Read Online Red Seas Under Red Skies by Scott Lynch - Free Book Online

another moment’s hesitation he bent down for the tunic.
    2
    JEAN’S TOLERANCE rose for a few days with their release from the wet, smelly, heaving world of the galleon; even for paying customers, long-distance sea transit still had more in common with a prison sentence than a vacation.
    With their handful of silver volani (converted from Camorri solons at an extortionate rate by the first mate of the
Golden Gain
, who’d argued that it was still preferable to the numismatic mugging they’d get from the town’s moneychangers), he and Locke secured a third-floor room at the Silver Lantern, a sagging old inn on the waterfront.
    Jean immediately set about securing a source of income. If Camorr’s underworld had been a deep lake, Vel Virazzo’s was a stagnant pond. He had little trouble sussing out the major dockside gangs and the relationships between them. There was little organization in Vel Virazzo, and no boss-of-bosses to screw things up. A few nights of drinking in all the right dives, and he knew exactly who to approach.
    They called themselves the Brass Coves, and they skulked about in an abandoned tannery down on the city’s eastern docks, where the sea lapped against the pilings of rotting piers that had seen no legitimate use in twenty years. By night, they were an active crew of sneak-thieves, muggers, and coat-charmers. By day, they slept, diced, and drank away most of their profits. Jean kicked in their door (though it hung loosely in its frame, and wasn’t locked) at the second hour of the afternoon on a bright, sunny day.
    There were an even dozen of them in the old tannery, young men between the ages of fifteen and twenty-odd. Standard membership for a local-trouble sort of gang. Those who weren’t awake were slapped back to consciousness by their associates as Jean strolled into the center of the tannery floor.
    â€œGood afternoon!” He gave a slight bow, from the neck, then spread his arms wide. “Who’s the biggest, meanest motherfucker here? Who’s the best bruiser in the Brass Coves?”
    After a few seconds of silence and surprised stares, a relatively stocky young man with a crooked nose and a shaved head leapt down onto the dusty floor from an open staircase. The boy walked up to Jean and smirked.
    â€œYou’re lookin’ at him.”
    Jean nodded, smiled, then whipped both of his arms around so that his cupped hands cracked against both of the boy’s ears. He staggered, and Jean took a firm hold of his head, lacing his fingers tightly behind the rear arch of his skull. He pulled the tough’s head sharply downward and fed him a knee—once, twice, three times. As the boy’s face met Jean’s kneecap for the last time, Jean let go, and the tough sprawled backward on the tannery floor, senseless as a side of cold, salted meat.
    â€œWrong,” said Jean, not even breathing heavily. “
I’m
the meanest motherfucker here.
I’m
the biggest bruiser in the Brass Coves.”
    â€œYou ain’t in the Brass Coves, asshole,” shouted another boy, who nonetheless had a look of awed disquiet on his face.
    â€œLet’s kill this piece of shit!”
    A third boy, wearing a tattered four-cornered cap and a set of handmade necklaces threaded with small bones, darted toward Jean with a stiletto drawn back in his right hand. When the thrust came, Jean stepped back, caught the boy by the wrist, and yanked him forward into a backfist from his other hand. While the boy spat blood and tried to blink tears of pain from his eyes, Jean kicked him in the groin, then swept his legs out from under him. The boy’s stiletto appeared in Jean’s left hand as if by magic, and he twirled it slowly.
    â€œSurely you boys can do simple sums,” he said. “One plus one equals
don’t fuck with me
.”
    The boy who’d charged at him with the knife sobbed, then threw up.
    â€œLet’s talk taxes.”