The Republic of Thieves #1

Chapter SEVEN


THE FIVE-YEAR GAME: COUNTERMOVE

1

“WHAT THE HELL’S the matter with us, Jean?” Locke rubbed his eyes and noticed certain discomforts in his gut and around his ankles, in that order. “She’s rolled us up like a couple of old tents. And what the f*ck are these things on my legs?”

Just above his feet, his thin, pale ankles were encircled by bands of iron. The manacles were loose enough to let blood flow, but weighed about five pounds apiece.

“I imagine they’re to discourage us from swimming,” said Jean. “Aren’t they thoughtful? They match your eyes.”

“The bars across the windows aren’t enough, eh? Gods above, my stomach feels like it’s trying to eat the rest of me.”

Locke made a more thorough examination of their surroundings. Cushions, shelves, silks, and lanterns—the cabin was fit for the duke of Camorr. There was even a little rack of books and scrolls next to Jean.

“Look what she left sitting out for us,” said Jean. He tossed Locke the leather-bound book he’d been reading. It was an aged quarto with gold leaf alchemically embossed into three lines on the cover:

THE REPUBLIC OF THIEVES

A TRUE AND TRAGIC HISTORY

CAELLIUS LUCARNO

“Ohhh,” said Locke softly, setting the book aside. “That beauty has a bitch streak as wide as ten rivers.”

“How’d she drug you?” said Jean.

“Quite embarrassingly.”

There was a knock at the cabin door. It opened a moment later, and down the steps came a spry, long-legged fellow with the tan of many active years sunk into his lean features.

“Hello, boys,” said the stranger. He had a faint Verrari accent. “Welcome aboard the Volantyne’s Resolve. Solus Volantyne, at your service. And I do mean that! You boys are our first and only business on this trip.”

“Whatever you’re being paid,” said Locke, “we can double it if you turn this ship around right now.”

“Our mutual friend told me that was probably the first thing you’d say, Master Lazari.”

Locke cracked his knuckles and glared. He had to give Sabetha credit for at least preserving their false identities, but he didn’t want to have any kind thoughts toward her at the moment.

“I’m inclined to agree with her suggestion,” continued Volantyne, “that I’m rather more likely to enjoy success and fair compensation in partnership with the woman who’s still at liberty, rather than the two men she brought to me in chains.”

“We can triple her payment,” said Locke.

“A man who’d trade a sure fortune for the promises of an angry prisoner is far too stupid to be the captain of his own ship,” said Volantyne.

“Well, hells,” said Locke. “If you won’t turn coat, can you at least get me some ship’s biscuit or something?”

“Our mutual friend said that food would be the second thing on your mind.” Volantyne folded his arms and smiled. “But we’re not eating ship’s biscuit on this leg of the trip. We’re eating fresh-baked pepper bread, and goose stuffed with honey-glazed olives, and boiled lake frogs in brandy and cream.”

“I got hit on the head somehow,” said Locke. “This is the stupidest dream I’ve had in years, isn’t it?”

“No dream, my friend. We’ve been set up with a cook so good I’d f*ck him six days a week just to keep him aboard, if only I liked men. But he’s another gift paid for by our mutual friend. Come on deck and let me explain the conditions of your passage. You lucky, lucky sons of bitches!”

On deck, Locke could see that the Volantyne’s Resolve was a two-masted brig with her rigging in good order; her sails were neither straight from the yard nor frayed to threads. About two dozen men and women had been formed up to watch Locke and Jean emerge from the great cabin. Most of them had the tan, rangy look of sailors, but a few of the heavier ones, big-boned land animals for sure, looked like freshly hired muscle.

“This is the easiest cruise we’ve ever been given,” said Volantyne. “We’re headed west, up the Cavendria and out to sea. We’ll have an autumn excursion for a month, then we’ll turn round and take it slow and easy back to Karthain. You gentlemen will enjoy a luxurious cabin, books to read, fine meals. The wines we’ve laid in for the voyage will make you think you’re royalty. All this, on one condition only—good behavior.”

“I can pay,” said Locke, raising his voice to a shout, “three times what each of you is receiving now! You would have it merely for getting us back to Karthain! Two days’ work, rather than two months!”

“Now, sir,” said Volantyne, looking cross for the first time, “that’s not good behavior at all. Any further talk in that vein will get you sent down to the hold. There’s two ways to make this trip—with free limbs and full stomachs, or cinched up tight in darkness, let out once a day to eat and piss. I’m to take the tenderest care with your lives, but your liberty can go straight overboard if you give us trouble.”

“What about these things around our ankles?” said Locke.

“Shields from temptation,” said Volantyne.

“Gah,” Locke muttered. “Also, where’s this food—”

“Sirs, the thousand apologies,” cried a man in a stained brown robe who came stumbling up from below via the main deck hatch. He was pale, with grayish-blond hair, and carried a silver tray set with a plain iron tureen and several loaves of bread. “I have the foods!”

“This famous cook of yours is a Vadran?” said Jean.

“Yes, I know,” said Volantyne, “but you must trust me. Adalric was trained in Talisham, and he knows his business.”

“The oysters, in sauce from ale has I boiled,” said the cook.

He held the tray out to Locke, and the scents of fresh food were as good as a fist to the jaw.

“Um, discussion of the situation,” said Locke, “can recommence in about half an hour.”

“So long as you quit trying to bribe my crew, you may speak as you please, honored passengers,” said Volantyne.

2

AS THE first day passed, and the second, it became clear that their situation was both the most comfortable and the most vexing imprisonment Locke could have imagined.

Their meals were plentiful and magnificent, the wine better even than promised, the ale fresh and sweet, and their requests were taken up without hesitation or complaint.

“These bastards have made their fortunes on this venture,” said Jean, over the remnants of lunch on the second day. “Isn’t that right, boys? It’s the only possible explanation for our treatment. A pile of gold in every pocket.”

Every meal was eaten in the presence of at least four attendants, silent and polite and utterly vigilant. Every knife and fork was counted, every scrap and bone was collected. Locke could have palmed any number of useful items, but there was no point to it, not until the other difficulties of their situation could be surmounted.

Their bedding was turned out and replaced each day, and they were kept on deck while it happened. Locke could see just enough of the activity within the cabin to depress his spirits. All of their books were given a shake, their chests were opened and searched, their hammocks scoured, the floor planks examined in minute detail. By the time they were let back in, everything was restored to its proper place and the cabin was as fresh as if it had never been used, but it was useless to hide anything.

They were searched several times each day, and weren’t even permitted to wear shoes. The only extraneous object they possessed, in fact, was Jean’s tightly bound lock of Ezri’s hair. Locke was surprised to see it on the morning of their third day.

“I had a few words with Sabetha, after her people finally knocked me down.” Jean lay in his hammock, idly turning the hair over and over in his hands. “She said that some courtesies were not to be refused.”

“Did she say anything else? About me, or for me?”

“I think she’s said everything she means to say, Locke. This ship’s as good as a farewell note.”

“She must have given Volantyne and his crew ten pages of directions concerning us.”

“Even their little boat is lashed tighter than usual, as though some god might reach down and snatch it off the deck,” said Jean casually.

“Oh really?” Locke slipped out of his hammock, crept over to Jean’s side of the cabin, and lowered his voice. “On the larboard side of the main deck? You think we could make something of it?”

“We’d never have time to hoist it properly. But if we could weaken the ropes, and if the deck was pitching …”

“Shit,” said Locke. “Once we hit the Cavendria, we’ll be steady as a cup of tea until we’re out the other side. How many of our friends do you figure we could handle at once?”

“How many could I handle at once? Let’s be pragmatic and say three. I’m pretty sure I could club the whole crew down one or two at a time if nobody raised an alarm, but you’ve seen their habits. They never work alone. I’m not sure the brute force approach will get us very far.”

“You know, it certainly would be nice to receive an unannounced visit from our benefactor Patience,” said Locke. “Or anyone associated with her. Right about now. Or … now!”

“I think we’re on our own,” said Jean. “I’m sure someone or something is watching us, but Sabetha put us here. It seems within the rules as Patience explained them.”

“I wonder if her Bondsmagi would be so sporting.”

“Well, there is a bright side. We’re eating well enough. You’re not looking like such a wrenched-out noodle anymore.”

“That’s great, Jean. I’m not just exiled; I’m being plumped up for slaughter. Suppose there’s any chance we might run into Zamira if we reach the Sea of Brass?”

“What the hell would she be doing back up here so soon after everything that happened?” Jean yawned and stretched. “The Poison Orchid’s as likely to come over the horizon and save us as I am to give birth to a live albatross.”

“It was just an idle thought,” said Locke. “A damned pleasing idle thought. So, I suppose we pray for heavy weather.”

“And worry about cutting some ropes,” said Jean. “Ideas?”

“I could have a makeshift knife on an hour’s notice. So long as I knew it would be used before they turned our cabin over the next day.”

“Good. And what about our ankle manacles? You’ve always been better with that sort of thing than I have.”

“The mechanisms are delicate. I could come up with bone splinters small enough to fit, but those are brittle. One snap and they’d jam up the locks for good.”

“Then we might just have to bear them until we can hit land,” said Jean. “Well, first things first. We need to be within reasonable distance of a beach, and we need a rolling deck, and we need to not be tied up in the hold when our chance comes.”

3

THE SKY turned gray again that night, and ominous clouds boiled on the horizons, but the gentle rolling of the Amathel barely titled the deck of the Resolve in one direction or another. Locke spent several hours leaning against the main deck rails, feigning placidity, straining secretly for any glimpse of a bolt of lightning or an oncoming thunderhead. The only lights to be seen, however, were the ghostly flickerings from within the black depths of the lake, twinkling like constellations of fire.

Their progress was slow. The strange autumn winds were against them much of the time, and with no mages to shape the weather to their taste, they had to move by tack after long, slow tack to the southwest. Volantyne and his crew seemed to care not a whit. Whether they sailed half the world or half a mile, their pay would be the same.

On the night of their fourth day, Locke caught flashes of whitish yellow illuminating the southern horizon, but his excitement died when he realized that he was looking at Lashain.

On the fifth day they picked up speed, and the capricious winds grew stronger. The whole sky bruised over with promising clouds, and just after noon the first drops of cool rain began to fall. Locke and Jean retreated to their cabin, trying to look innocent. They buried themselves in books and idle conversation, glancing out the cabin window every few moments, watching in mutual satisfaction as the troughs between the waves deepened and the strands of foam thickened at their crests.

At the third hour of the afternoon, with the rain steady and the lake rolling at four or five feet, Adalric came to their door to receive instructions for dinner.

“Perhaps the soup of the veal, masters?”

“By all means,” said Locke. If any chance to escape was coming, he wanted to face it with at least one more of the Vadran prodigy’s feasts shoved down his gullet.

“And how about chicken?” said Jean.

“I’ll do one the murder right away.”

“Dessert too,” said Locke. “Let’s have a big one tonight. Storms make me hungry.”

