Locke Lamora and the Bottled Serpent. Part 2

10.

That summer was storm-lashed. As the weather built up, priests of Iono in their best silver-fringed robes made offerings from air and land to abate the fury of the waters. Blood ran from altars on the South Needle and the West Needle; bulls and goats and rabbits and chickens and pigeons and hawks spilled crimson lines down to the surging sea, and the priests danced in processions with their prayer-flags, blowing horns fashioned like sharks and swordfish and horned whales. They carried out these duties under gray-green skies, and then in spit-warm drizzle, and then bent under sheets of sweeping rain. So it went. Iono was called Stormbringer, not ‘storm-sparer’ or ‘merry pretender.’

Locke was with the work party sent up one afternoon in the pelting rain to fortify the lashings on the wine-mast, lest it fly away and impale someone (bad enough) or be rendered useless forever (far worse in Botari’s eyes). It was Cyril who broke from work with an ever-louder series of “fucking hells!” that eventually gave permission for Locke, Vilius, and Eight to slack off in awe along with him. To their north, the Five Towers were enfolded in bruised clouds and eerie lightning was rippling along the lines between the towers, making the glass pulse with brief flashes of the incandescence usually seen only at Falselight. To their south, wavering gray columns erupted from swirling mist and bridged the sea and sky.

“Waterspouts,” cried Eight. “Never seen any this close to the city before! I’m too sober for this degree of fuckery!”

“Well,” shouted Vilius, “we—"

Whatever he was going to say next turned into a pathetic muffled cry as something bounced off his head, rolling him backward over the wine-mast in a flail of arms and legs. Locke stared at the gray object on the rain-rippled roof for several seconds before his mind accepted that it was a fish. Even through the sound of the rain and the wind Locke could hear other things falling nearby. Someone in the street cried out in dismay after a particularly disquieting squelching crash.

“Treasure straight from Iono’s ass,” laughed Eight as she pulled Cyril up with one hand and plucked the fish that had laid him low in her other. “You lucky bastard! This is a Shank-flank. They have rows of spines under their fins, make your face swell up for days if they jab you!”

Cyril seemed to think the fish had delivered a wound that was heroic even without venom, and he led the flight back down through the rooftop hatch as the waterspouts continued assailing Camorr with flying wreckage and fish and gobs of seaweed, like an audience expressing its feelings about an inadequate play.

Canals flooded, boats foundered. Some parts of Camorr, well-served by Eldren catacombs or human engineering, drained swiftly. The Dregs was not one of those places. Ankle-deep water filled the Unbroken Jar for days on end, and to Locke’s infinite list of other chores was added the ongoing task of juggling jars, bottles, and boxes onto counters and shelves to keep them out of the general drench. He gave up wearing shoes for the duration, and tried not to think of what he was soaking his clammy, puckered feet in. The crowds were not dismayed; even soggy, they still wanted to drink bad wine and risk money on half-crazed bets. The Measure handed down odds for card tricks, arm wrestling, and even a blindfolded boxing match that splashed around for a quarter of an hour and injured three spectators. Two of them thought this was hilarious, and the one that didn’t was found bobbing gently in the back alley the next morning, throat slit and pockets empty.

“Here, I fetched you a new friend for dinner,” said Mazoc Szaba one evening as lightning flashed white through the open door. He handed a red and black squid to Locke, who passed it to Eight, who had set up a special cauldron. Anyone who presented something edible from the ongoing bombardment of sea creatures could claim a portion of Eight’s perpetually simmering storm stew. “Not all of these flavors are meant to bed down together,” she had confided to Locke, “but if you add enough garlic, butter, and booze you can pass off a rat’s peeled asshole as a dainty morsel.”

“Damn thing nearly took my head off not five minutes ago,” said Szaba as he braced himself to dash back a clipped copper’s worth of varnishy wine. “I might’ve been a martyr to Iono’s sense of humor. Must be my lucky night.” Down went the wine, and he grinned his unhealthy, wolfish grin. “In fact, I’m sure it is.”

“Oh don’t,” muttered Locke. “Please fucking don’t—”

“Measure!” Szaba rose, pounded the countertop, and splashed into the center of the room. “Measure! I have the money and there’s nobody after me tonight! I require, request, and demand an opportunity for redemption!”

“I should have contrived an accident to lose those green bottles,” Locke whispered to himself.

Nonetheless, after much jeering and haggling, Szaba was granted the same terms as his previous attempt at the serpent wine, and betting was brisk. Although he was wobbling by the third glass, he did manage to down the fourth. When he staggered back to Locke’s counter, his eyes had a boiled look, the bags beneath them had turned an alarming velvet-plum color, and his poison-scented breath made Locke’s last meal churn at the bottom of his throat.

“I can see you are thrilled, my young friend.” Szaba had received scattered applause and slaps on his back, which he took as though being anointed Duke of Camorr. Though he was now breathing like a man who’d just run half a mile, the creases on his face were pulled up in self-satisfaction. He pushed four silvers across the counter with a shaking hand. “Here, share the fruits of fame and a public life.”

“You had the money to do that before you tried to kill yourself again,” said Locke. He didn’t refuse the coins, of course.

“Mostly you seem to know what living in this city means, boy, but sometimes you worry me.” Szaba wobbled to his full height and rapped his knuckles on the counter in imitation of a stern tutor. “If you can walk out the door in a straight line when it’s time to go, it only means you didn’t sufficiently indulge yourself while you were here.”

Szaba matched deed to word and splashed out the door, bouncing once off the frame before catching himself and half-falling into the rain. Whether he’d done that just to be amusing or because he’d made such a severe mess of himself, Locke found it impossible to tell.