"Of your friend I can find no trace," said the man. "He seems to have been eaten by one of the thin, hairless apes from the Okanti isles; all it does is screech at me. What became of the last leech to take a look at him?"

"We left him in Talisham," said Jean. "I'm afraid my friend's attitude moved him to bring an early end to his own sea voyage."

"Well, I might have done the same. I waive my fee, in profound sympathy. Keep your silver — you shall need it for wine. Or poison."

More and more, Jean found himself spending time with the Brass Coves for no better reason than to avoid Locke. A week passed, then another. "Tavrin Callas" was becoming a known and solidly respected figure in Vel Virazzo's crooked fraternity. Jean's arguments with Locke became more circular, more frustrating, more pointless. Jean instinctively recognized the downward arc of terminal self-pity, but had never dreamed that he'd have to drag Locke, of all people, out of it. He avoided the problem by training the Coves.

At first, he passed on just a few hints — how to use simple hand signals around strangers, how to set distractions before picking pockets, how to tell real gems from paste and avoid stealing the latter. Inevitably, he began to receive respectful entreaties to "show them a thing or two" of the tricks he'd used to pound four Coves into the ground. First in line with these requests were the four who'd been pounded.

A week after that, the alchemy was fully under way. Half a dozen boys were rolling around in the dust of the tannery floor while Jean coached them on all the essentials of infighting — leverage, initiative, situational awareness. He began to demonstrate the tricks, both merciful and cruel, that had kept him alive over half a lifetime spent making his points with his fists and hatchets.

Under Jean's influence, the boys began to take more of an interest in the state of their old tannery. He explicitly encouraged them to start viewing it as a headquarters, which demanded certain comforts. Alchemical lanterns appeared, hanging from the rafters. Fresh oilpaper was nailed up over the broken windows, and new planks and straw were raised up to the roof to plug holes. The boys stole cushions, cheap tapestries and portable shelves.

"Find me a hearthstone," said Jean. "Steal me a big one, and I'll teach you poor little bastards how to cook, too. You can't beat Camorr for chefs; even the thieves are chefs back there. I" ve had years of training."

He stared around at the increasingly well-maintained tannery, at the increasingly eager band of young thieves living in it, and he spoke wistfully to himself: "We all did."

He" d tried to interest Locke in the project of the Brass Coves, but had been rebuffed. That night he tried again, explaining about their ever-increasing nightly take, their headquarters, the tips and training he was giving them. Locke stared at him for a long time, sitting on the bed with a chipped glass half-full of purple wine in his hands.

"Well," he said at last. "Well, I can see you" ve found your replacements, haven't you?" Jean was too startled to say anything.

Locke drained his glass and continued, his voice flat and humourless, "That was certainly quick. Quicker than I expected. A new gang, a new burrow. Not a glass one, but you can probably fix that if you look around long enough. So here you are, playing Father Chains, lighting a fire under that kettle of happy horse-shit all over again."

Jean exploded across the room and slapped the empty glass out of Locke's hand; it shattered against the wall and showered half the room with glittering fragments, but Locke didn't even blink. Instead, he leaned back against his sweat-stained pillows and sighed. "Got any twins yet? How about a new Sabetha? A new meV

"To hell with you!" Jean clenched his fists until he could feel the warm, slick blood seeping out beneath his nails. "To hell with you, Locke! I didn't save your gods-damned life so you could sulk in this gods-damned hovel and pretend you're the man who invented grief. You're not that gods-damned special!" "Why did you save me then, Saint Jean?" "Of all the stupid fucking questions—"

"WHY?" Locke heaved himself up off the bed and shook his fists at Jean; the effect would have been comical, but all the murder in the world was in his eyes. "I told you to leave me! Am I supposed to be grateful for this? This bloody room?" "I didn't make this room your whole world, Locke. You did."

"This is what I was rescued for? Three weeks sick at sea, and now Vel Virazzo, arsehole of Tal Verrar? It's the joke of the gods, and I'm the punch line. Dying with the Grey King would have been better. I told you to fucking leave me there!"

And then, "And I miss them," he said, his voice nearly a whisper. "Gods, I miss them. It's my fault they're dead. I can't… I can't stand it—"

"Don't you dare," growled Jean. He shoved Locke in the chest, forcefully. Locke fell backwards across his bed and hit the wall hard enough to rattle the window shutters. "Don't you dare use them as an excuse for what you're doing to yourself! Don't you fucking dare."

Without another word, Jean spun on his heels, walked out of the room and slammed the door behind him.

5

Locke sank down against the bed, put his face in his hands and listened to the creak of Jean's footsteps recede from the hall outside.

To his surprise, that creak returned a few minutes later, growing steadily louder. Jean threw the door open, face grim, and marched directly over to Locke with a tall wooden bucket of water in his hands. Without warning, he threw this all over Locke, who gasped in surprise and fell backwards against the wall again. He shook his head like a dog and pushed his sopping hair out of his eyes. "Jean, are you out of your fucking—"

"You 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. "Hey, Jean, Jean, you can't… that's mine!" "Used 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 of 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 his side, and it wasn't shot.

"It'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." "Jean, open this fucking door!" "No. You open it." "I can't! You told me yourself you" ve got the special key!"

"The 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?" "You… you bastard! Open this door!" "Look at yourself, Locke. You're a fucking disgrace. Open it yourself." "You. Have. The. Godsdamnedmotberfuckingkey."

"You 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." "You son of a bitch!"

"My 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." "Gaaaaaaaaaaah!"