“I have a cake of the honey and ginger,” said Adalric.

“Good man,” said Jean. “And let’s have some wine. Two bottles of sparkling apple, eh?”

“Two bottles,” said the cook. “I has it brung to you.”

“Decent fellow, for all that he tramples the language,” said Locke when the door had closed behind the cook. “I hate to take advantage of him.”

“He won’t miss us if we slip away,” said Jean. “He’s got the whole crew to appreciate him. You know what sort of slop they’d be gagging down if he wasn’t aboard.”

Locke went on deck a few minutes later, letting the rain soak him as he stood by the foremast, feigning indifference as the deck rolled slowly from side to side. It was a gentle motion as yet, but if the weather continued to pick up it was a very promising trend indeed.

“Master Lazari!” Solus Volantyne came down from the quarterdeck, oilcloak fluttering. “Surely you’d be more comfortable in your cabin?”

“Perhaps our mutual friend neglected to tell you, Captain Volantyne, that Master Callas and myself have been at sea. Compared to what we endured down in the Ghostwinds, this is invigorating.”

“I do know something of your history, Lazari, but I’m also charged with your safety.”

“Well, until someone takes these damned bracelets off my ankles I can’t exactly swim to land, can I?”

“And what if you catch cold?”

“With Adalric aboard? He must have possets that would drive back death itself.”

“Will you at least consent to an oilcloak, so you look like less of a crazy landsman?”

“That’d be fine.”

Volantyne summoned a sailor with a spare cloak, and Locke resumed talking as he fastened it over his shoulders. “Now, pardon my ignorance, but where the hell are we, anyway?”

“Forty miles due west of Lashain, give or take a hair in any direction.”

“Ah. I thought I spotted the city last night.”

“We’re not making good westward progress. If I had a schedule to keep I’d be in a black mood, but thanks to you, we’re in no hurry, are we?”

“Quite. Are those heavier storms to the south?”

“That shadow? That’s a lee shore, Master Lazari. A damned lee shore. We’re eight or nine miles off the southern coast of the Amathel, and fighting to get no closer. If we can punch through this mess and claw another twenty or thirty miles west-nor’west, we should be clear straight to the Cavendria, and from there it’s like a wading pond all the way to the Sea of Brass.”

“Well, that’s good to hear,” said Locke. “Rest assured, I’ve got absolutely no interest in drowning.”

4

DINNER WAS excellent and productive. Four of Volantyne’s sailors watched from the corners of the cabin while Locke and Jean packed away soup, chicken, bread, cake, and sparkling apple wine. Just after opening the second bottle, however, Locke signaled Jean that he was about to have a clumsy moment.

Timing himself to the sway of the ship, Locke swept the new bottle off the table. It landed awkwardly and broke open, spilling cold frothing wine across his bare feet. Realizing that the bottle hadn’t shattered into the selection of knife-like shards he’d hoped for, he managed to drop his wineglass as well, with more satisfactory results.

“Ah, shit, that was good stuff,” he said loudly, slipping off his chair and crouching above the mess. He waved his hands over it, as though unsure of what to do, and in an instant a long, sturdy piece of glass was shifted from his palm to his tunic-sleeve. It was delicate work; a red stain beneath the cloth would surely draw attention.

“Don’t,” said one of the sailors, waving for one of his companions to go on deck. “Don’t touch anything. We’ll get it for you.”

Locke put his hands up and took several careful steps back.

“I’d call for more wine,” said Jean, hoisting his own glass teasingly, “but it’s possible you’ve had enough.”

“That was the motion of the ship,” said Locke.

The missing guard returned with a brush and a metal pan. He quickly swept up all the fragments.

“We’ll scrub the deck when we give the cabin a turn tomorrow, sir,” said one of the sailors.

“At least it smells nice,” said Locke.

The guards didn’t search him. Locke admired the deepening darkness through the cabin window and allowed himself the luxury of a faint smirk.

When the remains of dinner were cleared (every knife and fork and spoon accounted for) and the cabin was his and Jean’s again, Locke carefully drew out the shard of glass and set it on the table.

“Doesn’t look like much,” said Jean.

“It needs some binding,” said Locke. “And I know just where to get it.”

While Jean leaned against the cabin door, Locke used the glass shard to carefully worry the inside front cover of the copy of The Republic of Thieves. After a few minutes of slicing and peeling, he produced an irregular patch of the binding leather and a quantity of the cord that had gone into the spine of the volume. He nestled the glass fragment inside the leather and wrapped it tightly around the edges, creating something like a tiny handsaw. The leather-bound side could be safely nestled against the palm of a hand, and the cutting edge of the shard could be worked against whatever needed slicing.

“Now,” said Locke softly, holding his handiwork up to the lantern-light and examining it with a mixture of pride and trepidation, “shall we take a turn on deck and enjoy the weather?”

The weather had worsened agreeably to a hard-driving autumn rain. The Amathel was whipped up to waves of six or seven feet, and lightning flashed behind the ever-moving clouds.

Locke and Jean, both wearing oilcloaks, settled down against the inner side of the jolly boat lashed upside-down to the main deck. It was about fifteen feet long, of the sort usually hung at a ship’s stern. Locke supposed that the urgent need to put the iron bars around the windows of the great cabin had forced the crew to shift the boat. It was secured to the deck via lines and ring-bolts; nothing that a crew of sailors couldn’t deal with in just a few minutes, but if he and Jean tried to free the boat conventionally it would take far too long to escape notice. Cutting was the answer—weaken the critical lines, wait for a fortuitous roll of the ship, heave the jolly boat loose, and then somehow join it after it pitched over the side.

Jean sat placidly while Locke worked with the all-important glass shard—five minutes, ten minutes, twenty minutes. Locke’s oilcloak was a blessing, making it possible to conceal the activity, but the need to hold the arm and shoulder still put all the burden on wrist and forearm. Locke worked until he ached, then carefully passed the shard to Jean.

“You two seem strangely heedless of the weather,” shouted Volantyne, moving past with a lantern. He studied them, his eyes flicking here and there for anything out of place. Eventually he relaxed, and Locke’s heart resumed its usual duties.

“We’re still warm from dinner, Captain,” said Jean. “And we’ve lived through storms on the Sea of Brass. This is a fine diversion from the monotony of our cabin.”

“Monotony, perhaps, but also security. You may remain for now, so long as you continue to stay out of the way. We’ll have business with the sails soon enough. If we find ourselves much closer to shore, I shall require you to go below.”

“Having problems?” said Locke.

“Damned nuisance of a wind from the north and the northwest—seems to veer however’s least convenient. We’re five miles off the beach where we should be ten.”

“We are your most loyal and devoted articles of ballast, Captain,” said Locke. “Let us digest a bit longer and maybe we’ll scuttle back inside.”

As soon as Volantyne stepped away, Locke felt Jean get back to work.

“We don’t have much time,” muttered Jean. “And one or two uncut lines are as good as twenty; some things don’t break for any man’s strength.”

“I’ve done some real damage to my side,” said Locke. “All we can do is keep it up as long as possible.”

The minutes passed; sailors came and went on deck, checking for faults everywhere but directly behind the two men working desperately to cause one. The ship rolled steadily from side to side, lightning flared on every horizon, and Locke found himself growing more and more tense as the minutes passed. If this failed, he had no doubt that Volantyne’s threat to seal them up in one of the holds would be carried out immediately.

“Oh, hells,” muttered Jean. “Feel that?”

“Feel what? Oh, damn.” The ship had tilted to starboard, and the weight of the jolly boat was pressing more firmly against Locke’s back and shoulders. The lines holding it down were starting to give way sooner than he’d expected. “What the hell do we do now?”

“Hold on,” muttered Jean. The ship tilted to larboard, and there was the faintest scraping noise against the deck. Locke prayed that the tumult of the weather would drown it out for anyone not sitting directly against the boat.

Like a pendulum, the ship swung to starboard again, and this time the scraping noise rose to a screech. The press against Locke’s back became ominous, and something snapped loudly just behind him.

“Shit,” whispered Jean, “up and over!”

The two Gentlemen Bastards turned and scrambled over the back of the jolly boat at the moment its restraints completely gave way. Locke and Jean rolled off the boat with an embarrassing want of smoothness, landed hard, and the jolly boat took off across the deck, screeching and sliding toward the starboard rail.

“Ha-ha!” Locke yelled, unable to contain himself. “We’re off!”

The jolly boat slammed against the starboard rail and came to a dead stop.

“Balls,” said Locke, not quite as loudly. An instant later, the ship heeled to larboard, and Locke realized that he and Jean were directly in the only path the jolly boat could take when it slid back down the tilting deck. He gave Jean a hard shove to the left, and rolled clear the other way. A moment later the boat scraped and scudded across the deck between them, gathering momentum as it went. Locke turned, certain that it should go over the side this time—

With a creaking thump, the boat landed hard against the larboard rail. Although the rail bent, it didn’t give way completely, and the upside-down boat remained very much out of the water.

“Perelandro’s dangling cock!” Locke yelled, lurching to his feet.

“What the hells do you two think you’re doing?” Solus Volantyne came leaping adroitly across the main deck, lantern still in hand.

“Your boat’s come free! Help us!” yelled Jean. A moment later he seemed to think better of subterfuge, walloped Volantyne across the jaw with a right hook, and grabbed the lantern as the captain went down.

“Jean! Behind you!” Locke yelled, dodging the boat for a second time as the deck tilted yet again.

A crewman had come up behind Jean with a belaying pin in hand. Jean sidestepped the man’s first attack and cracked the lantern across the top of his head. Glass shattered, and glowing white alchemical slime sprayed across the poor fellow from forehead to waist. It was generally harmless stuff, but nothing you wanted in your eyes. Moaning and glowing like a ghost out of some fairy story, the man fell against the foremast.

In front of Locke, the jolly boat slid to starboard, hit the rail at speed, crashed through with a terrible splintering noise, and went over the side.

“Thank the gods,” Locke muttered as he ran to the gap in the rail just in time to see the boat plunge bow-first into the water, like an arrowhead, and get immediately swallowed beneath a crashing wave. “Oh, COME ON!”

“Jump,” hollered Jean, ducking a swing from a crewman who came at him with an oar. Jean slammed two punches into the unfortunate sailor’s ribs, and the man did a convincing imitation of a marionette with its strings cut. “Get the hell in the water!”

“The boat sank!” Locke cried, scanning the darkness in vain for a glimpse of it. Whistles were sounding from the quarterdeck and from within the ship. The whole crew would be roused against them presently. “I don’t see it!”

“Can’t hear you. Jump!” Jean dashed across the deck and gave Locke a well-meaning shove through the gap in the railing. There was no time to do anything but gasp in a surprised breath; Locke’s oilcloth fluttered around him as he fell like a wounded bat into the dark water of the Amathel.

