Locke Lamora and the Bottled Serpent. Part 1

1.

There was a place in the alley where the odorous slops and shards of daily proceedings were to be set, which was Locke Lamora’s job, until the mess could be hauled up the crooked stairs and around the block to the public dross-yard, which was also Locke Lamora’s job. This was never done before the sun was long-buried and the Falselight glass bled of illumination, so every awkward step chanced a painful adventure. Here in the Dregs, light was not so cheap that folk would gladly waste it on the eyeballs of passing strangers. One might catch a break from boat-lanterns on the canal, or from cloudless moonlight, but more often one tripped on stone or trash or bodies. Muttering curses at his own feet in the middle of the night was also Locke Lamora’s job.

How refreshing, then, to find Cyril and Vilius out back wrestling with a corpse while the thin band of sky over the alley was still hazy blue rather than starry black.

“Can’t just throw him in the canal now, too many eyes,” said Cyril.

“Can’t hardly leave the bastard here neither.”

“Cover him up!”

“Think of the smell. Think of the rats! They’re always here for the trash, they won’t miss a proper feast.”

“Bury him, then, under all these slops and scraps and timbers. Cover him tight.” Cyril deigned to notice Locke with a gesture. “Let shit-boy here sort it once the lights go down.”

“I can’t shift something that big in the dark!” Locke kept his voice low and glanced around; here in the Dregs it was one chance in ten thousand anyone might give a shit of the moral variety but getting involved in corpse-business was to put oneself at the mercy of any witnesses and whatever leverage they might desire. “What’d you two do to him?”

“Nothing by our hands,” grunted Cyril. “Found him here. Ain’t even bleeding, just dead somehow.”

“Well, after dark, we can drag him to a canal and give him the heave.” Locke set the pile of trash he was carrying down. “Or roll him into someone else’s alley. Or the dross-yard. Or bundle him over to Solana Casta’s roof garden in the Narrows. A lot of problems go into the soil in those pots, and she doesn’t charge. Or we could string him up, let the blood out, then get a good hatchet and some sacks—”

“Creeping blue fuck, boy,” said Vilius. “How many corpses you worked a disposal on?”

“Hard to remember.” Locke used the back of a forearm to wipe away the sweat dripping into his eyes. “I dunno, ten?”

That was when the corpse came back to life, swearing and flailing. Vilius and Cyril leapt back.

“You know, when it comes to corpse disposal there is a crucial first step,” said Locke.