“Oh, yeah.” Chains gestured to the chair at the head of the table. “Put one there for me. One for yourself on my left. Two for Calo and Galdo on my right. If you were my servant, what I’d tell you to lay out is a casual setting. Can you say that for me?”
“A casual setting.”
“Right. This is how the high and mighty eat when it’s just close blood and maybe a friend or two.” Chains let the set of his eyes and the tone of his voice suggest that he expected this lesson to be retained, and he began to introduce Locke to the intricacies of glasses, linen napkins, and silver eating utensils.
“What kind of knife is this?” Locke held a rounded buttering utensil up for Chains’ inspection. “It’s all wrong. You couldn’t kill anyone with this.”
“Well, not very easily, I’ll grant you that, my boy.” Chains guided Locke in the placement of the butter knife and assorted small dishes and bowls. “But when the quality get together to dine, it’s impolite to knock anybody off with anything but poison. That thing is for scooping butter, not slicing windpipes.”
“This is a lot of trouble to go to just to eat.”
“Well, in Shades’ Hill you may be able to eat cold bacon and dirt pies off one another’s asses for all your old master cares. But now you’re a Gentleman Bastard, emphasis on the Gentleman. You’re going to learn how to eat like this, and how to serve people who eat like this.”
“Why?”
“Because, Locke Lamora, someday you’re going to dine with barons and counts and dukes. You’re going to dine with merchants and admirals and generals and ladies of every sort! And when you do…” Chains put two fingers under Locke’s chin and tilted the boy’s head up so they were eye to eye. “When you do, those poor idiots won’t have any idea that they’re really dining with a thief.”
3
“NOW, ISN’T this lovely?”
Chains raised an empty glass and saluted his three young wards at the splendidly furnished table; steaming brass bowls and heavy crockware held the results of Calo and Galdo’s efforts at the cooking hearth. Locke, seated on an extra cushion to raise his elbows just above the tabletop, stared at the food and the furnishings with wide eyes. He was bewildered at how quickly he had escaped his old life and fallen into this new one with strangely pleasant crazy people.
Chains lifted a bottle of something he’d called alchemical wine; the stuff was viscous and dark, like quicksilver. When he pulled the loosened cork, the air was filled with the scent of juniper; for a brief moment it overwhelmed the spicy aroma of the main dishes. Chains poured a good measure of the stuff into the empty glass, and in the bright light it ran like molten silver. Chains raised the glass to a level with his eyes.
“A glass poured to air for the one who sits with us unseen; the patron and protector, the Crooked Warden, the Father of Necessary Pretexts.”
“Thanks for deep pockets poorly guarded,” said the Sanza brothers in unison, and Locke was caught off guard by the seriousness of their intonation.
“Thanks for watchmen asleep at their posts,” said Chains.
“Thanks for the city to nurture us and the night to hide us,” was the response.
“Thanks for friends to help spend the loot!” Chains brought the half-filled glass down and set it in the middle of the table. He took up another, smaller glass; into this he poured just a finger of the liquid silver. “A glass poured to air for an absent friend. We wish Sabetha well and pray for her safe return.”
“Maybe we could have her back a little less crazy, though,” said one of the Sanzas, whom Locke mentally labeled Calo for convenience.
“And humble.” Galdo nodded after he’d said this. “Humble would be really great.”
“The brothers Sanza wish Sabetha well.” Chains held the little glass of liquor rock-steady and eyed the twins. “And they pray for her safe return.”
“Yes! Wish her well!”
“Safe return, that would be really great.”
“Who’s Sabetha?” Locke spoke quietly, directing his inquiry to Chains.
“An ornament to our little gang. Our only young woman, currently away on…educational business.” Chains set her glass down beside the one poured to the Benefactor, and plucked up Locke’s glass in exchange. “Another special deal from your old master. Gifted, my boy, gifted like you are with a preternatural talent for the vexation of others.”
“That’s us he’s talking about,” said Calo.
“Pretty soon it’ll mean you, too.” Galdo smiled.
“Pipe down, twitlings.” Chains poured a splash of the quicksilver wine into Locke’s glass and handed it back to him. “One more toast and prayer. To Locke Lamora, our new brother. My new pezon. We wish him well. We welcome him warmly. And for him, we pray, wisdom.”
With graceful motions, he poured wine for Calo and Galdo, and then a nearly full glass for himself. Chains and the Sanzas raised their glasses; Locke quickly copied them. Silver sparkled under gold.
“Welcome to the Gentlemen Bastards!” Chains tapped his glass gently against Locke’s, producing a ringing sound that hung in the air before fading sweetly.
“You should’ve picked death!” said Galdo.
“He did offer you death as a choice, right?” Calo spoke as he and his brother tapped their own glasses together, then reached across the table in unison to touch Locke’s.
“Laugh it up, boys.” Soon all the knocking about with glasses was finished and Chains led the way with a quick sip of his wine. “Ahhh. Mark my words, if this poor little creature lives a year, you two will be his dancing monkeys. He’ll throw you grapes whenever he wants to see a trick. Go ahead and have a drink, Locke.”
Locke raised the glass; the silvery surface showed him a vivid but wobbly reflection of his own face and the brightly lit room around him; the wine’s bouquet was a haze of juniper and anise that tickled his nose. He put the tiny image of himself to his lips and drank. The slightly cool liquor seemed to go two ways at once as he swallowed. A line of tickling warmth ran straight down his throat while icy tendrils reached upward, sliding across the roof of his mouth and into his sinuses. His eyes bulged; he coughed and ran a hand over his suddenly numb lips.
“It’s mirror wine, from Tal Verrar. Good stuff. Now go ahead and eat something or it’ll pop your skull open.”
Calo and Galdo whisked damp cloths off serving platters and bowls, revealing the full extent of the meal for the first time. There were indeed sausages, neatly sliced and fried in oil with quartered pears. There were also split red peppers stuffed with almond paste and spinach; dumplings of thin bread folded over chicken, fried until the bread was as translucent as paper; and cold black beans in wine and mustard sauce. The Sanza brothers were suddenly scooping portions of this and that onto Locke’s plate too fast for him to track.
Working awkwardly with a two-pronged silver fork and one of the rounded knives he’d previously scorned, Locke began to shovel things into his mouth; the flavors seemed to burst gloriously, haphazardly. The chicken dumplings were spiced with ginger and ground orange peels. The wine sauce in the bean salad warmed his tongue; the sharp fumes of mustard burned his throat. He found himself gulping wine to put out each new fire as it arose.
To his surprise, the Sanza twins didn’t partake once they’d served him; they sat with their hands folded, watching Chains. When the older man seemed assured that Locke was eating, he turned to Calo.
“You’re a Vadran noble. Let’s say you’re a Liege-Graf from one of the less important Marrows. You’re at a dinner party in Tal Verrar; an equal number of men and women, with assigned seating. The party is just entering the dining hall; your assigned lady is beside you as you enter, conversing with you. What do you do?”