"For fuck's sake," he said, "we're here. We're getting off this bloody ship and back onto good, solid stone. Put the bloody tunic on; they're lowering a boat."

Locke shook the tunic out with his right hand and frowned. He was sitting on the edge of a bunk, dressed only in his breeches, and was thinner and dirtier than Jean had ever seen him. His ribs stood out beneath his pale skin like the hull timbers of an unfinished ship. His hair was dark with grease, long and unkempt on every side, and a fine thistle of beard fringed his face.

His upper left arm was crisscrossed with the glistening red lines of barely sealed wounds; there was a scabbed puncture on his left forearm, and beneath that a dirty cloth brace was wound around his wrist. His left hand was a mess of fading bruises. A discoloured bandage partially covered an ugly-looking injury on his left shoulder, a scant few inches above his heart. Their three weeks at sea had done much to reduce the swelling of Locke's cheeks, lips and broken nose, but he still looked as though he'd tried to kiss a kicking mule. Repeatedly. "Can I get a hand, then?"

"No, you can do it for yourself. You should" ve been exercising this past week, getting ready. I can't always be here to hover about like your fairy fucking nursemaid."

"Well, let me shove a gods-damn rapier through your shoulder and wiggle it for you, and then let's see how keen you are to exercise."

"I took my cuts, you sobbing piss-wallow, and I did exercise "em."Jean lifted his own tunic: above the substantially reduced curve of his once-prodigious belly was the fresh, livid scar of a long slash across his ribs. "I don't care how much it hurts; you have to move around or they heal tight like a caulk-seal and then you're really in the shit." "So you keep telling me." Locke threw the tunic down on the deck beside his bare feet. "But unless that garment animates itself, or you do the honours, it seems I must go to the boat like this."

"Sun's setting. Summer or not, it'll be cool out there. But if you want to be an idiot, I suppose you do go like that." "You're a son of a bitch, Jean."

"If you were healthy, I'd re-break your nose for that, you self-pitying little—"

"Gentlemen?" A crew-woman's muffled voice came through the door, followed by a loud knock. "Captain's compliments, and the boat is ready."

"Thank you," yelled Jean. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "Why did I bother saving your life, again? I could" ve brought the Grey King's corpse with me instead. Would" ve been better fucking company."

"Please," said Locke forcefully, gesturing with his good arm. "We can meet in the middle. I'll pull with my good arm and you handle the bad side. Get me off this ship and I'll get to exercising."

"Can't come soon enough," said Jean, and after another moment's hesitation he bent down for the tunic.

2

Jean's tolerance rose for a few days with their release from the wet, smelly, heaving world of the galleon; even for paying customers, longdistance sea transit still had more in common with a prison sentence than a vacation.

With their handful of silver volani (converted from Camorri solons at an extortionate rate by the first mate of the Golden Gain, who'd argued that it was still preferable to the numismatic mugging thed'r receive from the town's moneychangers), he and Locke secured a third-floor room at the Silver Lantern, a sagging old inn on the waterfront.

Jean immediately set about procuring a source of income. If Camorr's underworld had been a deep lake, Vel Virazzo's was a stagnant pond. He had little trouble sussing out the major dockside gangs and the relationships between them. There was little organization in Vel Virazzo, and no boss-of-bosses to screw things up. A few nights of drinking in all the right dives and he knew exactly who to approach.

They called themselves the Brass Coves, and they skulked about in an abandoned tannery down on the city's eastern docks, where the sea lapped against the pilings of rotting piers that had seen no legitimate use in twenty years. By night, they were an active crew of sneak-thieves, muggers and coat-charmers. By day, they slept, diced and drank away most of their profits. Jean kicked in their door (though it hung loosely in its frame, and wasn't locked) at the second hour of the afternoon on a bright, sunny day.

There were an even dozen of them in the old tannery, young men between the ages of fifteen and twenty-odd. Standard membership for a local-trouble sort of gang. Those that weren't awake were slapped back to consciousness by their associates as Jean strolled into the centre of the tannery floor.

"Good afternoon!" He gave a slight bow, from the neck, then spread his arms wide. "Who" s the biggest, meanest motherfucker here? Who's the best bruiser in the Brass Coves?"

After a few seconds of silence and surprised stares, a relatively stocky young man with a crooked nose and a shaved head leapt down onto the dusty floor from an open staircase. The boy walked up to Jean and smirked. "You're lookin" at him."

Jean nodded, smiled, then whipped both of his arms around so that his cupped hands cracked against both of the boy's ears. He staggered, and Jean took a firm hold of his head, lacing his fingers tightly behind the rear arch of his skull. He pulled the tough's head sharply downward and fed him a knee — once, twice, three times. As the boy's face met Jean's kneecap for the last time, Jean let go, and the tough sprawled backwards on the tannery floor, senseless as a side of cold, salted meat.

"Wrong," said Jean, not even breathing heavily. "I'm the meanest motherfucker here. Vm the biggest bruiser in the Brass Coves."

"You ain't in the Brass Coves, arsehole," shouted another boy, who nonetheless had a look of awed disquiet on his face. "Let's kill this piece of shit!"

A third boy, wearing a tattered four-cornered cap and a set of handmade necklaces threaded with small bones, darted toward Jean with a stiletto drawn back in his right hand. When the thrust came, Jean stepped back, caught the boy by the wrist and yanked him forward into a backfist from his other hand. While the boy spat blood and tried to blink tears of pain from his eyes, Jean kicked him in the groin, then swept his legs out from under him. The boy's stiletto appeared in Jean's left hand as if by magic, and he twirled it slowly.

"Surely you boys can do simple sums," he said. "One plus one equals don't fuck with me."

The boy who'd charged at him with the knife sobbed, then threw up.

"Let's talk taxes." Jean walked around the periphery of the tannery floor, kicking over a few empty wine bottles; there were dozens of them scattered around. "Looks like you boys pull in enough coin to eat and drink; that's good. I'll have forty per cent of it, cold metal. I don't want goods. You'll pay your taxes every other day, starting today. Cough up your purses and turn out your pockets." "Fuck that!"

Jean stalked toward the boy who'd spoken; the youth was standing against the far wall of the tannery with his arms crossed. "Don't like it? Hit me, then." "Uh…"

"You don't think that's fair? You mug people for a living, right? Make a fist, son." "Uh…"

Jean grabbed him, spun him around, took hold of him by his neck and by the top of his breeches and rammed him head-first into the thick wood of the tannery's outer wall several times. The boy hit the ground with a thud when Jean let go; he was unable to fight back when Jean patted down his tunic and came up with a small leather purse.

"Added penalty," said Jean, "for damaging the wall of my tannery with your head." He emptied the purse into his own, then tossed it back down beside the boy. "Now, all of you get down here and line up. Line up! Four-tenths isn't much. Be honest: you can guess what I'll do if I find out that you're not."