Free Red Seas Under Red Skies by Scott Lynch Page A

can’t—that’s mine!”
    “Used to be ‘ours,’” said Jean coldly. “I liked that better.”
    When Locke tried to jump up from the bed again, Jean pushed him back down effortlessly. He then stormed out once more, and pulled the door shut behind him. There was a curious clicking noise, and then nothing—not even a creak on the floorboards. Jean was waiting right outside the door.
    Snarling, Locke moved across the room and tried to pull the door open, but it held fast in its frame. He frowned in puzzlement and rattled it a few more times. The bolt was on this side, and it wasn’t shot.
    “It’s a curious fact,” Jean said through the door, “that the rooms of the Silver Lantern can be locked from the outside with a special key only the innkeeper has. In case he wants to keep an unruly guest at bay while he calls for the watch, you see.”
    “Jean, open this fucking door!”
    “No. You open it.”
    “I can’t! You told me yourself you’ve got the special key!”
    “The Locke Lamora I used to know would spit on you,” said Jean. “Priest of the Crooked Warden. Garrista of the Gentlemen Bastards. Student of Father Chains. Brother to Calo, Galdo, and Bug! Tell me, what would Sabetha think of you?”
    “You…you bastard! Open this door!”
    “Look at yourself, Locke. You’re a fucking disgrace. Open it yourself.”
    “You. Have. The. Godsdamnedmotherfuckingkey.”
    “You know how to charm a lock, right? I left you some picks on the table. You want your wine back, you work the bloody door yourself.”
    “You son of a bitch !”
    “My mother was a saint,” said Jean. “The sweetest jewel Camorr ever produced. The city didn’t deserve her. I can wait out here all night, you know. It’ll be easy. I’ve got all your wine and all your money.”
    “Gaaaaaaaaaaah!”
    Locke snatched the little leather wallet off the table; he wiggled the fingers of his good right hand and regarded his left hand more dubiously; the broken wrist was mending, but it ached constantly.
    He bent over the lock mechanism by the door, scowled, and went to work. He was surprised at how quickly the muscles of his back began to protest his uncomfortable posture. He stopped long enough to pull the room’s chair over so he could sit on it while he worked.
    As his picks rattled around inside the lock and he bit his tongue in concentration, he heard the heavy creak of movement outside the door and a series of loud thumps.
    “Jean?”
    “Still here, Locke,” came Jean’s voice, now cheerful. “Gods, you’re taking your sweet time. Oh, I’m sorry—have you even started yet?”
    “When I get this door open, you’re dead, Jean!”
    “When you get that door open? I look forward to many long years of life, then.”
    Locke redoubled his concentration, falling back into the rhythm he’d learned over so many painstaking hours as a boy—moving the picks slightly, feeling for sensations. That damn creaking and thumping had started up on the other side of the door again! What was Jean playing at now? Locke closed his eyes and tried to block the sound out of his mind…tried to let his world narrow down to the message of the picks against his fingers.
    The mechanism clicked open. Locke stumbled up from his chair, jubilant and furious, and yanked the door open.
    Jean had vanished, and the narrow corridor outside the room was packed wall to wall with wooden crates and barrels—an impassable barrier about three feet from Locke’s face.
    “Jean, what the hell is this?”
    “I’m sorry, Locke.” Jean was obviously standing directly behind his makeshift wall. “I borrowed a few things from the keeper’s larder, and got a few of the boys you cheated at cards last week to help me carry it all up here.”
    Locke gave the wall a good shove, but it didn’t budge; Jean was probably putting his full weight against it. There was a faint chorus of laughter from somewhere on the other side, probably down in the common room. Locke ground his