Read Online The Gentleman Bastard Series 3-Book Bundle: The Lies of Locke Lamora, Red Seas Under Red Skies, The Republic of Thieves by Scott Lynch - Free Book Online

for the rapid transformation
     that was about to take place.
    “Wonderful!” Locke leaped up onto the quay as spryly as he had entered the boat; Jean
     passed the steering pole back to Bug, then made the barge shudder with his own leap.
     “Let’s go on in and fetch out our guests from Emberlain.”
    As Locke and Jean padded up the steps toward the Tumblehome, Calo motioned for Bug
     to give him a hand with the horse. The white-eyed creaturewas utterly without fear or personal initiative, but that same lack of self-preservation
     instincts might lead it to damage the barge very easily. After a few minutes of careful
     pushing and pulling, they had it positioned in the center of the barge, as calm as
     a statue that just happened to have lungs.
    “Lovely creature,” said Calo. “I’ve named him Impediment. You could use him as a table.
     Or a flying buttress.”
    “Gentled animals give me the bloody creeps.”
    “Whereas,” said Calo, “they give me the
fucking
creeps. But tenderfoots and softies prefer Gentled packhorses, and that’s our master
     merchant of Emberlain in a nutshell.”
    Several more minutes passed, and Calo and Bug stood in amiable silence under the punishing
     sun, looking the part of an unremarkable barge crew waiting to receive a passenger
     of consequence from the bosom of the Tumblehome Inn. Soon enough, that passenger descended
     the stairs and coughed twice to get their attention.
    It was Locke, of course, but changed. His hair was slicked back with rose oil, the
     bones of his face seemed to shadow slightly deeper hollows in his cheeks, and his
     eyes were half concealed behind a pair of optics rimmed with black pearl and flashing
     silver in the sun.
    He was now dressed in a tightly buttoned black coat in the Emberlain style, almost
     form-fitted from his shoulders down to his ribs, then flaring out widely at the waist.
     Two black leather belts with polished silver buckles circled his stomach; three ruffled
     layers of black silk cravats poured out of his collar and fluttered in the hot breeze.
     He wore embroidered gray hose over thick-heeled sharkskin shoes with black ribbon
     tongues that sprang somewhat ludicrously outward and hung over his feet with the drooping
     curl of hothouse flowers. Sweat was already beading on his forehead like little diamonds—Camorr’s
     summer did not reward the intrusion of fashions from a more northerly climate.
    “My name,” said Locke Lamora, “is
Lukas Fehrwight
.” The voice was clipped and precise, scrubbed of Locke’s natural inflections. He
     layered the hint of a harsh Vadran accent atop a slight mangling of his native Camorri
     dialect like a barkeep mixing liquors. “I am wearing clothes that will be full of
     sweat in several minutes. I am dumb enough to walk around Camorr without a blade of
     any sort. Also,” he said with a hint of ponderous regret, “I am entirely
fictional
.”
    “I’m very sorry to hear that, Master Fehrwight,” said Calo, “but at least we’ve got
     your boat and your horse ready for your grand excursion.”
    Locke stepped carefully down toward the edge of the barge, swaying at the hips like
     a man newly off a ship and not yet used to surfaces that didn’t tilt beneath his feet.
     His spine was arrow-straight, his movements nearly prissy. He wore the mannerisms
     of Lukas Fehrwight like a set of invisible clothes.
    “My attendant will be along any moment,” Locke/Fehrwight said as he/they stepped aboard
     the barge. “His name is
Graumann
, and he too suffers from a slight case of being imaginary.”
    “Merciful gods,” said Calo, “it must be catching.”
    Down the cobbled ramp came Jean, treading heavily under the weight of one hundred
     and twenty pounds of creaking horse’s harness, the embroidered leather packs crammed
     full of goods and strapped tightly shut. Jean now wore a white silk shirt, straining
     tight against his belly and already translucent in places with sweat, under an open