5
Camorr, years before. The wet, seeping mists enclosed Locke and Father Chains in curtains of midnight grey as the old man led the boy back home from his first meeting with Capa Vencarlo Barsavi. Locke, drunk and sweat-soaked, clung to the back of his Gentled goat for dear life.
"… You don't belong to Barsavi," Chains said. "He's good enough for what he is, a good ally to have on your side and a man that you must appear to obey at all times. But he certainly doesn't own you. In the end, neither do I." "So I don't have to—"
"Obey the Secret Peace? Be a good little pezon? Only for pretend, Locke. Only to keep the wolves from the door. Unless your eyes and ears have been stitched shut with rawhide these past two days, by now you must have realized that I intend you and Calo and Galdo and Sabetha to be nothing less," Chains confided through a feral grin, "than a fucking ballista bolt right through the heart of Vencarlo's precious Secret Peace." "Uh…" Locke collected his thoughts for several moments. "Why?"
"Heh. It's… complicated. It has to do with what I am, and what I hope you'll someday be. A priest in the sworn service of the Crooked Warden." "Is the capa doing something wrong?"
"Well," said Chains, "well, lad, now there's a question. Is he doing right by the Right People? Gods, yes — the Secret Peace tames the city watch, calms everyone down, gets less of us hanged. Still, every priesthood has what we call mandates — laws handed down by the gods themselves to those who serve them. In most temples, these are complex, messy, annoying things. In the priesthood of the Benefactor, things are easy. We only have two. The first one is, thieves prosper. Simple as that. We're ordered to aid one another, hide one another, make peace whenever possible and see to it that our kind flourishes, by hook or by crook. Barsavi's got that mandate covered, never doubt that.
"But the second mandate," said Chains, lowering his voice and glancing around into the fog to make doubly sure that they were not overheard, "is this — the rich remember? "Remember what?"
"That they're not invincible. That locks can be picked and treasures can be stolen. Nara, Mistress of Ubiquitous Maladies, may Her hand be stayed, sends disease among men so that men will never forget that they are not gods. We're sort of like that, for the rich and powerful. We're the stone in their shoe, the thorn in their flesh, a little bit of reciprocity this side of divine judgement. That's our second mandate, and it's as important as the first."
"And… the Secret Peace protects the nobles, and so you don't like it?"
"It's not that I don't like it." Chains mulled his next few words over before he let them out. "Barsavi" s not a priest of the Thirteenth. He's not sworn to the mandates like I am; he's got to be practical. And while I can accept that, I can't just let it go. It's my divine duty to see that the bluebloods with their pretty titles get a little bit of what fife hands the rest of us as a matter of routine — a nice, sharp jab in the arse every now and again." "And Barsavi… doesn't need to know about this?"
"Bleeding shits, no. As I see it, if Barsavi takes care of thieves prosper and I look after the rich remember, this"11 be one holy, holy city in the eyes of the Crooked Warden."
6
"Why do they bear it? I know they get paid, but the defaults! Gods… er, Holy Marrows, why do they come here and put up with it? Humiliated, beaten, stoned, befouled… to what end?"
Locke paced agitatedly around the Baumondain family's workshop, clenching and unclenching his fists. It was the afternoon of his fourth day in Salon Corbeau. "As you said, they get paid, Master Fehrwight." Lauris Baumondain rested one hand gently on the back of the half-finished chair Locke had come in to see. With the other she stroked poor motionless Lively, tucked away inside a pocket of her apron. "If you're selected for a game, you get a copper centira. If you're given a default, you get a silver volani. There's also a random drawing: one person per War, one in eighty, gets a gold solari." "They must be desperate," said Locke.
"Farms fail. Businesses fail. Tenant lands get repossessed. Plagues knock all the money and health out of cities. When they" ve got nowhere else to go, they come here. There's a roof to sleep under, meals, hope of gold or silver. All you have to do is go out there often enough and… amuse them." "It's perverse. It's infamous."
"You have a soft heart, for what you're spending on just four chairs, Master Fehrwight." Lauris looked down and wrung her hands together. "Forgive me. I spoke well out of turn."
"Speak as you will. I'm not a rich man, Lauris. I'm just my master's servant. But even he… we're frugal people, damn it. Frugal and fair. Some might call us eccentric, but we're not cruel."
"I" ve seen nobles from the Marrows at the Amusement War many times, Master Fehrwight."
"We're not nobles. We're merchants… merchants of Emberlain. I can't speak for our nobles, and often don't want to. Look, I" ve seen many cities. I know how people live. I" ve seen gladiatorial fights, executions, misery and poverty and desperation. But I" ve never seen anything like that — the faces of those spectators. The way they watched and cheered. Like jackals, like crows, like something… something so very wrong."
"There are no laws here but Lady Saljesca's laws," said Lauris. "Here they can behave however they choose. At the Amusement War they can do exactly what they want to do to the poor folk and the simple folk. Things forbidden elsewhere. All you're seeing is what they look like when they stop pretending they give a damn about anything. Where do you think Lively came from? My sister saw a noblewoman having kittens Gentled so her sons could torture them with knives. Because they were bored at tea. So welcome to Salon Corbeau, Master Fehrwight. I'm sorry it's not the paradise it looks like from a distance. Does our work on the chairs meet with your approval?" "Yes," said Locke slowly. "Yes, I suppose it does."
"If I were to presume to give you advice," said Lauris, "I'd suggest that you avoid the Amusement War for the rest of your stay. Do what the rest of us here do: ignore it. Paint a great cloud of fog over it in your mind's eye and pretend that it's not there."
"As you say, Madam Baumondain." Locke sighed. "I might just do so."
7
But Locke could not stay away. Morning, afternoon and evening, he found himself in the public gallery, standing alone, eating and drinking nothing. He saw crowd after crowd, War after War, humiliation after humiliation. The Demons made gruesome mistakes on several occasions; beatings and stranglings got out of control. Those aspirants that were accidentally roughed up beyond hope of recovery had their skulls crushed on the spot, to the polite applause of the crowd. It would not do to be unmerciful.
"Crooked Warden," Locke muttered to himself the first time it happened. "They don't even have a priest… not a single one…"
He realized, dimly, what he was doing to himself. He felt the stirring within, as though his conscience were a deep, still lake with a beast struggling to rise to its surface. Each brutal humiliation, each painful default excitedly decreed by some spoiled noble child while their parents laughed in appreciation, gave strength to that beast as it beat itself against his better judgment, his cold calculation, his willingness to stick to the plan. He was trying to make himself angry enough to give in.
The Thorn of Camorr had been a mask he'd half-heartedly worn as a game. Now it was almost a separate entity, a hungry thing, an increasingly insistent ghost prying at his resolve to stand up for the mandate of his faith.
Let me out, it whispered. Let me out. The rich must remember. By the gods, I can make damn sure they never forget.