The Gentleman Bastard Series 3-Book Bundle: The Lies of Locke Lamora, Red Seas Under Red Skies, The Republic of Thieves by Scott Lynch Page A

in the middle of an awkward circular raft of the sort called a
vertola
, and a Canal Tree bobbing and swaying on the leather-bladder pontoon raft that supported
     its roots. These roots trailed in the water, drinking up the piss and effluvia of
     the busy city; the canopy of rustling emerald leaves cast thousands of punctuated
     shadows down on the GentlemenBastards as they passed, along with the perfume of citrus. The tree (an alchemical
     hybrid that grew both limes and lemons) was tended by a middle-aged woman and three
     small children, who scuttled around in the branches throwing down fruit in response
     to orders from passing boats.
    Above the watercraft of the Shifting Market rose a field of flags and pennants and
     billowing silk standards, all competing through gaudy colors and symbols to impress
     their messages on watchful buyers. There were flags adorned with the crude outlines
     of fish or fowl or both; flags adorned with ale mugs and wine bottles and loaves of
     bread, boots and trousers and threaded tailors’ needles, fruits and kitchen instruments
     and carpenters’ tools and a hundred other goods and services. Here and there, small
     clusters of chicken-flagged boats or shoe-flagged rafts were locked in close combat,
     their owners loudly proclaiming the superiority of their respective goods or inferring
     the bastardy of one another’s children, while the watch-boats stood off at a mindful
     distance, in case anyone should sink or commence a boarding action.
    “It’s a pain sometimes, this pretending to be poor.” Locke gazed around in reverie,
     the sort Bug would have been indulging in if the boy hadn’t been concentrating on
     avoiding collision. A barge packed with dozens of yowling housecats in wooden slat
     cages cut their wake, flagged with a blue pennant on which an artfully rendered dead
     mouse bled rich scarlet threads through a gaping hole in its throat. “There’s just
     something about this place. I could almost convince myself that I really did have
     a pressing need for a pound of fish, some bowstrings, old shoes, and a new shovel.”
    “Fortunately for our credibility,” said Jean, “we’re coming up on the next major landmark
     on our way to a fat pile of Don Salvara’s money.” He pointed past the northeastern
     breakwater of the market, beyond which a row of prosperous-looking waterfront inns
     and taverns stood between the market and the Temple District.
    “Right as always, Jean. Greed before imagination. Keep us on track.” Locke added an
     enthusiastic but superfluous finger to the direction Jean was already pointing. “Bug!
     Get us out onto the river, then veer right. One of the twins is going to be waiting
     for us at the Tumblehome, third inn down on the south bank.”
    Bug pushed them north, straining to reach the bottom of the market’s basin—which was
     easily half again as deep as the surrounding canals—with each thrust. They evaded
     overzealous purveyors of grapefruits and sausage rolls and alchemical light-sticks,
     and Locke and Jean amused themselves with a favorite game, trying to spot the little
     pickpocketsamong the crowds on the breakwaters. The inattention of Camorr’s busy thousands still
     managed to feed the doddering old Thiefmaker in his dank warren under Shades’ Hill,
     nearly twenty years since Locke or Jean had last set foot inside the place.
    Once they escaped from the market and onto the river itself, Bug and Jean wordlessly
     switched places. The fast waters of the Angevine would be better matched against Jean’s
     muscle, and Bug would need to rest his arms for his part in the game to come. As Bug
     collapsed in Jean’s former place at the bow, Locke produced a cinnamon-lemon apparently
     from thin air and tossed it to the boy. Bug ate it in six bites, dry skin and all,
     masticating the reddish yellow pulp as grotesquely as possible between his bright,
     crooked teeth. He grinned.
    “They don’t make fish poison from those