The cold hit like a shock. He whirled within the churning blackness, fighting against his cloak and the weight of his ankle manacles. They weren’t dragging him straight down, but they would sharply increase the rate at which he would exhaust himself by kicking to keep his head up.

His face broke the surface; he choked in a breath of air and freshwater spray. The Volantyne’s Resolve loomed over him like a monstrous shadow, lit by the shuddering light of a dozen jumping, bobbing lanterns. A familiar dark shape detached itself from some sort of fight against the near rail, and fell toward the water.

“Jean,” Locke sputtered, “there’s no—”

The lost boat resurfaced like a broaching shark, spat up in a gushing white torrent. Jean landed on it facefirst with a ghastly thump and splashed heavily into the water beside it.

“Jean,” Locke screamed, grabbing hold of one of the jolly boat’s gunwales and desperately scanning the water for any sign of his friend. The bigger man had already sunk beneath the surface. A wave crashed over Locke’s head and tore at his hold on the boat. He spat water and searched desperately … there! A dim shape drifted six or seven feet beneath Locke’s toes, lit from below by an eerie blue-white light. Locke dove just as another breaking wave hammered the boat.

Locke grabbed Jean by the collar and felt cold dismay at the feeble response. For a moment it seemed that the two of them hung suspended in a gray netherworld between lurching wave tops and ghostly light, and Locke suddenly realized the source of the illumination around them. Not lightning or lanterns, but the unknown fires that burned at the very bottom of the Amathel.

Glimpsed underwater, they lost their comforting jewel-like character, and seemed to roil and pulse and blur. They stung Locke’s eyes, and his skin crawled with the unreasonable, instinctive sensation that something utterly hostile was nearby—nearby and drawing closer. He hooked his hands under Jean’s arms and kicked mightily, heaving the two of them back toward the surface and the storm.

He scraped his cheek against the jolly boat as he came up, sucked in a deep breath, and heaved at Jean again to get the larger man’s head above water. The cold was like a physical pressure, numbing Locke’s fingers and slowly turning his limbs to lead.

“Come back to me, Jean,” Locke spat. “I know your brains are jarred, but Crooked Warden, come back!” He yanked at Jean, holding on to the gunwale of the wave-tossed boat with his other hand, and for all his pains succeeded only in nearly capsizing it again. “Shit!”

Locke needed to get in first, but if he let Jean go Jean would probably sink again. He spotted the rowing lock, the u-shaped piece of cast iron set into the gunwale to hold an oar. It had been smashed by the boat’s slides across the deck, but it might serve a new purpose. Locke seized Jean’s oilcloak and twisted one end into a crude knot around the bent rowing lock, so that Jean hung from the boat by his neck and chest. Not a sensible way to leave him, but it would keep him from drifting away while Locke got aboard.

A fresh wave knocked the side of the boat against Locke’s head. Black spots danced before his eyes, but the pain goaded him to furious action. He plunged into the blackness beneath the boat, then clawed his way up to the gunwale on the opposite side. Another wave struck, and out of its froth Locke scrabbled and strained until he was over the edge. He bounced painfully off a rowing bench and flopped into the ankle-deep water sloshing around the bottom.

Locke reached over the side and grabbed Jean. His heaving was desperate, unbalanced, and useless. The little boat bobbled and shook with every effort, rising and falling on the waves like a piston in some nightmarish machine. At last Locke’s wits punched through the walls of his exhaustion and panic. He turned Jean sideways and hauled him in a foot and an arm at a time, using his oilcloak for added leverage. Once he was safely in, the bigger man coughed and mumbled and flopped around.

“Oh, I hate the Eldren, Jean,” Locke gasped as they lay in the bottom of the tossing boat, lashed by waves and rain. “I hate ’em. I hate whatever they did, I hate the shit they left behind, I hate the way none of their mysteries ever turn out to be pleasant and f*cking good-neighborly!”

“Pretty lights,” muttered Jean.

“Yeah, pretty lights,” Locke spat. “Friendly sailors, the Amathel has it all.”

Locke nudged Jean aside and sat up. They were bobbing around like a wine cork in a cauldron set to boil, but now that their weight was in the center of the little boat, it seemed better able to bear the tossing. They had drifted astern and inshore of the Volantyne’s Resolve, which was now more than fifty yards away. Confused shouts could be heard, but the ship didn’t seem to be putting about to come after them. Locke could only hope that Jean’s cold-cocking of Volantyne would prevent the rest of the crew from getting things together until it was too late.

“Holy hells,” said Jean, “how’d I geddhere?”

“Never mind that. You see any oars?”

“Uh, I thing I bead the crap out of the guy that had them.” Jean reached up and gingerly prodded his face. “Aw, gods, I thing I broge my node again!”

“You used it to break your fall when you hit the boat.”

“Is thad whad hid me?”

“Yeah, scared me shitless.”

“You saved me!”

“It’s my turn every couple of years,” said Locke with a thin smile.

“Thang you.”

“All I did was save my own ass four or five times down the line,” said Locke. “And cut you in on a hell of a landing. If the waves keep taking us south, we should hit the beach in just a few miles, but without any oars to keep ourselves under control, it might be a hard way to leave the water.”

The waves did their part, bearing their little boat south at a frightful clip, and when the beach finally came into sight their arrival went as hard as Locke had guessed. The Amathel flung them against the black volcanic sand like some monster vomiting up a plaything that had outlasted its interest.

5

THE COASTAL road west of Lashain was called the Darksands Stretch, and it was a lonely place to be traveling this windy autumn morning. A single coach, pulled by a team of eight horses, trundled along the centuries-old stones raising spurts of wet gravel in its wake rather than the clouds of dust more common in drier seasons.

The secure coach service from Salon Corbeau and points farther south was for rich travelers unable to bear the thought of setting foot aboard a ship. With iron-bound doors, shuttered windows, and interior locks, the carriage was a little fortress for passengers afraid of highwaymen.

The driver wore an armored doublet, as did the guard that sat beside him atop the carriage, cradling a crossbow that looked as though it could put a hole the size of a temple window into whatever it was loosed at.

“Hey there!” cried a thin man beside the road. He wore an oilcloak flung back from his shoulders, and there was a larger man on the ground beside him. “Help us, please!”

Ordinarily, the driver would have whipped his team forward and raced past anyone attempting to stop them, but everything seemed wrong for an ambush. The ground here was flat for hundreds of yards around, and if these men were decoys, they couldn’t have any allies within half a mile. And their aspect seemed genuinely bedraggled: no armor, no weapons, none of the cocksure bravado of the true marauder. The driver pulled on the reins.

“What do you think you’re doing?” said the crossbowman.

“Don’t get your cock tied in a knot,” said the driver. “You’re here to watch my back, aren’t you? Stranger! What goes?”

“Shipwreck,” cried the thin man. He was scruffy-looking, of middle height, with light brown hair pulled loosely back at the neck. “Last night. We got washed ashore.”

“What ship?”

“Volantyne’s Resolve, out of Karthain.”

“Is your friend hurt?”

“He’s out cold. Are you bound for Lashain?”

“Aye, twenty-six miles by road. Be there tomorrow. What would you have of us?”

“Carry us, on horses or on your tailboard. Our master’s syndicate has a shipping agent in Lashain. He can pay for your trouble.”

“Driver,” came a sharp, reedy voice from within the carriage, “it’s not my business to supply rescue to those witless enough to meet disaster on the Amathel, of all places. Pray for their good health if you must, but move on.”

“Sir,” said the driver, “the fellow on the ground looks in a bad way. His nose is as purple as grapes.”

“That’s not my concern.”

“There are certain rules,” said the driver, “to how we behave out here, sir, and I’m sorry to have to refuse your command, but we’ll be on our way again soon.”

“I won’t pay to feed them! And I won’t pay for the time we’re losing by sitting here!”

“Sorry again, sir. It’s got to be done.”

“You’re right,” said the crossbowman with a sigh. “These fellows ain’t no highwaymen.”

The driver and the guard climbed down from their seat and walked over to where Locke stood over Jean.

“If you could just help me haul him to his feet,” said Locke to the crossbowman, “we can try and bring him around.”

“Beg pardon, stranger,” said the crossbowman, “it’s plain foolishness to set a loaded piece down. Takes nothing to set one off by accident. One nudge from a false step—”

“Well, just point it away from us,” muttered the driver.

“Are you drunk? This one time in Tamalek I saw a fellow set a crossbow down for just a—”

“I’m sure you’re right,” said the driver testily. “Never, ever set that weapon down for as long as you live. You might accidentally hit some fellow in Tamalek.”

The guard sputtered, sighed, and carefully pointed the weapon at a patch of roadside sand. There was a loud, flat crack, and the quarrel was safely embedded in the ground up to its feathers.

Thus, it was accomplished. Jean miraculously returned to life, and with a few quick swings of his fists he eloquently convinced the two guards to lie down and be unconscious for a while.

“I am really, really sorry about this,” said Locke. “And you should know, that’s not how it normally goes with us.”

“Well, how now, tenderhearts?” shouted the man within the carriage. “Shows what you know, eh? If you had any gods-damned brains you’d be inside one of these things, not driving it!”

“They can’t hear you,” said Locke.

“Marauders! Sons of filth! Motherless bastards!” The man inside the box cackled. “It’s all one to me, though. You can’t break in here. Steal whatever you like from my gutless hirelings, sirrahs, but you’ll not have anything of mine!”

“Gods above,” said Locke. “Listen up, you heartless f*cking weasel. Your fortress has wheels on it. About a mile to the east there are cliffs above the Amathel. We’ll unhitch you there and give your box a good shove over the edge.”

“I don’t believe you!”

“Then you’d better practice flying.” Locke hopped up into the driver’s seat and took the reins. “Come on, let’s take shit-sauce here for the shortest trip of his life.”

Jean climbed up beside Locke. Locke urged the well-trained horses forward, and the coach began to roll.

“Now wait a minute,” their suddenly unwilling passenger bellowed. “Stop, stop, stop!”

Locke let him scream for about a hundred yards before he slowed the team back down.

“If you want to live,” said Locke, “go ahead and open the—”

The door banged open. The man who came out was about sixty, short and oval-bellied, with the eyes of a startled rabbit. His hat and dressing gown were crimson silk studded with gold buttons. Locke jumped down and glowered at him.

“Take that ludicrous thing off,” he growled.

The man quickly stripped to his undertunic. Locke gathered his finery, which reeked of sweat, and threw it into the carriage.

“Where’s the food and water?”

The man pointed to a storage compartment built into the outside rear of the carriage, just above the tailboard. Locke opened it, selected a few things for himself, then threw some of the neatly wrapped ration packages onto the dirt beside the road.

“Go wake your friends up and enjoy the walk,” said Locke as he climbed back up beside Jean. “Shouldn’t be more than a day or so until you reach the outer hamlets of Lashain. Or maybe someone will come along and take pity on you.”

“You bastards,” shouted the de-robed, de-carriaged man. “Thieving bastards! You’ll hang for this! I’ll see it done!”

