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When the duke’s Ghouls went into the Catchfire after the district fell to the Black Whisper, a few select members of Doña Vorchenza’s circle accompanied them, ostensible for charity’s sake.
Camorr’s noble ladies were there for disassembling purposes only, and to revel in the poverty stricken areas of the lower city. Doña Vorchenza was there to collect the contraband one of her spies might have hidden in one of the former boltholes. Don Salvara was really rather nauseous from the atmosphere, and had only gone to protect his wife from the foul essences and the rampant destruction. Doña Sophia Salvara was in her element, however, and was almost excited to see the full extend of the destruction, and to see first hand how alchemic essences could protect the Ghouls from the long arm of the pest. The Ghouls went into the Catchfire to lift the quarantine, and in due course corralled the orphans that had survived the outbreak of the pest unscathed.
The orphans were a dirty, unkempt, skinny mess and smelled revolting. They were easily corralled by the yellowjackets, who would deal with them as they saw fit. After that, the Thiefmaker came to take his cut of the strongest and most stable. Don Salvara thought him a sympathetic man, upstanding in his beliefs, even though they weren’t quite Don Salvara’s. Sophia, he knew, thought him despicable, and was certain that no man with that kind of unlimited access to small children should be allowed to run one of the cities institutions, even though it was only a small one. Then again, she had a weakness for small children, maybe due to her inability to have them for her own.
After the Thiefmaker took his cut, there were about 20 left. Twenty small children, for whom it would probably be better in the long run if the Ghouls would shoot them were they stood. They would be sold to the best bidder, and neither the Ghouls nor the yellowjackets cared so much what happened afterwards, as long as they didn’t have to pay for it. A few might land as an acolyte in one of the temples, where the maladies were beaten out of it, but as orphanages were full their coffers were empty and succeeded mostly on charity.
When one of them—the smallest and stringiest one— tried to sneak after the Thiefmaker, a Ghoul stopped him with a muffled shout of "Halt." The small child couldn’t repress his instinctual reaction in time, and froze in place. "He paid for thirty of you, and thirty is what he gets, not one more," the voice continued—quieter now, but almost as badly muffled. The masks were there to prevent them from breathing in the foul air of the lost district, honoring the Lady of Ubiquitous Maladies by keeping her enclosed in the district.
Locke Lamora didn’t manage to sneak after the Thiefmaker. Locke Lamora looked up to the Ghoul that had caught him with wide, round eyes. Eyes that reminded Don Salvara who was standing at the Ghoul’s back of his dog, which was why he took him back into his carriage to fetch the bag of snacks they had taken along.
The carriage was currently empty of everyone who had used it to get into the Catchfire, since the ladies had taken the opportunity to look around the devastated district. Don Salvara, who judged he had seen enough devastation for a lifetime, took the prepared lunch, and set it in front of the starving orphan. The boy looked at it as if it was going to bite him, and then carefully opened the bag of sandwiches. In the blink of an eye, the first one had disappeared in his stomach.
♕
"You remind me of my favorite dog," Don Salvara told him. Inside the carriage, the air was much nicer, aided by a concoction Dona Sofia had fabricated herself.
The small boy before him blinked, confused—and then his eyes sharpened, and the Don thought, 'Interesting.' Soon enough, the bag of sandwiches was empty.
Don and Doña Salvara had not tried for a child very hard. Sofia found the act of pregnancy to be something she didn’t want to subject herself to, and Lorenzo hadn’t felt the need to inconvenience his wife just because of a heir he didn’t even know he would want. There was always the option of picking out a heir himself, which he liked much more than getting stuck with the one you made yourself.
"He died last year," Don Salvara told him, to see the boy's reaction.
The boy drew his shoulders up, and then said quietly, "I’m sorry?"
"Would you be willing to replace him?"
The emotion most prevalent in his eyes was shook, then he looked away, and mumbled, "I can’t bark very well."
Of course, Sofia took that moment to come back into the carriage, and her sharp ears heard every word, "For fuck’s sake, Lorenzo! What are you doing to this poor boy! You’re frightening him half to death!"
She brought with her the smell of sulphur and bleach, used to disinfect the clothes that had come into contact with the pest. She held her hand out to the boy, and said, imperiously, "Dear, what is your name? I am Doña Sofia Salvara, and I assure you, my husband doesn’t want to keep you as a pet."
"I’d rather be a pet than hanging on the bridge, ma’am," he said.
Sofia laughed. "I see that your spirit remains unbroken. Your name, my dear?"
"Locke," he said. "After my father. Locke Lamora."
Don Salvara looked at his wife, who had turned back to him after the small child had taken her hand. "We will need a heir someday," Don Salvara said, placidly.
Sophia looked back at the orphaned ruffian, and raised both her elegantly pruned eyebrows. "Him?"
Locke snuffled his snot into his nose and wiped it with the rag that barely could be called a shirt. Don Salvara had thought the boy clever, and every minute in his company only furthered that impression. His wife narrowed her eyes further.
Don Salvara knew that she had been persuaded, even though she might not look it. "Well, I suppose we could at least take him home to bathe," Sofia said.
There was a knock on the carriage door, and then the voice of Doña Vorchenza demanded someone help her with her skirts. Don Salvara, very aware of his own rank in opposition to hers, leapt up, and opened the doors.
Locke Lamora remained squarely in her direct sightline, and before she stepped into the carriage fully, she asked, "And who is this?"
"A Catchfire orphan," Sophia replied. "My husband finds that he reminds him of his late dog."
"There’s worse things to be reminded of," Doña Vorchenza said, quite seriously, and studied the boy more closely. "Well, then, boy, what did you have to your name before the Black Whisper?" And in her inimitable manner, she’d read him better than if he had spoken out loud. "—you were an orphan even before the plague, weren’t you, boy?"
"My name is Lamora," he said.
"Very common name for a face that bright." Doña Vorchenza said. "Did your parents manage to give you another name, too?"
"Locke," he said, "after my father."
"Well, Locke After-Your-Father Lamora, can you tell me why you have the wallets of some of the yellowjackets on you?" She poked a long perfectly manicured finger at one of Locke’s pockets, and out fell two shabby looking bags, filled with less coin than everyone present carried in their shoes. "That would be a breach of the Secret Peace, my dear, and it is a hanging offense."
Locke stared at his feet.
"You didn’t know that? How long have your parents been dead—well, no matter. Sofia, if you want to take this little thief home, you should keep an eye on him." The Doña shook her head, and much quieter continued, "Stealing from the yellowjackets without getting caught, that boy has to have the luck of the gods."
Don Salvara looked to his wife. She was the shrewd one, and could calculate much faster if this venture would end in profit, or if it was doomed from the start. He didn't know if they could deal with a thief, but something in him wanted to try.
"I didn’t know, ma’am," Locke said, and looked up. He seemed earnest about it, too.
"My title is 'Your Honor' to you, not ma’am," Doña Vorchenza said.
"I’m sorry, Your Honor," the boy said.
"You don’t seem like a person who makes the same mistake twice," Doña Vorchenza commented. "But this kind of mistake is the one that leads to your throat slit in a dark alley, or hung upon the rafters of the bridges."
