“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.”
“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.
“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:
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.