“That’s a remote possibility,” said Locke. “But you know what’s a certainty? Next fire I need to start, I’m using your clothes to do it, a*shole.”

He gave a cheery wave, and then the armored coach service was gathering speed along the road, bound not for Lashain but Karthain, the long way around the Amathel.
INTERLUDE


AURIN AND AMADINE

1

“WHY IN ALL the hells do you take this abuse?” said Jean as he and Jenora sat together over coffee the second morning after the arrival of the Gentlemen Bastards in Espara. “Dealing with Moncraine, the debts, the bullshit—”

“Those of us left are the stakeholders,” said Jenora. “We own shares in the common property, and shares of the profits, when those miraculously appear. Some of us saved for years to make these investments. If we walk away from Moncraine, we forfeit everything.”

“Ah.”

“Look at Alondo. He had a wild night at cards and he used the take to buy his claim in the troupe. That was three years ago. We were doing Ten Honest Turncoats then, and A Thousand Swords for Therim Pel and The All-Murderers Ball. A dozen full productions a year, masques for Countess Antonia, festival plays, and we were touring out west, where the countryside’s not the gods-damned waste it is between here and Camorr. I mean, we had prospects; we weren’t out of our minds.”

“I never said you were.”

“It’s mostly hired players and the short-timers that evaporated on us. They don’t have any anchors except a weekly wage, and they can make that with Basanti. Hell, they’ll happily take less from him, because at least they’re sure to play.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know,” she said, staring into her mug as though it might conceal new answers. “I guess sometimes there’s just a darkness in someone. You hope it’ll go away.”

“Moncraine, you mean.”

“If you could have seen him back in those days, I think you’d understand. You know about the Forty Corpses?”

“Um … if I say no, do I become the forty-first?”

“If I killed people, glass-eyes, Moncraine wouldn’t have lived long enough to be arrested. The Forty Corpses is what we call the forty famous plays that survived the fall of the empire. The big ones by all the famous Throne Therins … Lucarno, Viscora, that bunch.”

“Oh,” said Jean.

“They’re called corpses because they haven’t changed for four or five centuries. I mean, we love them, most of them, but they do molder a bit. They get recited like temple ritual, dry and lifeless. Except, when Moncraine was on, when Moncraine was good, he made the corpses jump out of their graves. It was like he was a spark and the whole troupe would catch fire from it. And when you’ve seen that, when you’ve been a part of it … I tell you, Jovanno, you’d put up with nearly anything if only you could have it again.”

“I am returned,” boomed a voice from the inn-yard door, “from the exile to which my pride had sentenced me!”

“Oh, gods below, you people actually did it,” said Jenora, leaping out of her chair. A man entered the common room, a big dark Syresti in dirty clothing, and cried out when he saw her.

“Jenora, my dusky vision, I knew that I could—”

Whatever he’d known was lost as Jenora’s open palm slammed into his cheek. Jean blinked; her arm had been a pale brown arc. He made a mental note that she was quick when angered.

“Jasmer,” she hollered, “you stupid, stubborn, bottle-sucking, lard-witted f*ck! You nearly ruined us! It wasn’t your damn pride that put you in gaol, it was your fists!”

“Peace, Jenora,” muttered Moncraine. “Ow. I was sort of quoting a play.”

“Aiiiiiaahhhhhhhh!” screamed Mistress Gloriano, rushing in from a side hall. “I don’t believe it! The Camorri got you out! And it’s more than you deserve, you lousy wretch! You lousy Syresti drunkard!”

“All’s well, Auntie, I’ve already hit him for both of us,” said Jenora.

“Oh, hell’s hungry kittens,” muttered Sylvanus, wandering in behind Mistress Gloriano. His bloodshot eyes and sleep-swept hair gave him the look of a man who’d been caught in a windstorm. “I see the guards at the Weeping Tower can be bribed after all.”

“Good morning to you too, Andrassus,” said Moncraine. “It warms the deep crevices of my heart to hear so many possible explanations for my release except the thought that I might be innocent.”

“You’re as innocent as we convinced Boulidazi to pretend you are,” said Sabetha, entering from the street. She and Locke had left early that morning to hover around the Weeping Tower, ready to snatch Moncraine up as soon as he was released following his appearance in court.

“He did say some unexpected and handsome things,” said Moncraine.

“You going to call the meeting to order,” said Sabetha, “or should I?”

“I can break the news, gir—Verena. Thank you kindly.” Moncraine cleared his throat. “A moment of your time, gentlemen and ladies of the Moncraine Company. And you as well, Andrassus. And our, uh, benefactor and patient creditor, Mistress Gloriano. There are some … changes in the offing.”

“Sweet gods,” said Sylvanus, “you coal-skinned, life-ruining bastard, are you actually suggesting that gainful employment is about to get its hands around our throats again?”

“Sylvanus, I love you as I love my own Syresti blood,” said Moncraine, “but shut your dribbling booze-hole. And yes, Espara will have its production of the Moncraine Company’s The Republic of Thieves.”

Sabetha coughed.

“I am compelled, however, to accept certain arrangements,” continued Moncraine. “Lord Boulidazi’s agreed to reconsider my, er, refusal of his patronage offer. Once Salvard has the papers ready, we’re the Moncraine-Boulidazi Company.”

“A patron,” said Mistress Gloriano in disbelief. “Does this mean we might get paid back for our—”

“Yes,” said Locke, strolling in from the inn-yard with several purses in his hands. “And here’s yours.”

“Gandolo’s privates, boy!” She caught the jingling bag Locke threw at her. “I simply don’t believe it.”

“Your countinghouse will believe it for you,” said Locke. “That’s twelve royals to square you. Lord Boulidazi is buying out Master Moncraine’s debts to relieve him of the suffering brought on by their contemplation.”

“To wind a cord about my legs so he can fly me like a kite,” said Moncraine through gritted teeth.

“To keep you from getting knifed in a gods-damned alley!” said Sabetha.

“Not that this isn’t miraculous,” said Jenora, “but those of us with shares in the company have precedence over any arrangement Boulidazi might have proposed. Noble or not, we have papers he can’t just piss on.”

“I realize that,” said Locke. “We’re not here to pry your shares out from under you. Boulidazi is giving Moncraine the funds he needs as an advance against Moncraine’s future share of the company’s profits. Your interest is protected.”

“That’s as may be,” said Jenora, “but if this company is back on a paying basis, I want another set of eyes on the books. No offense, Jasmer, but strange things can happen to profits before they reach the stakeholders.”

“The one for figures is Jovanno,” said Locke. “He’s a genius with them.”

“Hey, thanks for volunteering me,” said Jean. “I was wondering when I could stop doing interesting things and go bury myself in account ledgers.”

“I meant it as a compliment! Besides, given a choice, would you rather trust me, or the Asinos—”

“Dammit,” Jean growled. “I’ll see to the books.”

“Master Moncraine,” said Locke, “this, by the way, is my cousin, Jovanno de Barra.”

“The third of the mysterious Camorri,” said Jasmer. “And where are four and five?”

“The Asino brothers are still asleep,” said Jean. “And when they wake I expect they’ll be hungover. They crossed bottles with that thing.” He gestured at Sylvanus. “It was all I could do to keep them alive.”

“Well then,” said Moncraine, “let us yet be merciful. I’m for a bath and fresh clothes. Someone hunt down Alondo, and we’ll have our proper meeting about the play after luncheon. How’s that sound?”

“Moncraine!” The street door burst inward, propelled by a kick from an unpleasant-looking man. His expensive clothes were stained with wine, sauces, and ominous dark patches that had nothing to do with food. Half a dozen men and women followed him into the room, clearly assorted species of leg-breakers. The Right People of Espara were on the scene.

“Oh, good morning, Shepherd. Can I offer you some refresh—”

“Moncraine,” said the man called Shepherd, “you sack of dried-up whores’ cunt leather! Did you stop at a countinghouse after your escape from the Weeping Tower?”

“I haven’t had time. But—”

“At some point, Moncraine, compound interest becomes less interesting to my boss than shoving you up a dead horse’s ass and sinking you in a f*cking swamp.”

“Excuse me,” said Locke, meekly.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize it was the Children’s Festival this week,” said Shepherd. “You looking for an ass-kicking or what?”

“Can I ask how much Master Moncraine owes your boss?”

“Eighteen royals, four fifths, thirty-six coppins, accurate to this very hour.”

“Thought so. There’s nineteen in this bag,” said Locke, holding out a leather purse. “From Moncraine, of course. He just likes to draw these things out, you know. For dramatic effect.”

“This a f*cking joke?”

“Nineteen royals,” said Locke. “No joke.”

Shepherd slipped the purse open, ran his fingers through the coins inside, and gave a startled grunt.

“Strange days are upon us.” He snapped the purse shut. “Signs and wonders. Jasmer Moncraine has paid a debt. I’d say my f*cking prayers tonight, I would.”

“Are we square?” said Moncraine.

“Square?” said Shepherd. “Yeah, this matter’s closed. But don’t come crawling back for more, Moncraine. Not for a few months, at least. Let the boss forget what a degenerate ass-chancre you are.”

“Sure,” said Moncraine. “Just as you say.”

“Of course, if you had any brains at all you’d never risk the chance of seeing me again.” Shepherd sketched a salute in the air, turned, and left along with his crew of thugs, most of whom looked disappointed.

“A word,” said Moncraine, leading Locke off to one side of the room. “While I’m pleased as a baby on a breast to have that weight lifted, I begin to wonder if I’m meant to be nothing but a mute witness to my own affairs from now on.”

“If you’d had your way you’d be starting your real prison sentence today,” said Locke. “You can’t blame us for wanting to keep you out of further trouble.”

“I’m not pleased to be treated like I can’t handle simple business. Give me the purses you have left, and I’ll dispense with my own debts.”

“The tailor, the bootmaker, the scrivener, and the actors that left for Basanti’s company? We can hunt them down ourselves, thank you.”

“They’re not your accounts to close, boy!”

“And this isn’t your money to hold,” said Locke.

“Jasmer,” said Sabetha, coming up behind them with Jean in tow, “I’d hate to think that you were trying to corner and intimidate one of us privately.”

“We were merely discussing how I might take responsibility for my own shortcomings,” said Moncraine.

“You can hold to the deal,” said Sabetha. “And remember who got you out of the Weeping Tower, and brought in our new patron. Your job is to give us a play. Where that’s concerned, we’re your subjects, but where your safety is concerned, you’re ours.”

“Well,” said Moncraine, “don’t I feel enfolded in the bosom of love itself.”

“Just try not to screw anything else up,” said Sabetha. “It won’t be that hard a life.”

“I’ll go have my bath, then,” said Moncraine. “Would the three of you care to watch, to make sure I don’t drown myself?”

“If you did that,” said Locke, “you’d never have the satisfaction of bossing us around on stage.”

