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Image copyright CrimsonCobwebs. Locke copyright Scott Lynch.
“So fucking stupid.”
Jean sighed, rolled his eyes, and muttered, “Yes, I’m inclined to agree.”
Locke tried to roll over, eyes half-glazed. “Fucking stupid. Should have left me there. Dying anyway.”
Jean shook his head stubbornly. “Don’t be an asshole, Locke Lamora. You’re not going anywhere. What happened to the motherfucking Thorn of Camorr?”
There was no response from his friend. Jean forced a spoonful of tea into his mouth. There was a moment before Locke rolled over feebly, vomited the tea and everything else he’d taken in, and spat up more blood.
Locke was standing, more or less, on the railing and looking out to sea, when Jean came up from belowdecks. He came over and joined him at the rail.
“Being seasick?” he said, with some attempt at lightness.
“Fuck you.” Locke’s voice was flat and hoarse. He was dirty and unkempt. He looked, in short, like shit.
