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Disclaimer: The Gentlemen Bastards belong to its original creator Scott Lynch and its publishers. It is not mine.
Note: the title comes from the B.B King song "Stand by Me."
"When the Moon is the Only Light We See"
The death of Locke Lamora should be spectacular as the man it commemorates. Jean would much rather honor his best friend in life rather than death but the powers that be simply had other ideas tonight. How he died is still something of a mystery to Jean but he cannot afford to dwell on that too much right now because he has a speech to write and a Camorra funeral to arrange.
The casque of wine that his fellow Bastard had so astoundingly had once used to fake his own death once before; well that one, they'd all had a hand in. Jean leaned forward and balled his fist and then slammed it into the wall.
Jean's size and strength were such that that cracks rippled down the face of the wall and pieces of plaster became enveloped in his tunic and cloak. and onto his boots. He glanced down at the finely-tooled leather foot-wear and wondered how it was they always seemed to end up in these predicaments.
More importantly if there were still time for him to go the leather workers guild to get them patched up. Father Chains who had brought them all together all those months ago had been a stickler about everything; including teaching them about being better con artists, better thieves, and about dress and comportment.
Some of which made sense when one wished to blend in with the crowd, no matter if it were the bluebloods or anywhere else along the social spectrum. A lot of that stuck with them, more so with Locke than any of them.
The twins came in carrying the funeral baked goods on a large silver platter and sidled past him with identical giggles. "Yo, we're all most ready How about you, Jean?."
"Yeah, yeah, go on without me. I'll catch up with you two in a minute."
Caldo and Galbo the twins could not have been in on it, could they?
**
At the cemetery, after a brief visit to the temple of our lady of perpetual sorrow Jean helped the twins carry the bier that held the body of Locke Lamora to the cemetery.
He thanked whatever connections that they had that the keepers of the cemetery and the groundskeepers had already been by and dug the grave. Given the way he'd been feeling lately, alternately between bouts of grief and anger and wanting to see Locke was once more; to be honest, it was only to prove to himself that the other man was still alive.
The faces of the twins were harder to read, but they too had been on a somber mien and kept shuffling their booted feet on the freshly mown grass; their hands stuffed into their pockets and with their hoods pulled up as protection against the hilltop wind.
It was cold, now that he thought about, Jean mused. He had really noticed because of the coldness of his preoccupations.
Jean motioned for the two of them to come and help lower the coffin into the grave and when that was done, he asked them to step back, which they did without protest.
Jean sank to his knees in the soft loam and bent his head. "Why did you have to die! And why didn't you tell me it was some kind of illness, some kind of wasting sickness. At least 'that' i could have dealt with. Helped you through it, found a doctor, something. Not just sprung this on me."
Jean wept, wept, hot salty tears streaming down his eyes, not caring in the least who saw him. Somewhere in the back of his mind he could not remember the last time he had ever felt a gut-wrenching reason to cry.
Oh sure there had been plenty of times in the past that he'd been driven to tears of anger or frustration, but this was different somehow. Why it was he could not have said and right he did not give a damn.
"Well, I guess, there's nothing for it. Thanks to all of you for coming. For Fuck's sake, " he swore.
Jean sucked a deep breath, rubbed at his treacherously moist eyes and balled his fists. "I don't do speeches, so I'll just say that. Well, Locke was a force of nature. Incorrigible, Indefatigable, Impeccable, and he was the best and the worst of us."
The twins nodded and said "Here's to Locke! as they removed identical hip flasks from their pockets and took several healthy swallows.
"Give me some of that," Jean said. "I think I need it more right now than either of you."
"Aye, aye." In whispers so low that the big man could not possibly hear, they said. "Should we let him in on it?"
"Wait a minute, you two are acting mighty suspicious. I thought that something was up when you brought the desert by, but I dismissed as nothing more than a fancy."
"It could be just your imagination. Yes, Jean, you have been working for hard of late to make up for the slack left by Locke's ah, absence." The twins normally very difficult to tell apart under ordinary circumstances were talking so fast that it was difficult were one left off and the other began, but in between breaths for air, Jean Tannen was almost certain that something was up.
"He could think up scams no else could, that's certain as can be."
**
Inside the wooden box, the object of this wake cum funeral stirred to wakefulness. His mind was fuzzy and mouth tasted like he had been chewing on rusty nails and cotton-balls.
The taste and the sensation he knew would soon go away; soon, Locke hoped because the old apothecary he had obtained the concoction of belladonna and hemlock, and something else; normally dire poison, was enough to give anyone taken it increments, the semblance of rigor mortis. He liked that, Rigor Mortis. Locke giggled, he liked that phrase, Rigor Mortis."
Why Locke thought it would be a good idea to fake his own death. Well, it was a challenge and if there was one thing that he thrived on it was a challenge.
He stirred some more testing out whether or not his limbs all moved and bent just as they should and then began to use the awl in his pocket to undo the catches on the coffins.
After about twenty-five minutes he had the clasps undone and the lid raised up. Once he was out he waited in the shadows of the hole in the ground listening to Jean's eulogy.
It was touching, even charming, even if he did get some of the details a little off.
It was only when Jean knelt at the edge of the grave and wept that Locke decided that enough was enough and emerged from the grave and nearly knocked them both back into the grave.
"Holy Hells! Jean exclaimed, Don't do that!"
Once he had recovered, "Hey, Jean," Locke greeted, smiling with that impish off-kilter grin that would not have been out of place on the proverbial cat that ate the canary.
"Wait! How? You're alive! Locke Lamora, You're alive! I am so glad to see you're alive!"
"Glad to see you, too."
"Why did you do this?" Jean demanded.
Why?" Locke mused as he rubbed at the fresh whiskers that several days of going unshaven had sprouted on his long-jawed face; to all appearances seriously considering the wherefores of his best friend's question. "Well, because I could."
"Damnit! Damn! and for good measure, Damn it all to hell, Locke! That's no answer."
"Because I wanted to see if I could pull it off," Locke replied.
Jean took several threatening steps toward the smaller man with his fists balled and his face turning beet red, saying as he did so. "Locke, so help me, if you don't give me a real answer this time I swear that I am going to kill you for real and then see how well you recover from that!"
"As challenging and intriguing as that proposition sounds, old friend, "Locke replied, "I do hope that it never comes to that."
Jean grabbed Locke's arm and dragged him away to the edge of the hill where the trees grew close together and they could be afforded some privacy. Then started to hug his friend as there were no tomorrow.
At this point, he did not give a damn about the tear stains on his doublet, or the grass and dirt that covered Locke's fine clothes.
Later, when they were home, he'd see to properly addressing the attendant consequences of making him go through gut-wrenching angst with some suitable punishment; but that could wait until tomorrow. Tonight they would celebrate, maybe with some of Locke's favorite meal and end with dessert and some of the wine that Locke's last attempt to fake his own death had made famous, or infamous. Either way, it was all good.
In between breathless heaves, Jean said. "Don't ever do that again. Promise me."
Locke feeling Jean's muscled arms around him, "Sure, anything you want, just one thing before we go."
"What's that?"
"It helps if you let me breathe every now and again.
Jean let go and replied. "Hah! Very funny."
Locke smiled again and ruffled Jean's hair. "Well, you know me. I always aim to please."
"Let's go home."