“True enough.” Moncraine scratched at his dark gray stubble. “See you after luncheon, then. Oh, since these are matters relating to the play … Lucaza, get a dozen chairs from the common room and set them out in the inn-yard. Verena, dig through the common property to find all the copies of The Republic of Thieves we have. Jenora can lend you a hand.”

“Of course,” said Sabetha.

“Good. Now, if I’m wanted for any further business, I’ll be in my room with no clothes on.”

2

JUST BEFORE noon the sun passed behind a thick bank of clouds, and its brain-poaching heat was cut to a more bearable lazy warmth. The mud of the inn-yard, late resting place of the very pickled Sylvanus Olivios Andrassus, had dried to a soft crust beneath the feet of the excited and bewildered Moncraine-Boulidazi Company.

All five Gentlemen Bastards had seats, though Calo and Galdo, with dark patches under their eyes, pointedly refused to sit together and so bookended Locke, Jean, and Sabetha.

Alondo flipped idly through a torn and stained copy of The Republic of Thieves. Each volume in the little stack of scripts found by Sabetha was a different size, and no two had been copied in the same hand. Some were marked MONCRAINE COMPANY or SCRIBED FOR J. MONCRAINE, while others were the ex-property of other troupes. One even bore the legend BASANTI on its back cover.

Sylvanus, sober, or at least not actively imbibing, sat next to Jenora. Alondo’s cousin stood against a wall, arms folded.

This, then, was the complete roster of the company. Locke sighed.

“Hello again.” Moncraine appeared, looking almost respectable in a quilted gray doublet and black breeches. “Now, let us discover together which of history’s mighty entities are sitting with us, and which ones we shall have to beg, borrow, or steal. You!”

“Me, sir?” said Alondo’s cousin.

“Yes. Who in all the hells are you? Are you a Camorri?”

“Oh, gods above, no, sir. I’m Alondo’s cousin.”

“Got a name?”

“Djunkhar Kurlin. Everyone calls me Donker.”

“Bad f*cking luck. You an actor?”

“No, sir, a hostler.”

“What do you mean by spying on my company’s meeting like this?”

“I just want to get killed onstage, sir.”

“F*ck the stage. Come here and I’ll grant your wish right now.”

“He means,” said Jean, “that we promised him a bit part in exchange for helping us sell off some surplus horseflesh.”

“Oh,” said Moncraine. “An enthusiast. I’d be very pleased to help you die on stage. Stay on my good side and it can even be pretend.”

“Uh, thank you, sir.”

“Now,” said Moncraine. “We need ourselves an Aurin. Aurin is a young man of Therim Pel, basically good-hearted, unsure of himself. He’s also the only son and heir to the emperor. Looks like we’ve got a surplus of young men, so you can all fight it out over the next few days. And we’ll need an Amadine—”

“Hey,” said Calo. “Sorry to interrupt. I was just wondering, before we all get measured for codpieces or whatever, where the hell are we supposed to be giving this play? I hear this Basanti has a theater of his own. What do we have?”

“You’re one of the Asino brothers, right?” said Moncraine.

“Giacomo Asino.”

“Well, being from Camorr, Giacomo, you probably don’t know about the Old Pearl. It’s a public theater, built by some count—”

“Poldaris the Just,” muttered Sylvanus.

“Built by Poldaris the Just,” said Moncraine, “as his perpetual legacy to the people of Espara. Big stone amphitheater, about two hundred years old.”

“One hundred and eighty-eight,” said Sylvanus.

“Apologies, Sylvanus, unlike you I wasn’t there. So you see, Giacomo, we can use it, as long as we pay a little fee to the countess’ envoy of ceremonies.”

“If it’s such a fine place, why did Basanti build his own?”

“The Old Pearl is perfectly adequate,” said Moncraine. “Basanti built to flatter his self-regard, not fatten his pocketbook.”

“Because businessmen like to spend lots of money to replace perfectly adequate structures they can use for nearly nothing, right?”

“Look, boy,” said Moncraine, “it wouldn’t matter if Basanti’s new theater turned dog turds into platinum, while merely setting foot inside the Old Pearl gave people leprosy. The Old Pearl’s it. There’s no time or money for anything else.”

“Does it?” said Calo. “Give people leprosy, I mean?”

“Go lick the stage and find out. Now, let’s talk about Amadine. Amadine is a thief in a time of peace and abundance. Therim Pel has grown a crop of bandits in the ancient catacombs beneath the city. They mock the customs of the upright people, of the emperor and his nobles. Some of them even call their little world a republic. Amadine is their leader.”

“You should be our Amadine, Jasmer,” said Sylvanus. “Think of the pretty skirts Jenora could sew for you!”

“Verena’s our Amadine,” said Moncraine. “There’s a certain deficiency of breasts in the company, and while yours may be larger than hers, Sylvanus, I doubt as many people would pay to see them. No, since our former Amadine abandoned us … she’ll do.”

Sabetha gave a slight, satisfied nod.

“Now, everyone take a copy of the lines. Have them out for consultation. A troupe learns a play like we all learn to screw, stumbling and jostling until everything’s finally in the right place.”

Locke felt his cheeks warm a bit, though the sun was still hidden away behind the high wall of summer clouds.

“So, Aurin falls for Amadine, and they have lots of problems, and it’s all very romantic and tragic and the audience gives us ever so much money to see it,” said Moncraine. “But to get there we’ve got to sharpen things to a fine point … slash some dead weight from the text. I’ll give you full cuts later, but for now I think we can discard all the bits with Marolus the courtier. And we’ll cut Avunculo and Twitch, the comic relief thieves, for a certainty.”

“Aye, a certainty,” said Sylvanus, “and what a bold decision that is, given that our Marolus, Avunculo and Twitch all ran across town chasing Basanti’s coin when you took up lèse-majesté as a new hobby.”

“Thank you, Andrassus,” said Moncraine. “You’ll have many weeks to belittle my every choice; don’t spend yourself in one afternoon. Now you, Asino—”

“Castellano,” said Galdo, yawning.

“Castellano. Stand up. Wait, you can read, can’t you? You can all read, I assume?”

“Reading, is that where you draw pictures with chalk or where you bang a stick on a drum?” said Galdo. “I get confused.”

“The first thing that happens,” said Moncraine with a scowl, “the first character the audience meets, is the Chorus. Out comes the Chorus—give us his lines, Castellano.”

“Um,” said Galdo, staring down at his little book.

“What the f*ck’s the matter with you, boy?” shouted Moncraine. “Who says ‘um’ when they’ve got the script in their hands? If you say ‘um’ in front of five hundred people, I guarantee that some unwashed, wine-sucking cow down in the penny pit will throw something at you. They wait on any excuse.”

“Sorry,” said Galdo. He cleared his throat, and read:

“You see us wrong, who see with your eyes,

And hear nothing true, though straining your ears.

What thieves of wonder are these poor senses, whispering:

This stage is wood, these men are dust—

And dust their deeds, these centuries gone.”

“No,” said Jasmer.

“What do you mean, ‘no’?”

“You’re reciting, not orating. The Chorus is a character. The Chorus, in his own mind, is flesh and blood. He’s not reading lines out of a little book. He’s on a mission.”

“If you say so,” said Galdo.

“Sit down,” said Moncraine. “Other Asino, stand up. Can you do better than your brother?”

“Just ask the girls he’s been with,” said Calo.

“Give us a Chorus.”

Calo stood up, straightened his back, puffed out his chest, and began to read loudly, clearly, emphasizing words that Galdo had read flatly:

“You see us wrong, who see with your eyes,

And hear nothing true, though straining your ears.

What thieves of wonder are these poor senses, whispering—”

“Enough,” said Jasmer. “Better. You’re giving it rhythm, stressing the right words, orating with some little competence. But you’re still just reciting the words as though they were ritual in a book.”

“They are just words in a book,” said Calo.

“They are a man’s words!” said Moncraine. “They are a man’s words. Not some dull formula. Put flesh and blood behind them, else why should anyone pay to see on stage what they could read quietly for themselves?”

“Because they can’t f*ckin’ read?” said Galdo.

“Stand up again, Castellano. No, no, Giacomo, don’t sit down. I want you both for this. I’ll show you my point so that even Camorri dullards can take it to heart. Castellano, go over to your brother. Keep your script in hand. You are angry with your brother, Castellano! Angry at what a dunce he is. He doesn’t understand these lines. So now you will show him!” Moncraine steadily raised his voice. “Correct him! Perform them to him as though he is an IDIOT!”

“You see us wrong, who see with your eyes!” said Galdo. He gestured disdainfully at his own face with his free hand, and took two threatening steps closer to Calo. “And hear us not at all, though straining your ears!”

He reached out and snapped a finger against one of Calo’s ears. The long-haired twin recoiled, and Galdo moved aggressively toward him once again.

“What thieves of wonder are these poor senses,” said Galdo, all but hissing with disdain, “whispering: this stage is wood, these men are dust, and dust their deeds and thousand … dust their ducks … aw, shit, lost myself, sorry.”

“It’s all right,” said Moncraine. “You had something there, didn’t you?”

“That was fun,” said Galdo. “I think I see what you mean.”

“Words are dead until you give them a context,” said Moncraine. “Until you put a character behind them, and give him a reason to speak them in a certain fashion.”

“Can I do it back to him like he’s the stupid one?” said Calo.

“No. I’ve made my point,” said Moncraine. “You Camorri do have a certain poise and inventiveness. I just need to awaken you to its proper employment. Now, what’s our Chorus doing here?”

“He’s pleading,” said Jean.

“Pleading. Yes. Exactly. First thing, out comes the Chorus to plead to the crowd. The hot, sweaty, drunk, and skeptical crowd. Listen up, you unworthy f*cking mongrels! Look, there’s a play going on, right in front of you! Shut up and give it the attention it deserves!”

Moncraine changed his voice and poise in an instant. Without so much as a glance at the script, he spoke:

“What thieves of wonder are these poor senses, whispering:

This stage is wood, these men are dust—

And dust their deeds, these centuries gone.

For us it is not so.

See now, and conjure with present vigor,

A happy empire! Her foes sleep in ruins of cold ambitions,

And take for law the merest whim of all-conquering Salerius

Second of that name, and most imperial to bear it!

His youth spent in dreary march and stern discipline

Wherein he met the proudest neighbors of his empire—

With trampled fields for his court, red swords for ambassadors,

And granted, to each in turn, his attention most humbling.

Now all who would not bow are hewn at the feet

to better help them kneel.”

Moncraine cleared his throat. “There. I have had my plea. I have taken command, shut those slack jaws, turned those gimlet eyes to the stage. I am midwife to wonders. With their attention snared, I give them history. We are back in the time of the Therin Throne, of Salerius II. An emperor who went out and kicked some ass. Just as we shall, perhaps excepting Sylvanus.”

Sylvanus rose and tossed his copy of the script aside. Jenora managed to catch it before it hit the ground.