"Yes, Your Honor."
"Well," Doña Vorchenza said, "if you’re going to adopt the boy, I will have to find the time to teach him manners. It’s apparent that he can be taught, and so he has to, unless you want him to kill the Duke’s favorite cat by accident."
And with Doña Vorchenza’s goodwill and her experience in adopting young men, the Salvara’s adopted Locke Lamora right out of the Catchfire into the spiralling towers of the Alcegrante.
♕
The Eyeless Priest, down in the Emberhalls beneath the temple of Perelandro, kept his crew as small as he needed it to be, and while he was always on the lookout for another member for a five-person crew, he didn’t find one. Therefore, he concentrated on making the most out of the Gentleman Bastards he had, like always. Life down in the catacombs didn’t change much. He paid his dues to Barsavi, all the while he was thinking how to best subvert the Secret Peace.
♕
"A good concoction takes three months to research, three weeks to brew, and three seconds to ruin," Doña Salvara told her son. "Most things in life follow that approach. It’s a good rule of thumb to keep in mind."
Both of them were presently at the laboratories of the Nacozza vineyard’s, the Salvara family holdings just outside of the city. Doña Salvara had decreed them ready for a family vacation, after Locke managed to successfully take his revenge on his fellow peers who weren’t as tolerant of his heritage as the Salvara’s. If this continued into a trend, Sofia would have to take up Doña Vorchenza’s kind offer to host Locke with the same kind of tutors she had for her own adopted son, Stephen Reynart. As of now, however, they were just taking a holiday on their holdings, before the new school would take him. In the meanwhile, Sofia showed no compunction about showing the clever young boy they had adopted her craft.
"This is wraithstone elixir, and one has to be especially careful not to let any of its smoke escape the extracting vessel—or else, the smoke is going to take your mind, your emotions, your spirit—everything that makes you you."
Locke watched, slightly horrified, as she poured the substance into yet another beaker. "If it’s so dangerous, why are you working with it at all?"
She laughed her bell-like laughter, and with her free hand ruffled his hair. "Because it’s fun, and it can be very rewarding if you do it right." He ducked away from her hand.
"You can watch when I’ll be inserting this into the carriage horses, if you want. It can be a bit upsetting."
"I can deal with upsetting," he said.
Sofia laughed again, "Of course you can. But this is more upsetting on an existential level. Some people find the act purely horrifying. Lorenzo can’t stand it."
But Locke, perpetually interested in everything, was willing to look at the horrors of wraithstone, especially if Don Salvara was afraid of it.
Outside, the stablehands had prepared: The four horses that were due to be gentled were bound into the carriage stands in the middle of the yard—and they were nervous horses, stomping around and moving. There was a reason they were chosen to be gentled—the calm horses didn’t need the additional motivation to stay calm.
Locke hadn’t been interested in the horses before. He had to take the obligatory riding lessons, of course, but he hadn’t spent more time than necessary at the stables.
"You want to let him watch?" one of the stablehands asked Doña Salvara and nodded into the general direction of Locke.
"Well, he has to see it some time—no time like the present! And I really want to see if this works the way I want to, the indignity of the bags really gets to me."
Another one of the stable hands muttered something, but Locke couldn’t hear exactly what he said.
And then, Sofia Salvara inserted one of her syringes into the first horse, and it disappeared. Not literally, it was still standing at the place in the yard, bound to the carriage stands—but there was no recognition in its eyes. It was gone, and yet it stood there breathing. Locke shuddered, all the more revulsed because his mother had made him touch it, because she had handled it without the care this incredibly dangerous weapon deserved.
Sofia Salvara chattered away pleasantly, and was already moving on to the next horse. And Locke couldn’t look away. Again, he saw that light disappear. Again, the poison burned out the personality, the very soul of the horse. Again, Locke watched. The second horse was gentled, and the Doña moved onto the third.
Quicker than anything, the third joined its brethren—soulless, gentled.
"They used to do that to prisoners, you know," Sofia Salvara told him. "But thankfully, we have desisted from such inhumane forms of punishment. Some priests had the opinion that gentling would erase the soul entirely, and nobody wanted to take that chance. It had been reserved to the vilest of criminals, murderers and rapists, but I’m glad they hang them nowadays."
Locke swallowed, and looked back to the horses. They stood in line, unmoving. Even when the stablehands let them loose, they had to be prodded to where they needed to go. "Fucking creepy, if you ask me," one of them murmured loud enough that Locke could hear. And he had to agree. Hard enough to see it done to a horse—Locke couldn’t imagine watching a human being going through the same procedure.
"It certainly beats killing them whenever they have a fucking nervous breakdown," the other one said.
"I rather not have to do either one, but what can you do? At least the Doña’s way is less mess to clean up. Less accidents, too—remember when the old stablemaster blew up the bag with wraithstone smoke?"
Less than a quarter hour later, all horses had returned to the stable, and Doña Salvara was returning to her laboratory. "What happened to the old stable master?" Locke asked, finally, after contemplating horror scenario after horror scenario.
Sofia faltered slightly, then said, "He retired."
♕
Locke didn’t forget the experience. Even once returning to the city, he shied away from using gentled horses. He developed a strange fascination with the Hill of Whispers, where the criminals were sentenced to death.
Sofia had to console him through many nightmares when he imagined himself gentled as a traitor to the Duke, and it was this that finally made her take up Doña Vorchenza’s offer to care for his education—she had figured that the reclusive duchess and her quiet ways away from troubling political matters would be a calming influence on her son.
Who was to know, after all, that the dowager duchess was the spider of her own net of political dealings?
♕
Jean Tannen, Gentleman Bastard, was at the House of Glass Roses preparing himself for a bout with Master Maranzalla, who’d been teaching him the kill people with a sword for the past few months. The Garden Without Fragrance he’d become used to, as he had become used to the way Don Maranzalla switched between high language and street slang, but he hadn’t become used to the way he was whipped to the ground each and every time.
He straightened out his belt, and cracked his knuckles, and then readied himself to meet the broad target that was the swordmaster.
"Hey, you fucking lunatic," Don Maranzalla yelled. In the first few moments, Jean Tannen thought that he’d been called by the insult, since sometimes the Master tried to motivate him by irritating his temper. The person who reacted, clambering out of a tiny space no human except Bug could have fit in, was someone he’d never met before. Clearly, he wasn’t any of Maranzalla’s more noble students—he was clad in simple laborer’s wool, just like him. He assumed the boy was some kind of page, being allowed the run of the place like that. "Come down here."
The boy scrambled down the rafters, evading the sharp, lethal tips of the roses on his way down as if he had been born to do it with an agility that rivalled Bug at his best. In closer proximity, the boy didn’t look as young. The first impression was of his slight stature, of the half-starved look he had about him, but he was much closer in age to Jean than he had initially appeared.
"This little shit is Locke Lamora," the swordmaster said, and Locke bowed with a mocking flourish, copied clearly from Maranzalla’s other students. "It’ll do you good to fight against a little dervish like Locke. You rely on using your opponents strength’s in your fighting style too much, and well, Locke doesn’t have any strength, which you might infer from his lack of muscle tone. If I didn’t know how much he eats every day, I’d say he was starving." Then, to Locke, he said, "He’s going to beat you to a pulp if you don’t parry. In fact, this is the opponent you deserve. Keep out of the preserves and the wines, if you know what’s good for you."
