Locke Lamora and the Bottled Serpent. Part 2

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“I’m staring down four glasses of the serpent for YOU!” Mazoc Szaba whirled theatrically for the tolerably piqued crowd. “Those of you about to make money with me, that is! Those who bet against me, well, lick my nethermost crack at your convenience. Measure! Here’s my stake. Harvest the wagers and fill my glass!”

Locke’s coin, transmuted to Szaba’s moments earlier, rose toward the Measure’s alcove on Szaba’s outstretched palm. It was never to complete the journey.

“Why, Mazoc Szaba. To find you here of all places.”

Locke knew the voice and looked in surprise at the street door. Anjais Barsavi held that door open. He was a stout and centered plug of a man, much like his father, the Capa of Camorr.

Anjais moved forward, peering at Szaba over the tops of the sweated optics perched on his nose, and the silenced crowd parted for him as though repelled by sorcery. Behind him came a band of grim men and women with lines of ash painted across their cheeks. Grave Walkers, a gang in close Barsavi service, like the Red Hands. There were certain people the Capa might use for gentle errands. Grave Walkers were the other sort.

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