“Chorus, you call yourself,” he said. “You’ve the presence of a mouse fart in a high wind. Stand aside, and try not to catch fire if I shed sparks of genius.”

If Locke had been impressed by the change in Moncraine’s demeanor, he was astounded by the change in Sylvanus. The old man’s perpetually sour, unfocused, liquor-addled disposition vanished, and without warning he was speaking clearly, invitingly, charmingly:

“From war long waged comes peace well lived,

“And now, twenty years of blessed interval has set

A final laurel, light upon the brow of bold, deserving Salerius!

Yet heavy sits this peace upon his only son and heir.

Where once the lion roared, now dies the faintest echo of warlike times,

All eyes turn upon the cub, and all men wait

to behold the wrath and majesty

that must spring from such mighty paternity!

Alas, the father, in sparing not the foes of his youth

Has left the son no foe for his inheritance.

Citizens, friends, dutiful and imperial—

Now give us precious indulgence,

see past this fragile artifice!

Let willing hearts rule dullard eyes and ears,

And of this stage you shall make the empire;

From the dust of an undone age hear living words,

on the breath of living men!

Defy the limitations of our poor pretending,

And with us, jointly, devise and receive

the tale of Aurin, son and inheritor of old Salerius.

And if it be true that sorrow is wisdom’s seed

Learn now why never a wiser man was emperor made.”

“Well remembered, I’ll give you that,” said Moncraine. “But then, anything more than three lines is well remembered, where you’re concerned.”

“It’s as fresh now as the last time we did it,” said Sylvanus. “Fifteen years ago.”

“That’s you and I that would make a fair Chorus,” sighed Moncraine. “But we need a Salerius, and we need a magician to advise him and do all the threatening parts, or else the plot goes pear-shaped.”

“I’ll be the Chorus!” said Galdo. “I can do this. Wake everyone up at the beginning, then sit back and watch the rest of you in the play. That sounds like a damn good job.”

“The hell you’ll do it,” said Calo. “You and that shaved head, you look like a vulture’s cock. This job calls for some elegance.”

“You see us wrong,” said Galdo, “who are about to get your f*ckin’ ass kicked!”

“Shut up, idiots.” Moncraine glowered at the twins until they settled down. “It would be to our advantage to leave Sylvanus and myself free for other parts, so yes, one of you may have the Chorus. But you won’t scrap for it in the dirt; you’ll both learn the part and strive to better one another in it. I don’t have to make a final decision for some time.”

“And what does the loser get?” said Calo.

“The loser will understudy the winner, in case the winner should be carried off by wild hounds. And don’t worry; there’ll be other parts to fill.

“Now,” said Moncraine. “Let’s break ourselves up and put Alondo and our other Camorri through some paces, to see where their alleged strengths lie.”

3

THE SUN moved its way and the clouds moved theirs. Before another hour passed the inn-yard was once again in the full light and heat of day. Moncraine donned a broad-brimmed hat, but otherwise seemed heedless of the temperature. Sylvanus and Jenora clung to the inn walls, while Sabetha and the boys darted in and out of cover as they were required to play scenes.

“Our young prince Aurin lives in his father’s shadow,” said Moncraine.

“He’s probably glad to be out of the gods-damned sun, then!” panted Galdo.

“There’s no glory to be had because Salerius II already went out and had it,” continued Moncraine. “No wars to fight, no lands to claim, and it’s still an emperor or two to go before the Vadrans are going to start kicking things over up north. As if that wasn’t bad enough, Aurin has a best friend named Ferrin. Ferrin’s even hungrier for glory than Aurin is, and he won’t shut up about it. Let’s do … Act one, scene two. Alondo, you do Aurin, and let’s have Jovanno give us a Ferrin.”

Alondo leaned back lazily in a chair. Jean approached him, reading from his copy of the script:

“What’s this, lazy lion cub?

The sands of the morning are half run from the glass!

There’s nothing in your bed ’tis worth such fascination.

The sun rules the sky, your father his kingdom,

And you rule a chamber ten paces by ten!”

Alondo laughed, and answered:

“Why be an emperor’s son, if I must rise

as though to reap the fields?

What profit, then, in my paternity?

What man lives, who, more than I,

has rightful claim to leisure?”

“He that has given you leisure,” said Jean. “Having carved it like rare meat from the bones of his enemies.”

“Enough,” said Moncraine. “Less reciting, Jovanno. Less formula.”

“Uh, sure,” said Jean, obviously feeling out of his depth. “Whatever you say.”

“Alondo, take over Ferrin. Lucaza, let’s have you see what you can make of Aurin.”

Locke had to admit to himself that Jean was the least comfortable of the five of them with what was going on. Although he was always eager to play a role in any crooked scheme that required it of him, he tended to stay within narrower bounds than Locke or Sabetha or even the Sanzas. Jean was a consummate “straight man”—the angry bodyguard, the dutiful clerk, the respectable servant. He was a solid wall for victims of their games to bounce off of, but not the sort to jump back and forth rapidly between roles.

Locke set these thoughts aside, and tried to imagine himself as Aurin. He recalled his own lack of sweet humor each time he was yanked from sleep early, most frequently because of some Sanza mischief. The memory served him well, and he spoke:

“Would you instruct me in the love of my own father?

You push presumption to its limits, Ferrin.

Had I wished to wake to scorn and remonstration,

I would have married by now.”

Alondo assumed a more energetic persona, more confident and forceful in speech:

“Fairly spoken, O prince, O majesty! I cry mercy.

I did not come to rudely trample dozy dreams,

Nor correct you in honoring our lord, your father.

Your perfect love for him is reckoned of a measure

With your devotion to warm, soft beds

And therefore lies beyond all question.”

“Were you not the great friend of my youth,” said Locke, deciding a laugh would be a good thing to add,

“But the unresting spirit of some foe

Slain in Father’s wars,

You could scarce do me more vexation, Ferrin.

Thou art like a marriage,

Lacking only the pretty face and pleasant couplings—

You do so busy my mornings with rebukes

I half-forget which of us is royal.”

“Good,” said Moncraine. “Good enough. Friendly banter, hiding something. Ferrin sees his ticket to glory lazing around, accomplishing nothing. These two need each other, and they resent it while trying to hide it behind their good cheer.”

“Moncraine, for the love of all the gods, there’ll be no play to see and no parts to act if you explain everything at the first chance,” said Sylvanus.

“I don’t mind,” said Alondo.

“Nor I,” said Locke. “I think it’s helping. Me, at least.”

“Moncraine would teach you to how to play every part as Moncraine,” chuckled Sylvanus. “Don’t forget that.”

“Not an actor that lives wouldn’t make love to the sound of his own voice,” said Moncraine, “if only he could. You’re no exception, Andrassus. Now, let’s find some swords. Ferrin talks Aurin into practicing in the gardens, and that’s where the plot winds them in its coils.”

Hours passed in sweat and toil. Back and forth in the sun they pretended to fight, with notched wooden blades musty from storage. Locke and Jean and Alondo rotated roles, and Moncraine even swapped in the Sanzas for variety, until it became a sort of whirling pantomime brawl. Stab, parry, recover, deliver lines. Parry, dodge, deliver lines, parry, deliver lines …

Sylvanus procured a bottle of wine and ended his personal drought. He shouted encouragement at the duelists all afternoon, but didn’t move once from his chosen spot in the shade, near Sabetha and Jenora. As the sun drew down toward the west, Moncraine finally called a halt.

“There we are, boys, that’s enough for a mild beginning.”

“Mild?” wheezed Alondo. He’d kept his composure for a respectable length of time, but wilted with the rest of them as the muttering and swordplay had drawn on.

“Aye, mild. You’re out of condition, Alondo. You young pups have all the leaping about to do, and nearly all the speaking. If the audience sees you sucking air like a fish on the bottom of a boat—”

“They’ll throw things, right,” said Alondo. “I’ve been pelted with vegetables before.”

“Not in my company you haven’t,” growled Moncraine. “Right, all of you, sit down before you throw up.”

The admonition came too late for Calo, already wobbling from his hangover. He noisily lost whatever remained in his stomach in a far corner of the inn-yard.

“Music to my ears,” said Moncraine. “See, Andrassus? So long as I can inspire that sort of reaction in our bold young lads, I believe I may claim not to have lost my touch.”

“What do you suppose for us, then?” said Sylvanus.

“The audience might notice, were the emperor of the Therin Throne such a fine rich lovely shade of brown as myself, that his son ought not be a plain pink Therin,” said Moncraine. “And the part of the magician requires more moving about, so I’ll take it. That leaves you to sit the throne.”

“I shall be imperial,” sighed Sylvanus.

“Good,” said Moncraine. “Now, I need an ale before I’m baked like a pie.”

“Emperor, eh?” said Locke, sinking down against the wall next to Sylvanus. “Why so glum? Sounds like a good part.”

“It is,” said Sylvanus, “for the few lines he has. It’s not the father’s play, but the son’s.” The old man took a swig from his bottle and made no effort to pass it around. “I envy you little shits. I do, though no one could accuse you of any deep knowledge of the craft.”

“What’s to envy?” said Alondo. “We’re out there melting in the heat while you get to sit in the shade.”

“Heh,” said Sylvanus. “Spoken like a true lad of none and twenty years. At my age you don’t get to sit in the shade, boy. That’s where you’re sent to keep out of everyone else’s way.”

“You’re being morose,” said Alondo. “It’s the grapes speaking, as usual.”

“This is the first bottle I’ve touched since my head hit the ground last night,” said Sylvanus. “And for me, that’s as sober as a babe freshly unwombed. No, gentlemen, I know a thing which you do not. Read any script in our common property and you’ll find too many roles to which you’re suited—soldiers, princes, lovers, fools. You could never play them all if you lived to twice my age, which is a frightful number.

“At twenty, you may be anything. At thirty you may do as you please. At forty, only a few doors ease shut, but fifty, ah! Here’s a sting that Moncraine feels for sure. By fifty, you’re becoming a perfect stranger to all those parts that once suited you like the skin of your own cock.”

Locke had no idea what to say, so he simply watched as Sylvanus finished his bottle and tossed it into the leather-hard mud of the yard.

“I used to skim these plays for all the fine young roles my ambition could bear,” he said. “Now I look at the broken parts, the sick men, the forgotten men, and I wonder which of them will be mine. Did you not hear why I’m emperor? Because the emperor need not trouble his fat old ass to move. I am as much entombed as enthroned.”

Sylvanus heaved himself to his feet, joints creaking. “I don’t mean to oppress your spirits, boys. Come find me in an hour or two, and I shall be merry. Yes, I will have quite forgotten anything I’ve said here, I’m sure.”

After Sylvanus had gone inside, Locke rose, stretched, and followed. He had no notion of what, if anything, he should say. In one short afternoon he had grown used to the advantage of having all of his lines scribbled out for him on a piece of paper.