And with that cryptic comment, he left the ring, and swung himself up to the bannister, where Locke had lurked just minutes earlier, with an agility that belied his age.
There was no second bow, no outward sign that the bout had begun. Quicker than a cat, Locke sprang forward, and into Jean’s reach. Jean lunged after him, but the little shit was quick to jump out of his reach again, and yeah, this wasn’t a fight won with leverage. Jean recalibrated his movements, slowed down further, so that Locke wasn’t the one to dominate the beat of the fight, and then he hit, calculated, and managed to strike him with the butt of his sword when he turned out of the way again. Locke seemed unable to parry, his twig-like appearance holding true—he might have been able to deal strikes, but he wasn’t able to take them.
"Keep your side closed," Maranzalla shouted from the sidelines.
"I’m trying," Locke yelled back, despite the speed of his movements, not a single bit out of breath. Jean redoubled his efforts. "But this brute keeps punching through my defenses!"
"Then they aren’t very good, are they," Jean replied.
Locke froze, just a tiny fraction, but enough that Jean could hit him again, which he did. The little shit started laughing.
"Oh gods," he said, between guffaws. "Where did you find this one? I like him."
Even though Jean’s strike must have hurt, had most definitely hurt, judging by his reaction to the hit despite the laughter, Locke didn’t slow down. He was very good at evading, and the more they fought, the more Jean felt like his own movement was countered. Locke didn’t seem to be a very good swordsman, but he was a terrific opponent—very unpredictable.
"Stop!" the Master Swordsman shouted finally, and Jean immediately stopped. He had felt how Locke kept flagging, as if he was loosing more and more energy, and Jean had maneuvred him into a few positions where he could surrender easily. That was a move that didn’t seem like it was in Locke’s vocabulary—he’d just run out of energy and faint.
And as soon as they stopped, Locke fell down to his knees, breathing harshly. "Really, where did you find him?" he said, barely legible, between coughing.
"You could have quit earlier," Jean told him, and sheathed his practise sword.
Locke grinned at him. "Really?" he said. "Wow, that sure is new." His voice was still raspy from coughing, and his eyes were the most piercing Jean had ever seen—more piercing than even Father Chains, who could see right through to your soul. Jean stepped closer. It didn’t seem like Locke could use his feet to stand anymore, and Jean held a helping hand underneath his arm.
Locke fell forward, and Jean caught him, leaned him against his shoulders. "That’s gonna bruise," Locke said, and then, quite shamelessly, started feeling up Jean’s muscles. Jean slapped him, gently, and Locke flopped onto the mats instead. "Baseless cruelty," he moaned. "You can’t put arms like yours in front of me, and then demand I don’t touch them."
"If you can feel me up, then we can go another round," Jean said.
"With fighting?" Locke asked, guilelessly, but the hidden meaning quite clear.
Jean glowered.
"Stop flirting with the priest, Locke," Maranzalla told him.
"A fucking priest?"
"Yes, a priest. No to the fucking."
Locke groaned. "It’s such a shame that a body like yours will go into priesthood," he said. Then, he looked speculative, "Are you already ordained?"
Jean, who hadn’t been flirted with this outrageously by people who would have gotten paid for it, smiled bemusedly. "Yes," he said, and let the silence fill the rest of it.
"A priest," Locke repeated, as if that had destroyed all his dreams in one fellow swoop, and Jean really was quite charmed. Then, somehow, under the creaking of bones, Locke managed to get himself upright. Once he stood, the damage of the fight seemed to fall of him, as if he was used to pretending he wasn’t hurt. Only the mess of his hair, and the red spot on his high cheekbones belied his fight. Jean wanted to brush a hand over the spot, to see if it was as bad as it looked—but either way, it was most likely going to turn into a bruise.
Jean didn’t connect Locke Lamora, the dervish with a sword and a fucking thirst to either prove himself or die trying, with Don Salvara’s heir. How could he? A noble wouldn’t let himself get hit like that.
When he returned, three days later, the bruises in Locke Lamora’s face were absolutely brutal. "Shit," Jean said, when he saw them, and not, how he wanted, "Mother-loving fuck, which son of a bitch did that to your face?" since he knew the answer.
Locke grinned, and it stretched his face, and he could almost see the blood vessels underneath his skin bursting further. His face was a mess, and yet his eyes were still mesmerising, and the energy underneath his skin infectious.
"Do the other side, so that I match, at least," Locke demanded, the first words out of his mouth. And, okay, in retrospect he should have figured out that the demands and posturing were part of the noble package. Locke, however, inhabited his body with an unselfconsciousness that kept the attention sorely on him at all times, and Jean didn’t think more deeply about why he was at Don Maranzalla’s so often.
He sparred with Locke again—this time, he didn’t hit the face, and Locke continued his reckless abandon in attacking, again and again, without consideration for his own body. When Maranzalla called the fight, he was still standing, if barely.
And then, the fights turned more two-sided, and the piece of shit Locke Lamora started stealing Jean’s pocket change, and really, at that point he was far away from ever thinking him a noble. He didn’t realise that Locke was the son of Don Salvara because his fingers were faster than his mind, and he amassed a truly astonishing amount of trinkets in a small space of time. Nothing Jean did, helped — he tried binding the brat hand and feet, and yet somehow, at the end of Jean's lesson, he was missing another ring, or a hairpin, or a button on his jacket.
Father Chains noticed, after the second time, and arched both his eyebrows. "Maranzalla bringing in outside help?" he asked, or maybe he found out earlier, and only wanted Jean’s confirmation.
"Locke Lamora," he said. "He was watching the lessons."
Father Chains didn’t react to this information any more than he usually did, but Caldo and Galdo and Bug picked up on Jean’s reluctance to talk about the thief that was lifting his pockets, and teased him to hell and high water about his crush making him soft. And maybe Jean had a crush, he would readily admit that—Locke looked so breakable and frail, and yet somehow managed to boil over with sarcasm and recklessness, and a surprising amount of vengeful spirit.
Each time he returned, the Priest would sigh loudly, "No matter, no matter, it will turn out alright, by the blessings of the overlooked." None of them felt in any way able to decipher the cryptic messages, especially since then he’d go and mutter somewhere where he thought they couldn’t hear—"If he'll let himself be robbed by that brat, then he deserves everything he gets." Once, in their desperation, they wrote to Sabetha, but she didn’t know anything about him either.
Later on, Jean wouldn’t be able to say if Father Chains had known his parentage, either, or if he had gone to his good friend Don Maranzalla who he had blackmailed to train Jean, to ask.
♕
In the tallest Elderglass tower belonging to the duchess of Amberglass, Locke Lamora was lying on a silk-embroidered divan, still in his fancy furs. Behind him, the view over the soft hills on the northern side of the city was bathed into the beautiful light of the first sundown. His host, the duchess Doña Vorchenza herself, was sipping her tea, and pretending to listen to the folly of youth he was spewing forth.
