Free Red Seas Under Red Skies by Scott Lynch Page B

hands. Without warning, he threw this all over Locke, who gasped in surprise and fell backward against the wall again. He shook his head like a dog and pushed his sopping hair out of his eyes.
    â€œJean, are you out of your fucking—”
    â€œYou needed a bath,” Jean interrupted. “You were covered in self-pity.”
    He threw the bucket down and moved around the room, plucking up any bottle or wineskin that still contained liquid. He was finished before Locke realized what he was doing; he then swiped Locke’s coin purse from the room’s little table and tossed a thin leather package down in its place.
    â€œHey, Jean, Jean, you can’t—that’s mine!”
    â€œUsed 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.
    â€œIt’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.”
    â€œJean, open this fucking door!”
    â€œNo. You open it.”
    â€œI can’t! You told me yourself you’ve got the special key!”
    â€œThe 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?”
    â€œYou…you bastard! Open this door!”
    â€œLook at yourself, Locke. You’re a fucking disgrace. Open it yourself.”
    â€œYou. Have. The. Godsdamnedmotherfuckingkey.”
    â€œYou 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.”
    â€œYou son of a
bitch
!”
    â€œMy 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.”
    â€œGaaaaaaaaaaah!”
    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.
    â€œJean?”
    â€œStill here, Locke,” came Jean’s voice, now cheerful. “Gods, you’re taking your sweet time. Oh, I’m sorry—have you even started yet?”
    â€œWhen I get this door open, you’re dead, Jean!”
    â€œWhen 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