4

“RIGHT,” SAID Jasmer, three hours into their fifth day of practice under the unfriendly sun. “Jovanno, I’m sure you’re a fine fellow, but you’ve got no business saying lines in front of people. I think I can beat your friends into something resembling actors, but you’re as useless as gloves on a snake.”

“Uh,” said Jean, looking up from his script, “what’d I do wrong?”

“If you had any wit for the work you’d already know,” said Jasmer. “Go sit the f*ck down and count our money or something.”

“Hang on,” said Locke, who’d been playing Aurin to Jean’s Ferrin. “You’ve got no business talking to Jovanno like that.”

“This is the business of the play,” said Moncraine, “and in this realm I am all the gods on their heavenly thrones, speaking with one voice, telling him to shut up and go away.”

“Agreed, you can order him around,” said Locke. “But mind your manners.”

“Boy, I do not have f*cking time—”

“Yes you do,” said Locke. “You always have the time to be polite to Jovanno, and when you don’t, we will pack up and go back to Camorr! Do I make myself clear?”

“Hey,” said Jean, tugging at Locke’s tunic, “it’s fine.”

“No it isn’t,” said Sabetha, joining Locke and Jean in the center of the courtyard. “Lucaza’s right, Jasmer. We’ll slave for you as required, but we won’t eat shit for no reason.”

“Send me back to gaol,” muttered Moncraine. “F*ck me and send me back to gaol.”

“We shall accommodate neither request,” said Sabetha.

“I can use him,” said Jenora, appearing from the door to the inn. “Jovanno, that is. If he’s not going to be onstage he can help me manage the property and alchemy.”

“I, uh, guess I’ve got … no real choice?” said Jean.

“And speaking of the common property,” said Jenora, “I’ve got to tell you now, the mice and red moths have been at it. All the death-masks and robes are too scrubby to use, and most of the other costumes are only fit for cutting up as pieces.”

“Well, then, do so,” said Jasmer. “I’m busy out here turning dogshit into diamonds; it’s only fair you should get to do the same in your line of work.”

“I need funds,” said Jenora, “and we must have a sit-down, all the stakeholders, and decide where those funds are coming from, and how to address the shares of our friends that cut and ran—”

“Good gods,” said Moncraine.

“ … and on what terms! And I need to hire someone who can handle a needle and thread.”

Jean raised his hand.

“You can sew?” said Jenora. “What, mending torn tunics and so forth? I need—”

“I know hemming from pleating,” said Jean. “And darning from shirring, and I’ve got the thimble-calluses to prove it.”

“I’ll be damned.” Jenora grabbed Jean by the arm. “You can’t have this one back even if you decide you do need another actor.”

“I won’t,” said Moncraine sourly.

“Are we taking a break?” said Calo, sitting down hard.

“Sure, sit on your ass, sweetheart. Those of us still in condition will play for your amusement,” said Galdo. He kicked dirt across his brother’s breeches.

Calo didn’t even waste time on a dirty look. He lashed out with his legs, hooked Galdo below the knees, and toppled him. Galdo rolled over on his back, clutching at his left wrist, and howled in pain.

“Oh, hell,” said Calo, jumping back to his feet. “Is it bad? I didn’t mean to, honest—GNNNAKKKH!”

This last extremely unpleasant sound was forced out of him by a kick from Galdo that terminated in Calo’s groin.

“Nah, it feels fine,” said Galdo. “Just having a bit of acting practice.”

Locke, Jean, Alondo, Jenora, and Sabetha descended on the twins, separating them before Moncraine could get involved in the melee. What followed was a pandemonium of finger-pointing and hard words in which the intelligence, birth city, artistic capacity, work habits, skin color, dress sense, and personal honor of every participant were insulted at least once. Through it all the sun poured down relentless heat, and by the time relative order was restored Locke’s head was swimming. He didn’t notice that someone had come around the corner from the street until they cleared their throat loudly.

“How grand,” said the newcomer, a tall woman of about thirty. She wore a tight gray tunic and baggy trousers, and she was of mixed Therin and dark-skinned parentage, though she was lighter than Jasmer or the Gloriano women. Her black curls were cut just above her ears, and she had the sort of cool self-composure that Locke associated with Camorri garristas. “Jasmer, I’m impressed, but not really in the way I expected to be.”

“Chantal,” said Moncraine, conjuring his dignity with the speed of a quick-draw artist. “A fine afternoon to you as well, you opportunistic turncoat.”

“You were off to the Weeping Tower,” said the woman. “I do like to eat more than once a month. I’ve got nothing to apologize for.”

“What’s the matter, Basanti not handing out charity to any more of my strays?”

“Basanti’s got work for the taking. But I heard some interesting things. Heard you’d found a patron.”

“Yes, it turns out that not all the good taste has been bred out of Espara’s quality.”

“Also heard that those Camorri you promised weren’t a lie after all.”

“They’re all here,” said Moncraine. “Count ’em.”

“And you’re still serious about doing The Republic of Thieves?”

“Serious as a slit throat.”

“Is Jenora finally getting onstage?”

“Gods above, no!” said Jenora.

“Aha.” Chantal strolled toward Moncraine. “By my count, you’re short at least one woman, then.”

“What do you care if I am?”

“Look, Jasmer.” Chantal’s cat-and-mouse smile vanished. “Basanti’s doing The Wine of Womanly Reverence, and I don’t want to spend the summer giggling and flouncing as Fetching Maid Number Four. We’re in a position to help one another.”

“Hmmm,” said Moncraine. “Depends. Did you drag that husband of yours back over here as well?”

As though on cue, a brown-haired Therin man came around the corner behind Chantal. He wore an open white tunic, displaying a rugged physique decorated with dents and scars. Those and the fact that his right ear was half-missing led Locke to guess that he was either a veteran handball player or an aging swordsman who’d seen the writing on the wall.

“Of course you did,” said Moncraine. “Well, my new young friends, allow me to introduce you to Chantal Couza, formerly of the Moncraine Company, and her husband, Bertrand the Crowd.”

“The Crowd?” said Locke

“He hops costumes from scene to scene like nobody else,” said Alondo. “He’s half a dozen bit players in one.”

“Him I can use,” said Moncraine, “but what makes you think I’ve forgiven either of you?”

“Cut the crap, Jasmer,” said Chantal. “I want decent work. You want a happy audience.”

“Dare I ask if there will be any more reverse defections?”

“Not for a basket of rubies the size of your self-regard, Jasmer. They’re more worried about being taken in as accomplices to assault and sedition than they are about losing their places in your troupe.”

“Well, I say take Bert and Chantal back,” said Alondo.

“Likewise,” said Jenora. “We’ve got parts to fill, and we don’t have time to be choosy. Shall I pry Sylvanus out of bed and see what he thinks?”

“No,” said Moncraine. “He’d say yes just because he can’t take his eyes off her. Fine! You’re in luck, the pair of you, but it’s on wages. No percentage. You know the papers. You lost that when you walked.”

“We might have to argue that,” said Chantal. “Either way, it’s worth it to avoid Fetching Maid Number Four. Believe me, I’d much rather be Amadine, Queen of the Shadows.”

“I’m ever so sorry,” said Sabetha. If the words THAT WAS A LIE had suddenly sprung up behind her in letters of fire ten feet high, the effect could scarcely have added to her tone of voice. “That role is no longer available.”

“Are you kidding?” Chantal strode across the courtyard until she was looking down at Sabetha, who was a hand-span shorter than the older woman. “Who are you, then?”

“Amadine,” said Sabetha coolly. “Queen of the Shadows.”

“Bloody Camorri. You’re young enough to have come out from between my legs! But not pretty enough. You can’t be serious.”

“She certainly can,” said Locke. Heat and frustration mingled badly with his acute sensitivity at hearing a stranger say anything uncomplimentary about Sabetha.

“Jasmer, you’re mad,” said Chantal. “She’s no Amadine. Give her Penthra, by all means, but not Amadine! What is she, sixteen? Sixteen, boy-assed and average!”

“Average?” said Locke. “Average? How the hell do you get around the city with two glass eyes in your gods-damned head, woman? You gotta be stu—”

Before Locke could append the second syllable of that heartfelt but unwisely chosen word, Bertrand the Crowd, true to his appearance, had one rough hand on Locke’s tunic collar and was dragging him toward a rendezvous with his other fist, already drawn back. The world moved in horrifying slow motion; Locke, who was no stranger to a beating, was cursed with an uncanny ability to recognize one just before it ceased to be theoretical.

A miracle the size and shape of Jean Tannen appeared out of the corner of Locke’s vision. An instant before Bertrand could throw his punch, Jean hit him shoulder-to-stomach and slammed him into the dirt.

“Bert!” shouted Chantal.

“Heavens,” said Jenora.

Locke realized he was holding something, and he glanced down to discover that Jean had somehow tossed his precious optics into his hands while separating him from Bertrand.

Jean was a round-bellied, quietly dignified boy of about sixteen. Even his current crop of carefully hoarded stubble failed to lend his aspect any real menace. Bertrand had at least a decade on him, not to mention six inches and twenty pounds, and he looked like he could tear a side of beef in half on a whim. What happened next surprised even Locke.

Punch was traded for punch. Jean and Bertrand rolled around, a furious tangle of arms and legs, swiping and swatting and straining. The advantage shifted every few seconds. Jean got his hands around Bertrand’s throat, only to find the older man hammering at his ribs. Bertrand pinned Jean beneath him, yet the boy somehow kicked his legs aside and pulled him back to the ground.

“Gods above,” said Chantal, “Stop! Stop it, already! We can talk about this!”

Jean attempted to hold an arm across Bertrand’s neck, and Bertrand responded with something fast and clever that flung Jean forward over his shoulder. When he tried to press his advantage, however, Jean did something equally fast and clever that threw Bert into a wall. The two combatants wrestled again, desperately forming and breaking grips on one another, until at last Jean slipped free and rolled clear. This was a mistake; the older man used the space between them to swing a wild haymaker that clipped Jean across the chin and finally dropped him.

A moment later, Bertrand wobbled and fell on his face, just as used up as his younger antagonist.

“Chantal,” said Moncraine, “I would have been happy to tell you that the role of Amadine was beyond negotiation, for several reasons. And hot staggering shit, you cannot expect me to believe that boy can do all that and work a thimble, too!”

Jenora and the Gentlemen Bastards gathered around Jean, while Alondo, Chantal, and Moncraine saw to Bert. Both the fighters regained their senses soon enough, and were eased up into sitting positions against the inn wall.

“Optics,” coughed Jean. When Locke handed them over, he settled them carefully on his nose and sighed with relief.

“Smoke,” muttered Bertrand. Chantal handed him a sheaf of rolled tobacco and flicked a bit of twist-match to light it. Once she’d done this, Bert tore the cigar in two, lit the cold half from the red embers of the other, and passed it over to Jean. The boy nodded his thanks, and the two combatants smoked in peace for a few moments while everyone else watched, dumbfounded.