Locke had many thoughts on the handsome priest at Don Maranzalla’s, and he shared them in a great dramatical retelling— taking over the actual purpose of their meetings, which was to keep an eye on the younger set of nobles and their interests in taking over either the Duke or one of the other established houses. Doña Vorchenza had been despairing the day he would grow bored of that. She hadn’t really found an acceptable outlet for Locke’s creative energies yet that wouldn’t end in the destruction of the entirety of the noble houses, but as his godmother she felt it was her duty to try. As the Duke’s Spider, sometimes she’d wish Locke was someone else’s problem, like say, Emberlain for example. She knew how to play the cards she had been dealt with, and perhaps one day, when the vigour of youth had left him, Locke would make an excellent Spider.
"You mentioned this priest of yours is one of Maranzalla’s best fighters?" Doña Vorchenza took the opportunity Locke had afforded her to dig him a little deeper into his scheming.
Locke pressed his face into the silk cushions imported from Parlay and groaned. "Please kill me now, you’ve taken an interest," he said, muffled by the pillows.
"If you didn’t want my advice, you shouldn’t have started talking about him so much," the Doña pointed out.
Since that was the logical conclusion, Locke waved the point away with a careless hand gesture. "Like I could have told anyone else," he said, and sat up. "You made me keep my training at Don Maranzalla a secret—which was a fucking trip when I had to go around with two bruised eyes and a bloody nose, let me tell you."
"It’s easier to be underestimated, and the bruises could have only helped your cause. I’m sure plenty of your peers loved to see you beaten up."
"Fucking assholes," Locke said, and the duchess refrained from scolding him for his language. Locke had a complicated history with fitting in with his peers. He could pretend to be highborn with the best of them, and sometimes Doña Vorchenza wondered at that—she couldn’t have picked a better person of the streets if she had tried. In any case, not all of the nobles of Camorr had taken to Locke’s abilities in the way that she had; there were quite a few that resented his connections, his history, the way he could charm his way out of a hundred-year-old feud.
"Your priest," Doña Vorchenza returned the conversation to its original purpose. "He doesn’t happen to be an acolyte to Father Chains, the priest of Perelandro?"
"Why, yes, dear Aunt," Locke said. "He is a priest of Perelandro. I don’t know if his master is this Father Chains—why does the name sound so familiar?"
Doña Vorchenza gestured to the footman, who brought her a tray of documents she laid before her on the table. He cleared away the rest of the spice cake she had left out for a treat.
"Be a dear godson and come here to look at this," she spread out the papers, and left them for Locke to study. Accompanied by grumbling, he left his favorite place to be, lying in repost complaining his heart out, and devoted his entire attention to whatever Doña Vorchenza had put in front of him.
"Twelve Gods," he said. It was meant as an oath, an invocation, and yet it fit the subject matter too well for Doña Vorchenza to pass it on.
"Thirteen Gods, if we are going to take this as a fact," she quipped. "The Eyeless Priest, the best known priest of Perelandro in the city, also called Father Chains, because he’s been chained to the altar of Perelandro, has been masquerading behind his oath to the gods."
"A thirteenth god," Locke said, full of awe. "The Crooked Warden. The Nameless Thirteenth."
"Seems like the sort of god people like us should’ve known, doesn’t it?"
"Sure does. But my, what a great con. How did Stephen find out about this?"
Doña Vorchenza sighed, "Well, the Gray King keeps killing Barsavi’s men, and so it isn’t quite as difficult as usual to sneak in spies. Of course, we keep loosing them to the same reasons, but apparently the Priest of the Crooked Warden pays his dues, and keeps to the Peace."
"A criminal priest," Locke said, wondrous. "He’s perfect." He looked down at the papers as if they had suddenly revealed the secrets of the universe, then a frown slowly crept over his expression. "Then again, he never noticed me stealing his stuff, only after I had already stolen it… do you think he pretended to be less adept than he really was?"
"Perhaps it is because you’re the best pick-pocket to walk the streets of Camorr?" the duchess suggested with a smile. "You did manage to steal from the yellowjackets when you were fresh-faced and young, and we haven’t let your training go."
Locke frowned. "I don’t think I’m the best pick-pocket of the city, as sweet as that title would feel—but why would a criminal priest let his apprentice train under Maranzalla? By all accounts, that would get noticed the most."
"By whom, though? Who would notice him training at the House of Glass? And Maranzalla is common-born, he might even be an old acquaintance of this Father Chains."
"I noticed him," Locke said. There was an undertone to his voice, as if he suspected someone of double-dealing, of sneaking around to conspire behind his back. It didn’t bode well for anyone who did, because Locke was, down to his bone, loyal to the people he liked, and he liked himself most of all.
"For what my opinion is worth—" the duchess began, and was interrupted by Locke’s aside, "—and your opinion is worth quite a lot—" only to continue as if she hadn’t been interrupted, "I don’t think this is a trap for you. I doubt people even know of your existence."
"Too embarrassed to have been bested by the lowborn scum, rather," Locke murmured, looking down on the shoes he was wearing. Finest Lashari leather, worth a fortune on the down-markets, but still not enough to hide where he came from—a Catchfire orphan, adopted only due to the benevolence of Don Salvara’s charity.
"It doesn’t matter why they respect you," Doña Vorchenza said with the wisdom of her advancing age. "Only that they do. Now, be dear, and get me a personal assessment about this Father Chains—and while you’re there, you may even try flirting with your priest on his home turf. You can always hope he’ll be more open to your advances when you’re not surrounded by a thousand lethal glass roses."
♕
The Gentleman Bastards, that is Bug, the Sanza’s, and Jean, had only just sat down to cheat at cards with one of Father Chain’s fancier wines, when there was a knock on the door. Because of the Elderglass surrounding the rooms underneath Perelandro’s temple, it gave a dull thud that reverberated through the chambers.
"Bug, it’s your turn," Galdo said, and laid out a Duke’s Flush, which would have been more impressive if Bug hadn’t just done the same. Usually he at least pretended his trumps were possible.
"But it can’t be Father Chains, he just went out! Stop sneaking a peek, or you can sneak a peek at my fist, cocksucker."
"Woah, Bug, easy there," Galdo said. "Your own fault if you make it so easy, and don’t let the priest hear you use that fucking language."
"I don’t want to hear that kind of language from Bug on the same table I eat breakfast either," Jean murmured into his wine, and laid most of his cards onto the table but pocketed the bent piece of copper he’d been stretching for the past few games.
"Bug, you shouldn’t get uppity in your young age. Look at Sabetha to see how that turned out."
"Maybe he forgot his damned walking stick," Caldo suggested, and that didn’t sound at all like the Eyeless Priest, and yet they could all hear someone knocking on the front door.
"Maybe we should all check," Jean suggested, but he was already out of his chair and on his way to the door.
"You go first."
And so, Jean went, and opened the door. The first thing he saw was the shaggy hair and the bright blue eyes, and before he had thought about giving his audience further ammunition, he blurted out, "What are you doing here?"
"I brought you flowers," Locke said, with his shit-eating grin, and presented a bouquet made out of every single trinket he managed to liberate from Jean’s person. The piece de l’resistance was the shiny golden button in the middle.
