Free The Gentleman Bastard Series 3-Book Bundle: The Lies of Locke Lamora, Red Seas Under Red Skies, The Republic of Thieves by Scott Lynch

trying on strange new angles for his approval.
    Booted feet running on cobblestones; the creak and rattle of weapons in harness. A
     ruddy middle-aged face with two drooping sweat-slicked moustaches inserted itself
     between Bug and the sky.
    “Perelandro’s balls, boy!” The watchman looked as bewildered as he did worried. “What
     the hell were you doing, screwing around up there? You’re lucky you landed where you
     did.”
    There were enthusiastic murmurs of agreement from the yellowjacketed squad crowding
     in behind the first man; Bug could smell their sweat and their harness oil, as well
     as the rotten stench of the stuff that had broken his fall. Well, when you jumped
     into a streetside pile of brown glop in Camorr, you knew going in that it wouldn’t
     smell like rosewater. Bug shook his head to clear the white sparks dancing behind
     his eyes, and twitched his legs to be sure they would serve. Nothing appeared to be
     broken, thank the gods. He would reevaluate his own claims on immortality when all
     of this was over.
    “Watch-sergeant,” Bug hissed thickly, letting more blood spill out over his lips (damn,
     his tongue burned with pain). “Watch-sergeant …”
    “Yes?” The man’s eyes were going wider. “Can you move your arms and legs, boy? What
     can you feel?”
    Bug reached up with his hands, casually, not entirely feigning shakiness, and clutched
     at the watch-sergeant’s harness as though to steady himself.
    “Watch-sergeant,” Bug said a few seconds later, “your purse is much lighter than it
     should be. Out whoring last night, were we?”
    He shook the little leather pouch just under the watch-sergeant’s dark moustaches,
     and the larcenous part of his soul (which was, let us be honest, its majority) glowed
     warmly at the sheer befuddlement that blossomed in the man’s eyes. For a split second,
     the pain of Bug’s imperfect landing in the rubbish heap was forgotten. Then his other
     hand came up, as if by magic, and his Orphan’s Twist hit the watch-sergeant right
     between the eyes.
    An Orphan’s Twist, or a “little red keeper,” was a weighted sack like a miniature
     cosh, kept hidden in clothes (but never against naked skin). It was traditionally
     packed full of ground shavings from a dozen of Camorr’s more popular hot peppers,
     and a few nasty castoffs from certain black alchemists’ shops. No use against a real
     threat, but just the thing for another street urchin. Or a certain sort of adult with
     wandering hands.
    Or an unprotected face, at spitting distance.
    Bug was already rolling to his left, so the spray of fine rust-colored powder that
     erupted from his Twist missed him by inches. The watch-sergeant was not so lucky;
     it was a solid hit, scattering the hellish-hot stuff up his nose, down his mouth,
     and straight into his eyes. He choked out a string of truly amazing wet bellows and
     fell backward, clawing at his cheeks. Bug was already up and moving with the giddy
     elasticity of youth; even his bitterly aching tongue was temporarily forgotten in
     the allconsuming need to run like hell.
    Now he definitely had the foot patrol’s undivided attention. They were shouting and
     leaping after him as his little feet pounded the cobbles and he sucked in deep stinging
     gulps of humid air. He’d done his part to keep the game alive. It could now go on
     without him while he gave the duke’s constables their afternoon exercise.
    A particularly fast-thinking watchman fumbled his whistle into his mouth and blew
     it raggedly while still running—three short bursts, a pause, then three more.
Watchman down
. Oh, shit. That would bring every yellowjacket in half the city at a dead run, weapons
     out. That would bring
crossbows
. It was suddenly deadly important that Bug slip the squad at hisheels before other squads started sending spotters up onto roofs. His anticipation
     of a merry chase vanished. He had perhaps a minute and a half to get to one of his