Read Online Red Seas Under Red Skies by Scott Lynch - Free Book Online
Authors: Scott Lynch
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knife sobbed, then threw up.
“Let’s talk taxes.” Jean walked around the periphery of the tannery floor, kicking over a few empty wine bottles; there were dozens of them scattered around. “Looks like you boys pull in enough coin to eat and drink; that’s good. I’ll have forty percent of it; cold metal. I don’t want goods. You’ll pay your taxes every other day, starting today. Cough up your purses and turn out your pockets.”
“Fuck that!”
Jean stalked toward the boy who’d spoken; the youth was standing against the far wall of the tannery with his arms crossed. “Don’t like it? Hit me, then.”
“Uh…”
“You don’t think that’s fair? You mug people for a living, right? Make a fist, son.”
“Uh…”
Jean grabbed him, spun him around, took hold of him by his neck and by the top of his breeches, and rammed him headfirst into the thick wood of the tannery’s outer wall several times. The boy hit the ground with a thud when Jean let go; he was unable to fight back when Jean patted down his tunic and came up with a small leather purse.
“Added penalty,” said Jean, “for damaging the wall of my tannery with your head.” He emptied the purse into his own, then tossed it back down beside the boy. “Now, all of you get down here and line up. Line up! Four-tenths isn’t much. Be honest; you can guess what I’ll do if I find out that you’re not.”
“Who the hell are you?”
The first boy to approach Jean with coins in his hand offered up the question along with the money.
“You can call me—”
As Jean began to speak, the boy conjured a dagger in his other hand, dropped the coins, and lunged. The bigger man shoved the boy’s extended arm to the outside, bent nearly in half, and slammed his right shoulder into the boy’s stomach. He then lifted the boy effortlessly on his shoulder and dropped him over his back, so that the boy struck the floor of the tannery nearly facefirst. He ended up writhing in pain beside the last Cove who’d pulled a blade on Jean.
“…Callas. Tavrin Callas, actually.” Jean smiled. “That was a good thought, coming at me while I was talking. That at least I can respect.” Jean shuffled backward several paces to block the door. “But it seems to me that the subtle philosophical concept I’m attempting to descant upon may be going over your heads. Do I really have to kick all your asses before you take the hint?”
There was a chorus of mutterings and a healthy number of boys shaking their heads, however reluctantly.
“Good.” The extortion went smoothly after that; Jean wound up with a satisfying collection of coins, surely enough to keep him and Locke ensconced at their inn for another week. “I’m off, then. Rest easy and work well tonight. I’ll be back tomorrow, at the second hour of the afternoon. We can start talking about how things are going to be now that I’m the new boss of the Brass Coves.”
3
NATURALLY, THEY all armed themselves, and at the second hour of the afternoon the next day they were waiting in ambush for Jean.
To their surprise, he strolled into the old tannery with a Vel Virazzo constable at his side. The woman was tall and muscular, dressed in a plum-purple coat reinforced with a lining of fine iron chain; she had brass epaulettes on her shoulders, and long brown hair pulled back in a tight swordswoman’s tail with brass rings. Four more constables took up a position just outside the door; they wore similar coats, but also carried long lacquered sticks and heavy wooden shields slung over their backs.
“Hello, lads,” said Jean. All around the room, daggers, stilettos, broken bottles, and sticks were disappearing from sight. “I’m sure some of you recognize Prefect Levasto and her men.”
“Boys,” said the prefect offhandedly, hooking her thumbs into her leather sword-belt. Alone of all the constables, she carried a cutlass in a plain black sheath.
“Prefect Levasto,” said Jean, “is a wise
“Let’s talk taxes.” Jean walked around the periphery of the tannery floor, kicking over a few empty wine bottles; there were dozens of them scattered around. “Looks like you boys pull in enough coin to eat and drink; that’s good. I’ll have forty percent of it; cold metal. I don’t want goods. You’ll pay your taxes every other day, starting today. Cough up your purses and turn out your pockets.”
“Fuck that!”
Jean stalked toward the boy who’d spoken; the youth was standing against the far wall of the tannery with his arms crossed. “Don’t like it? Hit me, then.”
“Uh…”
“You don’t think that’s fair? You mug people for a living, right? Make a fist, son.”
“Uh…”
Jean grabbed him, spun him around, took hold of him by his neck and by the top of his breeches, and rammed him headfirst into the thick wood of the tannery’s outer wall several times. The boy hit the ground with a thud when Jean let go; he was unable to fight back when Jean patted down his tunic and came up with a small leather purse.
“Added penalty,” said Jean, “for damaging the wall of my tannery with your head.” He emptied the purse into his own, then tossed it back down beside the boy. “Now, all of you get down here and line up. Line up! Four-tenths isn’t much. Be honest; you can guess what I’ll do if I find out that you’re not.”
“Who the hell are you?”
The first boy to approach Jean with coins in his hand offered up the question along with the money.
“You can call me—”
As Jean began to speak, the boy conjured a dagger in his other hand, dropped the coins, and lunged. The bigger man shoved the boy’s extended arm to the outside, bent nearly in half, and slammed his right shoulder into the boy’s stomach. He then lifted the boy effortlessly on his shoulder and dropped him over his back, so that the boy struck the floor of the tannery nearly facefirst. He ended up writhing in pain beside the last Cove who’d pulled a blade on Jean.
“…Callas. Tavrin Callas, actually.” Jean smiled. “That was a good thought, coming at me while I was talking. That at least I can respect.” Jean shuffled backward several paces to block the door. “But it seems to me that the subtle philosophical concept I’m attempting to descant upon may be going over your heads. Do I really have to kick all your asses before you take the hint?”
There was a chorus of mutterings and a healthy number of boys shaking their heads, however reluctantly.
“Good.” The extortion went smoothly after that; Jean wound up with a satisfying collection of coins, surely enough to keep him and Locke ensconced at their inn for another week. “I’m off, then. Rest easy and work well tonight. I’ll be back tomorrow, at the second hour of the afternoon. We can start talking about how things are going to be now that I’m the new boss of the Brass Coves.”
3
NATURALLY, THEY all armed themselves, and at the second hour of the afternoon the next day they were waiting in ambush for Jean.
To their surprise, he strolled into the old tannery with a Vel Virazzo constable at his side. The woman was tall and muscular, dressed in a plum-purple coat reinforced with a lining of fine iron chain; she had brass epaulettes on her shoulders, and long brown hair pulled back in a tight swordswoman’s tail with brass rings. Four more constables took up a position just outside the door; they wore similar coats, but also carried long lacquered sticks and heavy wooden shields slung over their backs.
“Hello, lads,” said Jean. All around the room, daggers, stilettos, broken bottles, and sticks were disappearing from sight. “I’m sure some of you recognize Prefect Levasto and her men.”
“Boys,” said the prefect offhandedly, hooking her thumbs into her leather sword-belt. Alone of all the constables, she carried a cutlass in a plain black sheath.
“Prefect Levasto,” said Jean, “is a wise
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