"How fucking romantic!" Caldo exclaimed behind him in falsetto, instead of focusing on the fact that their hide-out had been found out by someone not in-the-know.
Locke managed to press the bouquet into his hands, despite the twins best effort to wrangle it away from him. "Where is the Eyeless Priest? I am here with an important message for him."
"And who are you, to have an important message for Father Chains?" Galdo asked, suspicious.
Locke Lamora bowed, and it managed to convey the exact edge between mocking and respectful. It was so masterfully done, Father Chains couldn’t have executed it better. "My name is Locke Lamora, son of Don and Doña Salvara, and I’m here on behalf of Don Maranzalla to make a sacrifice to the Thirteenth. An insurance, if you will, for secrets that should be kept between…friends."
Jean could only feel blessed that he didn’t let any of his surprise show on his face. Galdo couldn’t suppress his sound of surprise in time, and managed to turn it into a healthy slap to Jean’s back. "Way to go, big guy, I thought you’d never loose your virginity, and here you are, hooking nobles left and right!"
Jean choked, and looked helplessly at Locke. Who, yes, wore clothes more elaborate than at Don Maranzalla’s, but who was going to fight in silk shirts and embroidered doubloons? And Locke looked exceptionally good in the tight pants that ended in slim heels. He let his gaze travel over the embroidered shirt sleeves, and the front that was neatly buttoned up. His hair was shaggy as usual, but that only made the urge to mess up Locke’s entire outfit even more apparent. Nothing marred his face—it was a bit strange to see him so untouchable.
"Ah, yes," Locke said, "Jean has me thoroughly seduced with his big strong arms and tender heart." And then he fluttered his lashes.
Jean knew he was making fun, and yet he couldn’t help but stare at the long lashes that framed his eyes. He was struck dumb, really, and deserved all the teasing he would get.
"Father Chains is away on business," Bug said, with a panache that was usually lost to him.
It was nearing falselight, and soon the streets would be shut down and empty, another reason it was uncommon to see visitors of the more upstanding variety. "Will he be expected back before true dark?" Locke asked, and eyed their humble abode interested. Jean could see him registering the altar gifts that had been appropriated from Perelandro, but he didn’t say anything, and Jean was glad for it, or else he would have had to kick Locke out, and that would truly be a shame.
Caldo and Galdo answered in affirmative at the same time, and then Galdo said, "While you wait—I’m assuming you want to wait—why don’t you join us for a game or two?"
Locke didn’t agree without looking at Jean, who didn’t know what kind of expression he had made. Even if Locke turned out to be a noble, he clearly spent a lot of time with the rougher element of the city, the bouquet he brought with him only further evidence of that. Jean didn’t know who was going to be fleeced more—the twins, or Locke.
It turned out neither one of them would dominate the games—it was in fact, Bug, who swept the tables. Jean couldn’t help but notice the thankful smile he had thrown Locke, when he collected his winnings for the fifth time in a row, and with that, looked Caldo out of all future games.
"I give up," Galdo said, and threw the rest of his cards on the table. "You’re a motherfucking master of the game, where’d you learn to cheat like that?"
Locke splayed out his hands over the cards. "I learned on the Duke’s knee," he said, and winked. "It’s not like you pezons have a monopoly on gaming."
"Did you really learn on the Duke’s knee?" Bug asked, his mouth slightly open in awe.
"No," Locke said, "but it’s the kind of story so outrageous, you’d like to believe it, wouldn’t you? I learned on the knee’s of the Duke’s Spider."
"Bah," Galdo said. "We may be pezons, but we’re not gullible. How would you know the Duke’s Spider? You’re minor nobility, and the Spider is a fucking myth."
"A myth just like the temple underneath the temple, with an Eyeless Priest who can see?"
Bug shifted around awkwardly under the penetrating gaze, and while Galdo didn’t look uncomfortable, Jean could tell that he was. Before the tension could erupt into something more violent, however, the door opened again.
"You fucking numbskulls! Can’t you even keep the fucking door closed while I’m away on business?" the voice of Father Chains came through before they could see his face.
"There was a visitor," Caldo called back.
"A visitor?" Father Chains said, and then he was visible, his usual get-up of poor robes and chains switched with more casual clothes that weren’t so immediately identifying.
"That would be me," Locke said, and stood up to his full height. He was still much smaller than almost anyone at the table, except for Bug who would either shot up in a few months or stay forever small. "I have a message from Don Maranzalla, for Father Chains, courtesy of the secret temple underneath Perelandro’s— I must say, this is not what I pictured."
"So," Father Chains said, and set his bundle aside, and squinted at the young man he had never seen before, "—you’re the orphan that got adopted to the echelons. What luck you have imbibed in your mother’s milk, my friend. May I ask your name?"
♕
Jean watched the fucking adopted son of a noble, fucking Locke Lamora, who was adept at negotiating on the Duke’s Spider’s behalf, and trusted to do so, exit the halls of elderglass through the backdoor tunnels. Bug was leading him outside to the temple’s entrance. Falselight had completely fallen, and anyone who graced the temple around this time would face the suspicions of the guards.
"Now, Jean my boy, you’re going to tell me how in the Benefactor’s graces you managed the acquaintance of someone with the authority to represent the gods-damned Spider of Camorr?"
Jean, who had been sensible enough to never need admonishment about his personal interests unlike the Sanza’s, colored red.
"He was Maranzalla’s student," he defended himself.
"By the grace of the Thirteenth!" Father Chains threw his hands in the air, "I must have missed the past month where you fucking mooned for him— how was he, in the House of Glass Roses, that you forgot all I have thought you?"
"I thought he was a pageboy—an apprentice teacher perhaps—"
"You didn’t think it was fucking strange that he was too stick-thin for a master in weapons? And what about his inflection, his Camorri drawl didn’t tip you off?"
"He was very flexible," Jean defended himself. The Sanza’s took the opportunity to heckle him. It didn’t help to clarify his thoughts. "And he didn’t speak— he talked like—"
"He didn’t sound like he couldn’t dissolve the golden spoon in his mouth, is that what you’re trying to say?" Father Chains said, visibly upset. Then, he sighed and managed to breathe out his temper together with the air. It was a talent Jean hadn’t yet mastered, though not for lack of trying. "What kind of thricedamned motherfucking noble would crawl all the way underneath the temple of Perelandro to find the bit of shirt they were chasing—don’t answer that. Say, how do you feel about seducing— don’t answer that either. If he’s really one of the Spider’s trusted underlings, then there was most likely nothing you could’ve done. I should’ve just sent you to the second best weapon’s master of the city, though it galls me even in hindsight. Well, there’s nothing we can do about the fucking Spider being interested in our work now. We can only suck up to Barsavi some more and pretend we never thought about disrupting the Secret Peace. Pay our dues. Hope this dies down, and maybe you can use your new acquaintance to case some targets. I fucking hope this has nothing to do with Barsavi’s men keeling over like flies." He sighed again. "—you should go after him, there’s worse pots you could dip into. There had to be a day you’d make me regret including you in this group, and so far you hadn’t. Better now than later."
"Ohhhhhh," Caldo said as a chorus to the sexual innuendo, drawn out to be extra annoying.
