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 Page B
Authors: Scott Lynch
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matter.”
“What am I spotting for?”
“Whatever shows up. Duke Nicovante and the Nightglass Company. The king of the Seven
Marrows. A little old lady with a dung-wagon. If we get interlopers, you just make
the signal. Maybe you can distract common folk. If it’s the watch, well—we can either
play innocent or run like hell.”
And here were six men in mustard-yellow tabards and well-oiled fighting harness, with
batons and blades clattering ominously against their doubled waistbelts, strolling
up from the south just a few dozen paces away from the Temple of Fortunate Waters.
Their path would take them right past the mouth of the all-important alley. Even if
Bug warned the others in time for them to hide Calo’s rope, Locke and Jean would still
be covered in mud and the twins would still be (purposely) dressed like stage-show
bandits, complete with neckerchiefs over their faces. No chance to play innocent;
if Bug gave the signal, it was run-like-hell time.
Bug thought as fast as he ever had in his life, while his heart beat so rapidly it
felt like someone was fluttering the pages of a book against the back of his lungs.
He had to force himself to stay cool, stay observant, look for an opening. What was
it Locke was always saying?
Catalog!
He needed to catalog his options.
His options stank. Twelve years old, crouched twenty feet up in the periphery of the
wildly overgrown rooftop garden of a disused temple, with no long-range weapons and
no other suitable distractions available. Don Salvara was still paying his respects
to his mother’s gods within the Temple of Fortunate Waters, and the only people in
sight were his fellow Gentlemen Bastards and the sweat-soaked patrol about to ruin
their day.
But.
Twenty feet down and six feet to Bug’s right, against the wall of the crumbling structure
on which he squatted, there was a rubbish pile. It looked like mold-eaten burlap sacks
and a mixed assortment of brown muck.
The prudent thing to do would be to signal the others and let them scurry; Calo and
Galdo were old hands at playing hard-to-get with the yellowjackets, and they could
just come back and restart the game again next week. Maybe. Or maybe a screwed-up
game today would alarm someone, and lead to more foot patrols in the coming weeks.
Maybe word would get around that the Temple District wasn’t as quiet as it should
be. Maybe Capa Barsavi, beset by problems as he was, would take an interest in the
unauthorized disturbance, and turn his own screws. And then DonSalvara’s money might as well be on the bloody
moons
, for all that the Gentlemen Bastards could get their hands on it.
No, prudence was out. Bug had to
win
. The presence of that rubbish pile made a great and glorious stupidity very possible.
He was in the air before another thought crossed his mind. Arms out, falling backward,
staring up into the hot near-noon sky with the confident assurance of all twelve of
his years that death and injury were things reserved solely for people that weren’t
Bug. He screamed as he fell, in wild exaltation, just to be sure that he had the foot
patrol’s unwavering attention.
He could feel the great vast shadow of the ground
looming
up beneath him, in the last half second of his fall, and at that instant his eyes
caught a dark shape cutting through the air just above the Temple of Fortunate Waters.
A sleek and beautiful shape, heavy, a bird? A gull of some sort? Camorr had no other
birds that size—certainly none that moved like crossbow bolts, and—
Impact with the semiyielding surface of the rubbish heap walloped the air out of his
lungs with a wet
hoooosh
and snapped his head forward. Sharp chin bounced off slender chest; his teeth punched
bloody holes in his tongue, and the warm taste of salt filled his mouth. He screamed
again, reflexively, and spat blood. His view of the sky spun first left then right,
as though the world were
“What am I spotting for?”
“Whatever shows up. Duke Nicovante and the Nightglass Company. The king of the Seven
Marrows. A little old lady with a dung-wagon. If we get interlopers, you just make
the signal. Maybe you can distract common folk. If it’s the watch, well—we can either
play innocent or run like hell.”
And here were six men in mustard-yellow tabards and well-oiled fighting harness, with
batons and blades clattering ominously against their doubled waistbelts, strolling
up from the south just a few dozen paces away from the Temple of Fortunate Waters.
Their path would take them right past the mouth of the all-important alley. Even if
Bug warned the others in time for them to hide Calo’s rope, Locke and Jean would still
be covered in mud and the twins would still be (purposely) dressed like stage-show
bandits, complete with neckerchiefs over their faces. No chance to play innocent;
if Bug gave the signal, it was run-like-hell time.
Bug thought as fast as he ever had in his life, while his heart beat so rapidly it
felt like someone was fluttering the pages of a book against the back of his lungs.
He had to force himself to stay cool, stay observant, look for an opening. What was
it Locke was always saying?
Catalog!
He needed to catalog his options.
His options stank. Twelve years old, crouched twenty feet up in the periphery of the
wildly overgrown rooftop garden of a disused temple, with no long-range weapons and
no other suitable distractions available. Don Salvara was still paying his respects
to his mother’s gods within the Temple of Fortunate Waters, and the only people in
sight were his fellow Gentlemen Bastards and the sweat-soaked patrol about to ruin
their day.
But.
Twenty feet down and six feet to Bug’s right, against the wall of the crumbling structure
on which he squatted, there was a rubbish pile. It looked like mold-eaten burlap sacks
and a mixed assortment of brown muck.
The prudent thing to do would be to signal the others and let them scurry; Calo and
Galdo were old hands at playing hard-to-get with the yellowjackets, and they could
just come back and restart the game again next week. Maybe. Or maybe a screwed-up
game today would alarm someone, and lead to more foot patrols in the coming weeks.
Maybe word would get around that the Temple District wasn’t as quiet as it should
be. Maybe Capa Barsavi, beset by problems as he was, would take an interest in the
unauthorized disturbance, and turn his own screws. And then DonSalvara’s money might as well be on the bloody
moons
, for all that the Gentlemen Bastards could get their hands on it.
No, prudence was out. Bug had to
win
. The presence of that rubbish pile made a great and glorious stupidity very possible.
He was in the air before another thought crossed his mind. Arms out, falling backward,
staring up into the hot near-noon sky with the confident assurance of all twelve of
his years that death and injury were things reserved solely for people that weren’t
Bug. He screamed as he fell, in wild exaltation, just to be sure that he had the foot
patrol’s unwavering attention.
He could feel the great vast shadow of the ground
looming
up beneath him, in the last half second of his fall, and at that instant his eyes
caught a dark shape cutting through the air just above the Temple of Fortunate Waters.
A sleek and beautiful shape, heavy, a bird? A gull of some sort? Camorr had no other
birds that size—certainly none that moved like crossbow bolts, and—
Impact with the semiyielding surface of the rubbish heap walloped the air out of his
lungs with a wet
hoooosh
and snapped his head forward. Sharp chin bounced off slender chest; his teeth punched
bloody holes in his tongue, and the warm taste of salt filled his mouth. He screamed
again, reflexively, and spat blood. His view of the sky spun first left then right,
as though the world were
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