10
JEAN FOUND him there just a minute or two later; the big man turned Locke over and slid him off the Gray King’s corpse, eliciting a sincere howl of pain from his half-conscious friend.
“Oh, gods,” Jean cried. “Oh, gods, you fucking idiot, you miserable fucking bastard.” He pressed his hands against Locke’s chest and neck as though he could simply will the blood back into his body. “Why couldn’t you wait? Why couldn’t you wait for me?”
Locke stared drunkenly up at Jean, his mouth a little O of concern.
“Jean,” Locke whispered gravely, “you have…been running. You were in…no condition to fight. Gray King…so accommodating. Could not refuse.”
Jean snorted despite himself. “Gods damn you, Locke Lamora. I sent him a message. I thought it might keep him around a while.”
“Bless your heart. I did…get him, though. I got him and I burnt his ship.”
“So that’s what happened,” Jean said, very gently. “I saw. I was watching the fire from the other side of the Wooden Waste; I saw you walk into the Floating Grave like you owned the place, and I came running as fast as I could. But you didn’t even need me.”
“Oh no.” Locke swallowed, grimacing at the taste of his own blood. “I made excellent use…of your reputation.”
At this Jean said nothing, and the forlorn light of his eyes chilled Locke more than anything yet.
“So this is revenge,” Locke mumbled.
“It is,” whispered Jean.
After a few seconds, new tears welled up in Locke’s eyes and he closed them, shaking his head. “It’s a shit business.”
“It is.”
“You have to leave me here.”
At this, Jean rocked back on his knees as though he’d been slapped. “What?”
“Leave me, Jean. I’ll be dead…just a few minutes. They won’t get anything from me. You can still get away. Please…leave me.”
Jean’s face turned bright red—a red that showed even by the light of the alchemical globes—and his eyebrows arched, and every line in his face drew so taut that Locke found the energy to be alarmed. Jean’s jaw clenched; his teeth ground together, and the planes of his cheeks stood out like mountain ridges under his gilding of fat.
“That is a hell of a thing for you to say to me,” he finally hissed in the flattest, deadliest voice Locke had ever heard.
“I made a mistake, Jean!” Locke croaked in desperation. “I couldn’t really fight him. He did for me before I could cheat my way out of it. Just promise…promise me that if you ever find Sabetha, you’ll—”
“You can find her yourself, half-wit, after we both get the hell out of here!”
“Jean!” Locke clutched weakly at the lapels of Jean’s coat with his good hand. “I’m sorry, I fucked up. Please don’t stay here and get caught; the blackjackets will be coming, soon. I couldn’t bear to have you taken. Please just leave me. I can’t walk.”
“Idiot,” Jean whispered, brushing away hot tears with his good hand. “You won’t have to.”
Working awkwardly but rapidly, Jean took up the Gray King’s cloak and tied it around his own neck, creating a makeshift sling for his right arm. This he slid beneath Locke’s knees, and straining mightily, he was able to pick the smaller man up and cradle him in front of his chest. Locke moaned.
“Quit sobbing, you damn baby,” Jean hissed as he began to lope back along the dock. “You must have at least a half beer glass of blood left somewhere in there.” But Locke was now well and truly unconscious, whether from pain or blood loss Jean couldn’t tell, and his skin was so pale that it almost looked like glass. His eyes were open but unseeing, and his mouth hung open, trailing blood and spittle.
Panting and shuddering, ignoring the wrenching pains of his own wounds, Jean turned and began to run as fast as he could.
The body of the Gray King lay forgotten on the deck behind him, and the red light shone on in the empty hall.