Jean could shove his fist down his throat, but he’d probably need to clean it away in the morning, and so he only said, "Fuck off, Sanza," and hurried after Bug.
Bug was standing in front of the confessional, his eyes wide in wonder. "He’s a fucking lunatic," he said.
"Watch your fucking mouth," Locke’s cheerful voice came from inside the small space. "You’re speaking to a fucking lady."
Quietly, Bug indicated how much he thought about Locke’s sanity. "I can hear you making that gesture," Locke said, and opened the curtain.
"A fucking lunatic," Bug repeated a tone of awe in his voice.
Locke had stepped out of the small closet space unrecognisable— he was wearing a dress. Mourning clothes, black silk descending downwards, hiding his hair and his features. From somewhere he had obtained not only a shift but the corset that went over it. Jean had known he was slender, but the addition of the bone-breasted support around his waist gave him the illusion of curves. He looked every inch the mourning widow, and not even the Sanza’s would have had anything disparaging to say about the visual he presented.
Jean swallowed. He was in too deep already.
"Would the kind gentleman escort me to my carriage? I seem to have lost some time remembering my dead husband," Locke said. His voice was still deep, but now the husk seemed to have come from extended crying, and the reserved way of speaking only underscored his words.
"Of course, m’lady, right this way," Jean said. He kept his hands strictly to himself, and escorted Locke directly to nondescript carriage cage that was waiting in front of the temple. It seemed to be the correct choice, since as soon as Locke stepped in, it slowly started its ascent into the higher echelons of the city. Jean stared after it, mesmerised by the colors of the falselight surrounding them.
Father Chains thought there were worse people to be infatuated with, but Jean couldn’t think of a single one. The carriage went slowly towards the towers, and Jean watched until he couldn’t see it anymore.
♕
"Locke, the little shit, told me he’d offered you a contract." Maranzalla told Jean in the middle of a vigorous exchange of blows. Jean parried, panting. He didn’t have much breath left to discuss anything, let alone the finer details of his relationship with Locke Lamora. In his kinder moments, he thought they were friends. The less said what he thought in his darker moments, the better.
"He might’ve mentioned bodyguard duties, yeah," Jean replied when the Master let up.
"Does this have anything to do with why Chains needs you to know how to kill people?" He shook his head, then continued, "Nevermind, I don’t actually want to know what Chains is up to, plausible deniability. But you should care to remember that I didn’t train you to faff about after stuck-up twats and play at keeping him from danger. The most danger that twerp is going to get into is from his own doing anyway, damn brat can never keep his mouth shut. The point is, though, if you get into this protection shit, you have to watch out like a hawk--it’s more of a political game than anything else."
"I haven’t said yes."
"It's Lamora, so you're going to find yourself saying yes sooner than you anticipated, just to get him to shut up." Maranzalla said, and started whacking away with his sword again. Jean jumped further into the maze of roses, trying not to think about how much better the Don would know.
"You won't get away from me by changing the terrain!" Maranzalla shouted, and leapt into the maze after him. What followed was an exhausting bout that ended in a draw. "Doing good, in any case. I think we can continue our bouts occasionally, if you want the practise, but other than that, there's really not much more I can teach you."
"Thank you," Jean said, and didn't sheath his sword in case that compliment was a ruse and would lead to another attack from his master. "Say," Maranzalla began. "How is Father Chains doing? Is there still that trouble with the Capa Barsavi? It doesn't sound good from where I'm standing... I hope the priest knows what he's doing."
Jean shrugged his shoulders. "He's as worried as any of Capa Barsavi's other garristas."
"Is he? Huh," Maranzalla seemed surprised. "Well, I guess there must be other people who are merrily pissed off about the Barsavi's precious Secret Peace, though of course my coffers weren't touched."
Jean grunted. Father Chains would definitely want to know that Maranzalla thought that he was the one disturbing the Peace—and while Father Chains was currently busy trying to plan an assault on the noble house of Chasterlain, he wasn’t out murdering garristas.
Had Maranzalla meant it as a warning? Even so, it would be helpful if Jean was known as a bodyguard in the noble classes before he was there for the confident games Father Chains revelled in.
♕
"A bodyguard for the Spider's little princeling?" Chains said, and stroked his beard. "It does push some of the timeline further ahead, but I don't see why you getting practise fawning around the high society would be a bad thing."
"He needs all the practise he can get," Galdo said. "Last week he told the Madame at the market he thought her ass looked fat, and he didn't mean the horse."
"Remember that time he told Nazca that she was almost like a boy? He sure doesn’t know how to charm a dead rat, let alone high society."
"Nazca thought it was a compliment." Jean defended himself.
"That’s what she told you—she cried on our shoulders for hours. Your shoulders are apparently mesmerising."
"That wasn't the way it happened!" Jean shouted, reconsidered, and said more quietly, "At least I haven't left half the women in Camorr in tears after promising them to love them forever."
"They were left in tears, because we made them feel loved forever," Caldo replied. "I don’t suppose you’d know the difference between painful tears and tears of ecstasy. But since you can't even get close to that, I guess you should be careful with the noble set. They have very original tastes, or so I hear."
"They'll certainly never be as gauche as to slum it with you," Jean shot back.
"Boys, boys, boys," Father Chains said. "It's certainly not necessary to create this kind of drama about it. I'm sure you're all very proficient with women." He said it like he'd believe it when the Crooked Warden came down to Earth to tell him personally, and probably not even then. It successfully smothered the conversation into only lingering smoke.
"A bodyguard for Locke Lamora, son of Don Salvara, sounds like an excellent opener for doors that have been closed to us before. See if you can get the plans for the crystalline room of the Cavallos. It’s said they keep a bottle of real Austershalin in there."
♕
Locke Lamora hadn’t offered him a contract as a bodyguard. Locke Lamora had asked him if he would like to join him at a soiree of Doña Vorchenza.
"Are you fucking with me?" Jean had asked in reply. Locke had sighed deeply, and Jean, through long association with the Sanzas, clarified, "Do you think I’m fucking stupid? Why would I want to go to a soiree to the feeble-minded duchess, and pretend I don’t feel bothered by their stuck-up condescension. No thanks."
Locke’s expression turned to the stubborn face of a fighter who never gave an inch even beaten into the ground. "I could pay you."
"I’m choosing not to take that as an insult." Jean enunciated every word clearly. "Fucking pay me. Really. Like an escort? You wish you could afford me, Lamora."
"I wouldn’t have said no to that, but I meant as a legitimate escort—you’re at Maranzalla’s school of war, aren’t you? I could pay you for bodyguard services."
Jean hesitated.
"You can wear your armour and you won’t be setting yourself apart from the other men there for security," Locke added. "And the food is to die for."
"Why are you so desperate to get me to join you there?" Jean asked. Locke looked around, strangely embarrassed now for all that the conversation had been about escorts before. Nobody was around, which was why Jean had spoken so frankly—there was no need to provoke a beating from someone who took offense from the way he was speaking to a noble, if his mere existence provoked rage in the people who thought he didn’t deserve to be here. And there were consequences to proving them physically how much he belonged here, consequences that would be mitigated if he was actually hired as a bodyguard.
