“Calo, Galdo.” Locke whirled to face the twins, who had hurriedly packed away all the tools and substances used to dress Locke up for the evening. “Are we good to move at the temple?”
“It’ll be smoother than a Guilded Lily’s backside if we do,” said Galdo. “A sweet fat fortune wrapped up in sacks, two carts with horses, provisions for a nice long trip on the road.”
“And there’s men at the Viscount’s Gate who’ll slip us out so fast it’ll be like we’d never even set foot in Camorr in the first place,” added Calo.
“Good. Well. Shit.” Locke rubbed his gloved hands together. “I guess that’s that. I’m all out of rhetorical flourishes, so let’s just go get the bastards and pray for a straight deal.”
Bug stepped forward and cleared his throat.
“I’m only doing this,” he said, “because I really love hiding in haunted Eldren buildings on dark and creepy nights.”
“You’re a liar,” said Jean, slowly. “I’m only doing this because I’ve always wanted to see Bug get eaten by an Eldren ghost.”
“Liar,” said Calo. “I’m only doing this because I fucking love hauling half a ton of bloody coins up out of a vault and packing them away on a cart.”
“Liar!” Galdo chuckled. “I’m only doing this because while you’re all busy elsewhere, I’m going to go pawn all the furniture in the burrow at No-Hope Harza’s.”
“You’re all liars,” said Locke as their eyes turned expectantly to him.
“We’re only doing this because nobody else in Camorr is good enough to pull this off, and nobody else is dumb enough to get stuck doing it in the first place.”
“Bastard!” They shouted in unison, forgetting their surroundings for a bare moment.
I can hear you shouting, came the ghostly voice of the Falconer. Have you all gone completely mad?
Locke sighed.
“Uncle doesn’t like us keeping him up all night with our carrying on,” he said. “Let’s get to it, and by the grace of the Crooked Warden, we’ll all see each other back at the temple when this mess is over.”
3
THE ECHO Hole is a cube of gray stone mortared with a dull sort of Elderglass; it never gleams at Falselight. In fact, it never returns the reflection of any light passed before it. It is perhaps one hundred feet on a side, with one dignified entrance-a man-sized door about twenty feet above the street at the top of a wide staircase.
A single aqueduct cuts from the upper Angevine, past the Millfalls, south at an angle and into Rustwater, where it spills its water into the heart of the Echo Hole. Like the stone cube itself, this aqueduct is thought to be touched by some ancient ill, and no use has ever been made of it. A small waterfall plunges through a hole in the floor, down into the catacombs beneath the Echo Hole, where dark water can be heard rushing. Some of these passages empty into the canal on the southwestern side of Rustwater; some empty into no place known to living men.
Locke Lamora stood in darkness at the center of the Echo Hole, listening to the rush of water down the break in the floor, staring fixedly at the patch of grayness that marked the door to the street. His only consolation was that Jean and Bug, crouched unseen in the wet darkness beneath the floor, would probably be even more apprehensive. At least until the proceedings started.
Near, came the voice of the Falconer, very near. Stand ready.
Locke heard the capa’s procession before he saw it; the sound of funeral drums came through the open door to the street, muffled and nearly drowned out by the falling water. Steadily, it grew louder; a red glow seemed to kindle beyond the door, and by that light Locke saw that the gray mist had thickened. Torches flickered softly, as though glimpsed from underwater. The red aura rose. The barest outline of the room around him became visible, etched in faint carmine. The beating of the drum ceased, and once again Locke was alone with the sound of the waterfall. He threw back his head, placed one hand behind his back, and stared at the door, his blood pounding in his ears.
Two small red fires appeared in the doorway like the eyes of a dragon from one of Jean’s stories. Black shadows moved behind them, and as Locke’s eyes adjusted to the influx of scarlet light he saw the faces of men, tall men, cloaked and armored. He could see enough of their features and posture to see that they were almost surprised to spot him; they hesitated, then continued forward, one moving to his left and the other to his right. For his part, he did nothing, moving not a muscle.
Two more torches followed, and then two more; Barsavi was sending his men up the stairs in pairs. Soon a loose semicircle of men faced Locke, and their torches cast the interior of the Echo Hole into red-shaded relief. There were carvings on the walls-strange old symbols in the tongue of the Eldren, which men had never deciphered.
A dozen men, two dozen; the crowd of armored shapes grew, and Locke saw faces that he recognized. Throat slitters, leg breakers, maulers. Assassins. A hard lot. Exactly what Barsavi had promised him, when they’d stood looking down at the body of Nazca together.
Moments passed. Still, Locke said nothing. Still, men and women filed in. The Berangias sisters-even in a dimmer light, Locke would have recognized their swagger. They stood at front and center of the gathering crowd, saying nothing, arms folded and eyes gleaming in the torchlight. By some unspoken command, none of Barsavi’s people moved behind Locke. He continued to stand alone, as the great press of Right People continued spreading before him.
At last, the crowd of cutthroats began to part. Locke could hear the echoes of their breathing and murmuring and the creaking of their leathers, bouncing from wall to wall, mingling with the sound of falling water. Some of those on the edges of the crowd extinguished their torches with wet leather pouches; gradually, the smell of smoke seeped into the air, and gradually the light sank, until perhaps one in five of the capa’s folk were still holding lit fires.
There was more than enough light to see Capa Barsavi as he turned the corner and stepped through the door. His gray hair was pulled back in oiled rows; his three beards were freshly brushed. He wore his coat of sharkskin leather, and a black cloak of velvet lined with cloth of gold, thrown back from one shoulder. Anjais was on his right and Pachero on his left as the capa strode forward, and in the reflected fires of their eyes Locke saw nothing but death.
Nothing is as it seems, came the voice of the Falconer. Stand resolute.
At the front of the crowd, Barsavi halted, and for a long moment he stared at the apparition before him, at the cool orange eyes within a shadowed hood, at Locke’s cloak and mantle and coat and gloves of gray.
“King,” he finally said.
“Capa,” Locke replied, willing himself to feel the hauteur, conjuring it forth from nothing. The sort of man who would stand in front of a hundred killers with a smile on his face; the sort of man who would summon Vencarlo Barsavi with a trail of corpses, the last of them his only daughter. That was the man Locke needed to be, not Nazca’s friend but her murderer; not the capa’s mischievous subject, but his equal. His superior.
Locke grinned, wolfishly, then swept his cloak back from his left shoulder. With his left hand he beckoned the capa, a taunting gesture, like a bully in an alley daring his opponent to step forward and take the first swing.
“Oblige him,” said the capa, and a dozen men and women raised crossbows.
Crooked Warden, thought Locke, give me strength. He ground his teeth in expectation. He could hear his jaw muscles creaking.