Red Seas Under Red Skies Read Online Free PDF

now? Do you want to push on with it, like you mentioned, or do you want to take it slow? Maybe gamble around on the fifth and sixth floors for a few more weeks?”
    “A few more weeks? To hell with that. We’ve been kicking around this gods-damned city for two years now; if we’ve finally cracked Requin’s shell, I say we bloody well go for it.”
    “You’re going to suggest tomorrow night, aren’t you?”
    “His curiosity’s piqued. Let’s strike while the blade is fresh from the forge.”
    “I suspect that drink has made you impulsive.”
    “Drink makes me see funny; the gods made me impulsive.”
    “You there,” came a voice from the street in front of them. “Hold it!”
    Locke tensed. “I beg your pardon?”
    A young, harried-looking Verrari man with long black hair was holding his hands out, palms facing toward Locke and Jean. A small, well-dressed crowd seemed to have gathered beside him, at the edge of a trim lawn that Locke recognized as the dueling green.
    “Hold it, sirs, I beg of you,” said the young man. “I’m afraid it’s an affair, and there may be a bolt flying past. Might I beg of you to wait but a moment?”
    “Oh. Oh .” Locke and Jean relaxed simultaneously. If someone was dueling with crossbows, it was common courtesy as well as good sense to wait beside the dueling ground until the shots were taken. That way, neither participant would be distracted by movement in the background, or accidentally bury a bolt in a passerby.
    The dueling green was about forty yards long and half as wide, lit at each of its four corners by a soft white lantern hanging in a black iron frame. Two duelists stood in the center of the green with their seconds, each man casting four pale gray shadows in a crisscross pattern. Locke had little personal inclination to watch, but he reminded himself that he was supposed to be Leocanto Kosta, a man of worldly indifference to strangers punching holes in one another. He and Jean squeezed into the crowd of spectators as unobtrusively as possible; a similar crowd had formed on the other side of the green.
    One of the duelists was a very young man, dressed in fine loose gentleman’s clothing of a fashionable cut; he wore optics, and his hair hung to his shoulders in well-tended ringlets.
    His red-jacketed opponent was a great deal older, a bit hunched over and weathered. He looked active and determined enough to pose a threat, however. Each man held a lightweight crossbow—what Camorri thieves would call an alley-piece.
    “Gentlemen,” said the younger duelist’s second. “Please. Can there be no accommodation?”
    “If the Lashani gentleman will withdraw his imprecation,” added the younger duelist. His voice was high and nervous. “I would be eminently satisfied, with the merest recognition—”
    “No, there cannot ,” said the man standing beside the older duelist. “His Lordship is not in the habit of tendering apologies for mere statements of obvious fact.”
    “…with the merest recognition ,” continued the young duelist, desperately, “that the incident was an unfortunate misunderstanding, and that it need not—”
    “Were he to condescend to speak to you again,” said the older duelist’s second, “his Lordship would no doubt also note that you wail like a bitch , and would inquire as to whether you’re equally capable of biting like one.”
    The younger duelist stood speechless for a few seconds, then gestured rudely toward the older men with his free hand.
    “I am forced,” said his second, “I am, ah, forced…to allow that there may be no accommodation. Let the gentlemen stand…back-to-back.”
    The two opponents walked toward each other—the older man marched with vigor while the younger still stepped hesitantly—and turned their backs to each other.
    “You shall have ten paces,” said the younger man’s second, with bitter resignation. “Wait then, and on my signal, you may turn and loose.”
    Slowly he counted out the