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.
“Yes,” said Locke. “They shall inherit the night.”
“
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.”
Father Chains stared down at Locke for a long moment after the boy finished his description of the events leading up to his dismissal and return.
“So you were sent out with instructions to bring twenty solons for Capa Barsavi, whom you serve as I serve, and in actuality you have returned with—”
“Two.”
“Two. And how do you explain this?”
“I know I’ve failed you,” said Locke. “I know I’ve disobeyed my instructions. I just… he was going to be tortured if he went to the Floating Grave. You know what the Capa does when he thinks a lesson is in order.”
“Mazoc Szaba put himself in the way of the Capa’s justice. Again, how do you explain what you’ve done?”
“I don’t understand much about being a priest,” said Locke. “In fact, I don’t understand anything yet, but I know what you’ve told me. I know how you think. And I just knew… I knew standing there, that if I shut up like everyone else and pretended it wasn’t my business, I would remember it forever. And I would never feel like I was a real priest, ever. I would never feel like I deserved… to find out whatever it is I don’t know yet.”
Chains loomed over him, settled his big hands on Locke’s shoulders, and sighed out a heavy breath.
“You are a vexation,” he said. “You are a terror and a frustration and you know it because I tell you these things. But perhaps… perhaps I am remiss in not also telling you often enough how very, very proud you make me.”
Locke had reached an age where he did not frequently find himself hugging Father Chains, but suddenly he was enfolded in the old man’s robes and hands, shaking with simple relief of being back home, to be alive, to have made himself do something he barely understood, to not have disappointed in doing it.
“I’m sorry I screwed up the money,” he said.
“I’ll spot you eighteen solons for the Capa. Your two makes twenty; you can give it to him yourself in a couple nights. Doubtless he’ll have been told about what happened at the Unbroken Jar, and he might ask you questions. Be ready to answer.”
Locke nodded.
“You’ll owe me, for the eighteen. It’s not a gift. You’ll pay it back plus a quarter on the principal, compounding. Compounding
“Ouch,” whispered Locke. “Punishment numbers.”
“You did the right thing, Locke. And I need you to see and choose the right things whenever you have a choice.”
Chains stepped back, smiled, and cracked his knuckles.
“But I also need you to understand that when you do the right thing, there are consequences. Consequences that can bite you in the ass good and hard, my boy. Good and fucking hard.”
