Red Seas Under Red Skies Read Online Free PDF

Something delivered by a means beyond the ken of even a healthy paranoia.
    Like a narcotic powder, dusted on the playing cards in minute quantities by Locke and Jean, then gradually passed around the table to a woman continually licking her fingers as she played.
    Bela paranella
was a colorless, tasteless alchemical powder also known as “the night friend.” It was popular with rich people of a nervous disposition, who took it to ease themselves into deep, restful slumber. When mixed with alcohol,
bela paranella
was rapidly effective in tiny quantities; the two substances were as complementary as fire and dry parchment. It would have been widely used for criminal purposes, if not for the fact that it sold for twenty times its own weight in white iron.
    â€œGods, that woman had the constitution of a war galley,” said Locke. “She must have started getting some of the powder by the third or fourth hand…probably could’ve killed a pair of wild boars in heat with less.”
    â€œAt least we got what we wanted,” said Jean, removing his own powder reservoir from his coat. He considered it for a moment, shrugged, and slipped it in a pocket.
    â€œWe did indeed…and I saw him!” said Locke. “Requin. He was on the stairs, watching us for most of the hands in the middle game. We
must
have excited a personal interest.” The exciting ramifications of this helped clear some of the haze from Locke’s thoughts. “Why else send Selendri herself to pat our backs?”
    â€œWell, assume you’re correct. So what 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?”
    â€œA 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.”
    â€œYou’re going to suggest tomorrow night, aren’t you?”
    â€œHis curiosity’s piqued. Let’s strike while the blade is fresh from the forge.”
    â€œI suspect that drink has made you impulsive.”
    â€œDrink makes me see funny; the gods made me impulsive.”
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œHold 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?”
    â€œOh.
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