Locke Lamora and the Bottled Serpent. Part 2

12.

Three nights later, a quiet evening, uncommonly cool, the sort of night the gods might offer in recompense for all the raining fish and flooded cellars, if only to shut mortal whining up for a while. Falselight was going dim when Mazoc Szaba came in through the propped-open door. He was slump-shouldered and discomposed, and when he halted before the counter he seemed to try words out a few times before he found the ones that suited him.

“Here,” he said softly, as he reached under his jacket and handed Locke a thin dagger in a businesslike scabbard, free of ornaments. “That good for one cup of white?”

“Surely you have need of that.”

“I’ve found the last work I’m likely to find, Locke. It’s this or my clothes, so far as my trading posture is concerned. Trust me, the blade smells better.”

Locke was about to take the weapon when he felt that nameless thief-instinct, the self-preserving sense that came from nowhere in the vicinity of danger, and when Locke spotted the danger he felt as though his heart were paper and it had just been folded in half. A shadow loomed by the open door to the back alley, and two similar shadows stood just outside the front door.

The woman who walked in between the shadows killed conversation. Anyone seeing her stopped talking, stopped laughing, set their cups down even if they were mid-sip. Thjs made the people near them look, and swiftly join the silence. She had black feathers braided into her ice-pale hair, black ashes drawn in lines across her ice-pale face, and black mail set into the panels of her long leather coat. A raven tattoo filled the left side of her neck, and by that Locke recognized her. Hanni Iradu, not just a Grave Walker, but garrista of the Grave Walkers. Doubtless she had weapons tucked away somewhere, but here and now she was not a person who had any need to show them off.

“What the fuck have you done?” whispered Locke.

“I offended the Barsavis once before.” Szaba’s smile didn’t move many of the lines on his face. “They’re not the sort of bank that extends credit a second time.”

“You seem to understand what has to happen,” said Iradu, speaking Vadran. Locke decided it was wisest to pretend he didn’t understand.

“It was good of him to send you to be the one to take me home,” said Szaba.

“You know he sent me because he has to show the city that you’re no longer worth his personal attention. And the Floating Grave isn’t home. It’s just pain along the way.”

“Resolution was easier a few minutes ago,” said Szaba, returning to Therin. “Do you really have to trouble yourself by marching me all the way over there?”

“You have to pay for your fun.” Hanni Iradu put one hand on Szaba’s shoulder, and with the other she gently took the sheathed dagger from him. “You know this. You have to be an example.”

“I could just… I could be an example right here. Make it easy for you. Easier for both of us.”

“Rude to make a mess on someone else’s floor, Szaba. Own your fate.”

“I am,” he said. “Measure. Measure! I, uh, I’m afraid I can no longer offer myself to the house as an amusement. This has to be my last performance. If it please you, I would like… I would like to drink an entire bottle of serpent wine.”

That caused a stir.

“Szaba, come.”

“Iradu, your honor, don’t deliver me to Sage Kindness. Please… let me do this my way. You and Anjais will still have what you require of me—”

“Hanni Iradu of the Grave Walkers! I am the Measure, of the Black Breeze. Welcome.” The Measure’s voice, echoing from her alcove, was louder and stronger than Locke had ever heard it. “We know why you must have come here tonight, and we serve the Capa in all things. But this is still the house of the Black Breeze. If Mazoc Szaba will drink the serpent wine, a bottle shall be provided.”

“Thank you,” said Szaba. “I—”

“This is not a gift,” interrupted the Measure. “This is a house of chance, and the game must be paid for. There are no odds. You will not survive the bottle. Your stake is twelve solons.”

“I don’t… I don’t have any money, I’m afraid.”

“The house takes the position that you will lose. All you need is for someone willing to bet that you will win.”

Szaba turned slowly, wide-eyed, hands out to everyone in the room. Whoever staked him was as good as throwing twelve solons into the sea. Weeks or months of pay for an ordinary trade. Weeks or months of pay for the sake of Mazoc Szaba.

“Is there no one?” called the Measure.

Then again, after a few moments of silence: “Is there no one?”

Locke closed his eyes and brought his head down on the counter hard enough to cause the sensation of a bright flash behind his eyelids. He raised his right hand.

“No,” whispered Szaba. “No, not you. I’ve asked too much. I’m sorry. I’ll just go.”

“Gods, put your hand down, you fool fucking boy,” croaked old Botari. “Don’t be silly.”

Locke raised his head, took a deep breath, and glared at Botari. “The Gentlemen Bastards of the Temple District,” he said, “pledge twelve solons that Mazoc Szaba will successfully drink an entire bottle of serpent wine.”

“Sworn and done,” said the Measure.

Locke rattled his various coins onto the counter until the sum was before him, his reward for all the stacking and fetching and polishing, for dangling over the canal, for surviving the flooding and the rains of fish. Vilius took the money away, shocked to see so much of it, and Cyril broke the waxed cork on a jade-green bottle before passing it over to Mazoc Szaba.

“Well,” said Szaba. He bowed his head to Locke, then spun to the rest of the room, bottle held high. “Well. You wouldn’t stake me, and I suppose that’s only fair. But at least raise your cups. I’ll show you Camorri mutts and vagabonds how a man goes back to his ancestors. I barely know any of you, but now you all know me. Mazoc Szaba. You’ll never forget for as long as you live. MAZOC SZABA!”

Many cups around the room did, at least, go up, and many drank as he drank.

He wasn’t delicate. He set to the bottle with a will, throwing his head back and pouring the serpent wine in, guzzling it, throat bobbing. A quarter of the bottle vanished, and he shuddered. Another quarter, and he coughed, sputtered, gasped. Sparing only a minute to recover himself, he went on, now in single gulps interrupted by spasms. Green wine ran down his face and beaded on his chin. Still, he drank. Pink wetness seeped from his eyes, and then from the corners of his mouth. Groaning, he drank and then spun like a man struck in the head by a stone.

Mazoc Szaba slumped against the bar, took one last swig, and fell over backward. The bottle hit the uneven floor and rolled around beside him. Perhaps one cup of the green venom remained.

Szaba died in pain, spitting blood, but he had forced so much of the stuff into himself so fast that the end was quick. After perhaps a minute, his ragged, desperate breaths drew down. Another minute, and the faint motions of his chest stilled.

Hanni Iradu stood over him all the while. At last she looked up, met Locke’s eyes, and nodded respectfully.

“The Grave Walkers are satisfied. The hospitality of the Black Breeze has been memorable. Send to the Temple of Fortunate Waters; let Vadran priests fetch this man. His flesh should return to the sea. I will hear of it, if it is not so.”

“It will be so,” muttered Botari.

“Blessed is the one who remembers a thief, for they shall inherit the night,” said Iradu.

“Yes,” said Locke. “They shall inherit the night.”

“I thought I noticed you paying a little too much attention to my Vadran.” Iradu smiled at him, then turned for the door. “Be careful, boy.”

Locke sighed and rubbed his eyes. “I suppose I’ll find something to cover the body—”

“No,” said Botari. “No, Gentleman Bastard. It’s time you went back to the Temple District.”

Surprised, Locke nearly opened his mouth to argue and then realized the formality of the dismissal. He nodded.

“You can tell your master that you were handy enough with a mop-bucket,” said the old man. “And that you’re adequate at hanging from a wine-mast, I suppose. Cyril, you see to covering the body.”

“If I must, Father.”

“And throw Mazoc’s bottle out. Throw every bottle of that green shit we have out. Anyone so much as hints at placing a bet on that stuff ever again, I’ll hit them so hard their teeth will fly out their eye sockets.”