"Would you let me beat up that little shit for you?" Jean asked. "You know, the one with the chip in his shoulder, the one with the house in Razona instead of the ornate towers like someone else I could mention?"
Locke laughed, an unexpected sound of delight. He himself had clearly been unprepared for it, as he looked shocked at Jean’s daring. "You shouldn’t tease me so if you don’t intend to make people draw the wrong conclusion for why I would pay to have you join me," he said more seriously.
"If I beat the little shit up without a commission to a noble, I’d get into trouble with the yellowjackets. And then with Barsavi’s men."
"Really? Why—oh, because you’re a criminal. Do you pay your dues?"
"Of course, we’re a legitimate window crew," Jean defended himself reflexively and tried not to think about Chains other extracurricular interests. For which, if he was honest, it could only be a vantage if he went to the more exclusive parties of the upper set.
"Please excuse me for thinking you were somewhat shady, with your ability to take classes at Maranzalla’s."
"Please, he lets in everyone. After all, you’re there too, aren’t you?"
"Touché." Locke watched the man himself referee the fight between the students. "So…could I hire you?"
Jean got up from his crouch, since Master Maranzall was beginning to dismiss his students, and he should limber up before trying to fight either the master, or Locke, who judging from his fighting ability, needed a shield more than a bodyguard—or simply a friend. "Let me think about it," he said out loud, but in his heart he had already decided back then.
♕
When he left the House of Glass Roses, Jean Tannen noticed someone was following him. This was nothing unusual—there had been a time every single one of Maranzalla’s noble students felt the urge to tail the riffraff and see why Maranzalla had decided to train him. Usually, Jean went easy on them. They were also usually very easy to spot, whereas this tail—wasn’t.
Had Chains not spent a half year having the Gentleman Bastards all follow each other, with rewards for who remained unspotted and who spotted whom first, Jean wouldn’t have noticed.
On the bridge across to the Twosilver Green, a dark figure jumped out from behind the bridge’s pier. Jean had just enough warning to bring up his knife and parry one of the stilettos advancing on him, narrowly avoiding the other.
"Who the fuck are you?" Jean asked, because it was just polite to introduce oneself before you tried to kill someone.
"I’m the one who will make you meet the gods," the figure said with an affected rasp. Jean pushed him away, noticing that the figure was much older than he had initially suspected, but still very agile.
"That’s enough, Conté," Locke said from behind him. Jean swirled around, because him, he hadn’t noticed at all.
"Lamora," he said, surprised.
Locke sighed theatrically. "I do wish you’d consider calling me Locke."
"I find dropping your title affords me already enough familiarity. I’m just a poor priest of Perelandro after all."
"Aren’t all people equal before the god of the Overlooked?" Locke complained.
The man who had attacked him cleared his throat, and Jean turned around, guard high to meet him. He shouldn’t have taken his eyes of the man at all. "Can I continue evaluating your bodyguard now, m’lord?"
Locke ignored him entirely, and focused his attention on Jean. "This is my father’s most trusted bodyguard. We inherited him from my grandfather, and there’s some foibles we can’t just train out of him."
The Conté whacked the butt of his stiletto knife against Locke. At least tried to, because Locke twisted away from the punch. He didn’t follow up with another retribution and instead eyed up Jean like he dearly wished to pick him apart.
Jean shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. "Is this a prank?" he asked. "If you regret offering me the position as your bodyguard—"
Locke sighed, loudly. "Don’t be dramatic. Conté thinks I’m only hiring you to be…how did you put it? —to be a pretty looking decoration. Never mind the fact that Maranzalla himself vouched for you. The Conté thinks the only way to get an upgrade to bodyguard is to almost die multiple times for your master. I won’t be expecting that, you’re far too pretty to die."
The Conté had been scrutinizing him throughout Locke’s explanation. Then, he sheathed his knifes, and said gruffly, "You’ll do for now. Keep him away from pretty redheads."
"Redheads?" Jean asked. There was no way Locke had met Sabetha, was there? She’d been gone, what, 5 years now. Unlikely as it was since she did move in different circles than an adopted son of one of the noble houses, but stranger connections had happened.
"Nothing you need to concern yourself about," Locke said blithely, and elbowed the Conté in the side like a child embarrassed by their parents. "I’ve sworn of redheads, and that one redhead in particular. Well! If that’s sorted, I do want to show you were to take the carriage if I get incapacitated. And I told the driver that you can presume on him to take you back to the temple at night." Locke paused, looked him over, and then added, "Of course, if you’d rather spend the time in my rooms, that can be arranged also."
"M’lord!" the Conté protested quite indignant. "You can’t—with this ruffian!"
"I wonder why you persist in flirting with me," Jean said. "Since I haven’t encouraged you in any way."
"You haven’t told me to stop, yet, and you are far too attractive."
Jean snorted. "You keep flattering me, as if my reaction to the hundredth time you tell me that, it will change my opinion on getting on with you."
"Hope springs eternal," Locke replied. "Perhaps some day you might suddenly discover there’s something to like about me, after all. In the meanwhile, I shall pine away fruitlessly."
Jean didn’t know how to react—that last line had transcended Locke’s usual sarcasm into something that sounded quite sincere. Locke had decided to ruin it, then; his expression arranged itself into a leer that would fit seamlessly into the folk at the dockside.
It was a constant guess if Locke Lamora truly meant his flirtations—in Jean’s company he seemed to flirt with nobody else, but nobody that outrageous could have only one target. In any case, Jean wouldn’t be starting anything; there was too much hanging on Locke never discovering what he did in his free time if they would partner up for longer, and if it was only one night, Jean would despise himself for it. Unlike the Sanzas, he had neither the taste nor the inclination for quick encounters or long-term affairs.
♕
The passenger cage that hoisted them to the soiree held at Amberglass Tower—a first time visit for Jean, but from the warm welcome of the footmen in cream-white livery, a frequent visit for Locke.
Alchemical lamps surrounded the terrace, and created an eery atmosphere over the terrace leading to the well-lit parlours and apartments. The Amberglass was sparsely populated, even Jean knew that, since the duchess had few remaining relatives, but today, for the first assembly of the season, the tower was filled with nobility come to rub shoulders.
The decorations inside repeated the patterns of the Elderglass, and the arches of the windows in the cakes and other trifles on offer, black cushions were lining the seats, and golden brass lanterns in all sizes hung from the ceiling. Already, there was a steady stream of people coming and going.
"I see you moved up in the world, Lamora," a young man, of the same age as Locke from his looks, said. He was dressed in ostentatious doublets, paired with purple snake leather exported from the Kingdom of the Marshes. "Who of your parents sponsored your little hanger on? About time that you follow in the rest of our footsteps." He was followed by a blank-faced, gigantic hunk of a man, who lumbered behind him. Jean wasn't sure he would be able to take him in a fair fight, but then he didn't intend to fight fair. "Where did you find him? In the gutter, like your parents found you?"
"At least I know my parents wanted me," Locke said, very mildly, and all the more devastating for it. Jean wondered where he had learned to use words like that--the way he taunted in their fights was much more direct, if no less devastating for it. "Whereas everyone knows the Duke was a bit inconvenienced with finding something for their spare to do, how does the Beggar's Grove suit your sensibilities? I heard they had a scare of Black Whisper recently."
