[Gentlemen Bastards 02] Red Seas Under Read Skies by Scott Lynch Read Free Book Online

a pleasant numbness, a dreamy sort of fever. It is not unlike some of the powders smoked by Jeremites. After a few stings, a body grows more used to it. The pain lessens and the dreams deepen.”
    “Astonishing!”
    “Commonplace,” said the merchant. “Quite a few men and women in Tal Verrar keep one close at hand, even if they don’t speak of it in public. The effect is as pleasing as liquor, yet ultimately far less costly.”
    “Hmmm.” Locke scratched his chin. “Never had to stab myself with a bottle of wine, though. And this isn’t just some ruse, some amusement for visitors who wouldn’t know any better?”
    The merchant’s smile broadened. He extended his right arm and pulled back the sleeve of his cloak; the dark skin of his slender forearm was dotted with little circular scars. “I would never offer a product for which I was not prepared to vouch myself.”
    “Admirable,” said Locke. “And fascinating, but…perhaps there are some customs of Tal Verrar best left unexplored.”
    “To your own tastes be true.” Still smiling, the man pulled his cloak sleeve back up and folded his hands before him. “After all, a scorpion hawk was never to your liking, Master Lamora.”
    Locke felt a sudden cold pressure in his chest. He flicked a glance at Jean, and found the larger man instantly tense as well. Struggling to maintain his outward calm, Locke cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon?”
    “I’m sorry.” The merchant blinked at him guilelessly. “I merely wished you a pleasant night, gentlemen.”
    “Right.” Locke eyed him for a moment or two longer, then stepped back, turned on his heel, and began to walk across the Night Market once more. Jean was at his side immediately.
    “You heard that,” whispered Locke.
    “Very clearly,” said Jean. “I wonder who our friendly scorpion merchant works for?”
    “It’s not just him,” muttered Locke. “The fruit seller called me ‘Lamora’ as well. You didn’t hear that one, but I damn well did.”
    “Shit. Want to double back and grab one of them?”
    “Going somewhere, Master Lamora?”
    Locke almost whirled on the middle-aged female merchant who stepped toward them from their right; he managed to keep the six-inch stiletto concealed up his coat sleeve from flying reflexively into his hand. Jean put one arm beneath the back of his coat.
    “You seem to be mistaken, madam,” said Locke. “My name is Leocanto Kosta.”
    The woman made no further move toward them; she merely smiled and chuckled. “Lamora…Locke Lamora.”
    “Jean Tannen,” said the scorpion merchant, who had stepped out from behind his little cage-covered table. Other merchants were moving slowly behind them, staring fixedly at Locke and Jean.
    “There seems to be a, ah, misunderstanding afoot,” said Jean. He slid his right hand back out from under his coat; Locke knew from long experience that the head of one of his hatchets would be cupped in his palm, with the handle concealed up his sleeve.
    “No misunderstanding,” said the scorpion merchant.
    “Thorn of Camorr…,” said a little girl who stepped out to block their progress toward the Savrola side of the Great Gallery.
    “Thorn of Camorr…,” said the middle-aged woman.
    “Gentlemen Bastards,” said the scorpion merchant. “Far from home.”
    Locke glanced around, his heart hammering in his chest. Deciding that the time for discretion was past, he let his stiletto fall into his itching fingers. All the merchants in the Night Market seemed to have taken an interest in them; they were surrounded, and the merchants were slowly tightening the circle. They cast long dark shadows upon the stones at Locke and Jean’s feet. Was Locke imagining things, or were some of the lights dimming? Already the Night Gallery seemed darker—damn, some of the lanterns were indeed going out right before his eyes.
    “That is far enough .” Jean let his hatchet fall visibly into his right hand; he and Locke pressed their