny ceramic lamp. “I could have sworn you just said, ‘Toss me over the parapet. I’m a useless little cuss and I’m ready to die at this very moment.’”
Chains had moved their conversation up to the roof of the temple, where they sat comfortably beneath high parapets meant to be threaded with decorative plants. The long-lost hanging gardens of the House of Perelandro were a small but important aspect of the sacrificial tragedy of the Eyeless Priest; one more bit of stage-setting to draw sympathy, measured in coins.
The clouds had roiled in overhead, palely reflecting the particolored glimmers of night-lit Camorr, obscuring the moons and the stars. The Hangman’s Wind was little more than a damp pressure that nudged the sluggish air around Chains and Locke as the boy struggled to clarify himself.
“No! I meant to hurt them, but that’s all. I didn’t know…I didn’t know those things would happen.”
“Well, that I can almost believe.” Chains tapped the index finger of his right hand against his left palm, the Camorri marketplace gesture for geton with it. “So take me all the way. That ‘almost’ is a major problem for you. Make me understand, starting with the first boy.”