"Oh, it turns a nice profit--not like you'd know how that is, taking on every beggar that crosses your way. Have you paid your way out of the disaster of that grammar school incident yet, or have your parents decided they were finally going to cut you off the family inheritance?"
"I haven't needed my parent's help with that when we were ten, why would I need it now?" Locke asked sweetly, and nudged Jean, who stumbled into the woman who was trying to pass him by. She almost spilled the cup of wine she was holding, over the deep neckline she was sporting. Her hair was expertly coiffed, towered on top of her head to make her almost as tall as Locke. Her tits were mesmerising, almost but not quite spilling over her tightly pressed corsage. The Sanza's would have had a field day. "Excuse you!" she said, the affected drawl of the upper classes extended to every line of her body. She was gone on something, but Jean had far less expertise in differentiating drugs just from the symptoms of their appearance on someone else. Really, the Sanza's would have been the much better choice for a job like this, but perhaps Chains had send him here for exactly that reason. "My, you're very handsome. What do you say about making your terrible gaffe up to me by joining me in the... one of the anterooms, perhaps?"
"He's taken already, Lady Cavallo," Locke appeared pressed against his side. "I'm sorry, but he's already engaged."
"—ah, there you are, Locke, my darling," Doña Vorchenza said from behind him, ignoring his conversation partner entirely. With inappropriate delight, she first took his gloved hands into hers, and then pinched his cheeks until they hurt. Her dress was impeccable as usual, but paired with an absolutely atrocious hat. Her hat matched the chandeliers and when she moved through the hordes of nobles, it appeared as if a crystalline spider was moving between their heads on the hunt for prey to devour. "Are you eating enough? Come here, I have a treat for you," she continued and moved him expertly away from the buffet table without appearing to do so at all, still ignoring the lady who had insulted him so. Locke motioned Jean to stay where he was, and hoped he wouldn’t figure out that the Doña was much sharper than she appeared from observation.
Once at the table for the refreshments, she shoved a petit four into Locke’s mouth, and then hissed, "Don’t antagonize the Cavallos, Locke! Bad enough that you appear to want her to think you hired an escort to do your security work—we can’t actually afford to have them as our enemies right now, not when they have acquired the Duke’s favour so openly!"
"It’s the bottle of Austershalin he desires, not their company," grumbled Locke.
Doña Vorchenza said nothing which was a greater acknowledgement that Locke was correct in his assumptions than if she had. Instead, she lowered her voice even more, until Locke had to almost read her lips to understand what she was saying, "And then there’s the matter of someone hiring assassins on Capa Barsavi’s men. Someone is quite clearly trying to undo the Secret Peace—and suddenly a house with no strong diplomatic ties acquires Austershalin? You see why I am worried."
"What is Reynart doing, that he knows so little? I am pretty sure I’m able to prove that Lady Cavallo cannot have any ties to assassins in a day or two—"
"Is that your purpose in antagonizing her like this? Locke, you can’t be seen taking on the Spider’s business in a manner that public! Discretion is the better part of valor."
"Since I’m so very good at that?" Locke said, and try as she might, Doña Vorchenza had to agree with his assessment of his own character. "Besides, I’m known to be very outrageous. She won’t suspect a thing."
"And you have quite a capable bodyguard on your side, educated at Maranzallas," Doña Vorchenza said, supporting Locke’s point. She inspected Jean, who had remained just a half-step behind Locke throughout the evening, and had stayed next to the table of refreshments. "Well. He’d certainly know what to do on the shaddier side of dealings. Fine. You may proceed—but for the love of the Twelve, don’t get caught."
"I have here with me a priest of the god of the Overlooked," Locke said. "What could go wrong?"
♕
When Locke managed to insult yet another gentleman of much higher standing than him, Jean moved just a bit closer to him to ask, "Are you doing this so that I will have to work for my pay? Because I’ll gladly take the reduction to my pay if you will desist in trying to get yourself assassinated."
Locke gifted him with a brilliant smile. "This is how I always behave," he said. And from the lack of outrage each an every insult he gave garnered, that assertion seemed to be true. Locke handed him a cup of spiced wine from a nearby server, managing to steal the last cup before the thirsty looking gentleman who had ordered it could get to it. He thanked the server under the outraged stare of the lord he had snubbed, even.
"Gods, you are obnoxious," Jean said with feeling. Locke managed to lead him into one of the side rooms—each of them secured by a guard, but they let Locke, as the hostess’s godson, pass through uncontested. The view out of the window was breathtaking, even if it wasn’t the luscious hills in the north of the city, but the harbour and the dregs of downriver. It looked very orderly from the heights.
"Yes," Locke agreed. "I am doing it on purpose. There’s two people the Spider is currently seeking to catch: the Gray King, and the Thorn of Camorr, and so far, both are being very secretive. I hope to catch one of them in a vengeful mood."
Jean could only hope that the general buzz around them helped overplay his reaction to hear Locke mentioning the Thorn of Camorr.
"You want to get robbed by the Thorn of Camorr," Jean repeated, and vowed to never make that happen.
"It would make it considerably more easy to catch him, yes," Locke replied. "But I don’t care overly much about the Thorn of Camorr—you know, I do think I admire him a bit," Locke said.
Jean almost choked on his spiced wine.
"You do?"
"Yes—you know, so romantic to defy the Secret Peace just to steal from the nobles who live off its profits…I do wish he’d come to steal something from me, it would only increase my notoriety, the only currency that counts as anything."
Jean tried to contain his eye-rolling, but Locke noticed anyway, just like he noticed everything. He grinned. "For a second you bought it, didn’t you?"
"Yes, you make a very convincing asshole," Jean said.
"You wish you’d get a good look at my asshole," Locke replied, almost reflexively. "You might have noticed the barbs against my heritage, they reuse them often enough."
"You’re the Spider’s—something, though, doesn’t that count?"
"Who’d believe that I was," Locke asked. "That’s sometimes the best hiding place, plain sight."
Jean shifted, slightly uncomfortable underneath Locke’s appraising gaze. They were getting uncomfortably close to his other nighttime business. Locke was very free with secrets in Jean’s presence, just as he was very free with his appreciation. There couldn’t be any affair between them, and yet Jean was tempted again and again. Perhaps Jean should use the opportunity afforded to him to distract Locke from what he had revealed.
The public had been shut out of the conversation by the closed door, even if they could hear indistinct voices talking at the other side. Locke seemed taller against the night sky over the city.
Jean stepped closer.
"What, is this finally the time you cannot take my big mouth and beat me into the ground?" Locke asked. "You’re much less intimidating in here than you were at the House of Glass Roses."
"And still you flirted with me," Jean said. He was now towering over Locke, who had not suddenly grown after all.
"I like danger," Locke said.
"That’s fucking evident," Jean said, and kissed him.
♕
"My mother," Locke said, when Jean let up for air. "--said that good things needed 3 months to plan, 3 weeks to execute, and 3 seconds to pay off, but I demand that you kiss me for longer than 3 seconds, since you made me plan for 3 years."
"Maybe I'm not a good thing," Jean said and kissed him again.