“You play handball, kid?” said Bertrand. His voice was deep, his Verrari accent thick.

“Certainly,” said Jean.

“Come play with my side on Penance Day afternoons. We play for ale money, two coppins a man to buy in.”

“Love to,” said Jean. “Just don’t take any more swings at my friends.”

“Sure, kid,” said Bertrand. He waved a finger at Locke. “And you don’t talk about my wife like that.”

“Then tell your wife not to insult Verena,” said Locke.

“Hey there, skinny, we both speak Therin.” Chantal poked Locke sharply in the chest. “You got something to tell me, tell me yourself.”

“Fine,” said Locke, matching gazes with Chantal. “Don’t insult Verena—”

“Excuse me,” said Sabetha, pushing Locke aside without humor or delicacy. “Did I turn invisible or something? I’m not hiding behind him, Chantal.”

Locke winced at the unkind emphasis on him.

“You want to fight your own fights, bitchling?” said Chantal. “Good. Any time you want a real education, you try and throw a—”

“ENOUGH,” hollered Moncraine in a shake-the-rafters voice, pushing the two women apart. “Gods damn you all for shit-witted wastrels! Bring yourselves to order or I’ll go punch another nobleman, I swear it on my balls and bones!”

“Chantal, sweetness,” said Bertrand, blowing smoke, “when Jasmer’s the voice of reason you might have to admit it’s time to calm down.”

“Verena’s Amadine,” said Jasmer. “That’s the way it is! You can have Penthra or you can have Fetching Maid Number Four and shake your tits all summer for Basanti.”

Chantal glowered, then offered a hand to Sabetha. “Peace, then. I just hope that when you’re onstage the sun shines out of your backside, girl.”

Sabetha shook with Chantal. “When I’m finished, you won’t be able to imagine anyone else as Amadine ever again.”

Bertrand whistled and grinned. “Ha! That’s good. Give my wife a couple of days to grow on you, Verena. She’ll make you like her.”

“I’ve had a lot of opportunities in my life to learn tolerance,” said Sabetha with a thin smile.

“Now, if you’re Amadine,” said Bertrand, “who’s Aurin? Who gets to do all that kissing and mooning and staring, eh?”

Locke’s heart seemed to skip a beat.

“That’s what we were in the business of figuring out when you showed up,” said Moncraine. He rubbed his forehead and sighed. “I suppose I might as well make my decision. I’ll hedge our bets. Lucaza, you’ll be Ferrin.”

“I would love to … wait, what?” said Locke.

“You heard me. Aurin’s a role that needs more nuance. I want Alondo to handle it.”

“But—”

“That’s all,” said Jasmer. “That’s it for today. No further discussion. And gods help me, I can quote the company charter as well as Jenora can. Next one of you that lays a finger on anyone else here gets docked. Wages, shares, work time—I don’t give a damn. I’ll spank you like an angry father. Now go!”

5

“PENTHRA,” MUTTERED Jean, reading aloud from the script in his hands, “a fallen noblewoman of Therim Pel. Amadine’s boon companion.”

“I’ve read the bloody character list, Jean.” Locke and Jean sat in the corner of Mistress Gloriano’s common room farthest from the bar, where Bertrand, Jasmer, Alondo, Chantal, and Sylvanus were drinking up a significant portion of the company’s future profits. Dinner was just past. “Wait, are you trying to ignore me?”

“Yes.” Jean closed his copy of the play with a sigh. “My ribs ache, I got thrown out of the play, I’m now a bookkeeping stevedore, and you’re plumbing new depths of tedium with your moping.”

“But I—”

“Seriously, if you want to kiss her onstage so badly just speak to Jasmer.”

“He doesn’t want to talk about it.” Locke sipped his cup of warm dark ale, barely tasting it. “Says it’s an artistic decision and therefore not subject to debate.”

“Then talk to Alondo.”

“He acts for a living. Why would he give up the plum role?”

“I don’t know, because you tricked him? Because you convinced him? Rumor has it you took some lessons in being tricky and convincing.”

“Yeah, but … he’s a decent enough fellow. It’s not like yanking Jasmer around. Feels wrong.”

“Then listen here, my friend. I’m not an oracle and I’m not going to turn into one no matter how long you sit there crying in your beer. You know I used to think that the Sanzas were the biggest annoyance around? I was wrong. Until you and Sabetha get your shit together, they’re the least of all possible evils.”

“She’s just so gods-damned inscrutable.”

“You were talking to her before, right?”

“Yeah. It was going well. Now it’s all strange.”

“Have you considered extreme, desperate measures like talking to her again?”

“Yeah, but, well …”

“You’ve yeah-but your way to this point,” said Jean. “You’re going to yeah-but this mess until it’s time to go home, and I don’t doubt you’ll yeah-but her out of your life. Quit circling at a distance. Go talk to her, for Preva’s sake.”

“Where is she?”

“She sneaks up to the roof when the rest of us are down here making idiots of ourselves.”

“She won’t … I dunno, it’s not that it’s—”

“Reach between your legs,” growled Jean, “and find some balls, or you do not get to speak to me on the subject of her for the rest of the summer.”

“I’m sorry,” said Locke. “I just hate the thought of screwing things up worse than they are. You know I’ve got talents in that direction.”

“Ha. Indeed. Try being direct and honest. I can’t give you any more specific advice. When the hell have I ever charmed my way under anyone’s dress, hmm? All I know is that if you and Sabetha don’t reach some understanding we’re all going to regret it. But you most of all.”

“You’re right.” Locke took a deep, steadying breath. “You’re right!”

“Pretty routinely,” sighed Jean. “Are you going?”

“Absolutely.”

“Not with that beer, you’re not. Give it over.”

Locke did so with an absentminded air, and Jean drained the cup in one gulp.

“Okay,” he said. “Go! Before your so-called better judgment has a chance to wake back up. Wait, that’s not the way up. Where the hell are you going?”

“Just back to the bar,” said Locke. “I have a bright idea.”

6

LANGUID, THICK-AIRED evening had come down on Espara, and the city lights were flicking to life beneath a sky the color of harvest grapes. Mistress Gloriano’s crooked gables concealed a little balcony, westward-facing, where two people could sit side by side, assuming they were on good terms. Locke eased the balcony hatch open carefully, peered out, and found Sabetha staring directly at him with eyebrows raised. She lowered her copy of The Republic of Thieves.

“Hi,” said Locke, much less confidently than he’d imagined he would as he’d climbed the little passage from the second floor. “Can I, ah, share your balcony for a little while?”

“I was going over my part.”

“You expect me to believe you don’t already have the whole thing memorized?”

It was as though she couldn’t decide whether to be pleased or exasperated. Locke knew the expression well. After a moment, she set her book down and beckoned him out. He sat down cross-legged, as she was, and they faced one another.

“What’s behind your back?” she said.

“A small kindness.” He showed her the wineskin and two small clay cups he’d been concealing. “Or a bribe. Depending on how you look at it.”

“I’m not thirsty.”

“If I’d been worried about thirst, I’d have brought you water. I was worried about knives.”

“Knives?”

“Yeah, the ones you’ve had out for a few days now. I was hoping to sort of dull the edges.”

“Isn’t that rather knavish? Plying a girl with drink?”

“In this case it’s more like self-defense. And I did sort of think you might just … like a cup of wine.”

“And then perhaps a second? And a third, and so on, until my inhibitions were sufficiently elastic?”

“I didn’t deserve that.”

“Yes, well … perhaps not.”

“Gods, I forgot that anyone who wants to be nice to you has to get permission in advance and wear heavy armor.” Biting his lip, Locke poured the pale wine carelessly, and slid one of the cups toward her. “Look, you can pretend it just appeared there by magic if it makes you happy.”

“Is that Anjani orange wine?”

“If it’s Anjani my ass is made of gold,” said Locke, sipping from his cup. “But it was some kind of orange, once upon a time.”

“And what miracle are you trying to coax out of me, exactly?”

“Simple conversation? What’s happened, Sabetha? We were talking, actually talking. It was … it was really nice. And we worked well together! But now you snap for no reason. You find excuses to cut me dead. You keep throwing up these walls, and even when I climb them, I find you’ve dug moats on the other side—”

“You’re crediting me with an extraordinary degree of industry,” she said, and Locke was delighted to see the tiniest hint of a smirk on her lips, though it vanished between breaths. “Maybe I’m preoccupied with the play.”

“Oh look,” said Locke. “Now the moat is full of spikes. Also, I don’t believe you.”

“That’s your problem.”

“What do you have to gain by not talking to me?”

“Maybe I just don’t want to—”

“But you did,” said Locke. “You did, and we were getting somewhere. Do you really want to spend the rest of our stay here doing this stupid dance back and forth? I don’t.”

“It’s not so much a dance, though, is it?” she said, softly.

“No,” said Locke. “You’re the one that keeps stepping back. Why?”

“It’s not easy to explain.”

“If it was, an idiot like me would have figured the answer out already. Can I sit beside you?”

“That’s putting the cart before the horse.”

“The horse is tired and needs a break. Come on, it’ll make it easier to hit me if you don’t like what I have to say.”

After a pause that seemed to last about ten years, she turned to look out over the city and patted the stone beside her. Locke slid over, eagerly but carefully, until his left shoulder was touching her right. The warm wind stirred around them, and Locke caught the faint scents of musk and sage oil from her hair. A thousand fluttering things burst to life in his stomach and immediately found reasons to run all over the place.

“You’re trembling,” she said, actually turning to look at him.

“You’re not exactly a statue yourself.”

“Are you going to try to make me not regret this, or are you just going to sit there staring?”

“I like staring at you,” said Locke, shocked and pleased at his own refusal to turn from her gaze.

“Well, I like heaving boys off rooftops. It’s not a habit I get to indulge often enough.”

“That wouldn’t get rid of me. I know how to land softly.”

“Gods damn it, Locke, if you’ve got something you want to say—”

“I do,” he said, steadying himself as though for the incoming swing of a wooden training baton. “I, uh, I’m tired of talking behind my hands and dropping hints and trying to trick some sort of reaction out of you. These are my cards on the table. I think you’re beautiful. I feel like I’m an idiot with dirt on his face sitting next to someone out of a painting. I think … I think I’m just plain stupid for you. I know that’s not exactly sweet talk out of a play. Frankly, I’d kiss your shadow. I’d kiss dirt that had your heel print in it. I like feeling this way. I don’t give a damn what you or anyone else thinks … this is how it feels every time I look at you.

“And I admire you,” he said, praying that he could blurt everything out before she interrupted him. This desperate eloquence was like an out-of-control carriage, and if it smashed to a halt it might not move again. “I admire everything about you. Even your temper, and your moods, and the way you take gods-damned offense when I breathe wrong around you. I’d rather be confused about you than stone-f*cking-certain about anyone else, got it? I admire the way you’re good at everything you do, even when it makes me feel small enough to drown myself in this wine cup.”

“Locke—”

“I’m not done.” He held up the cup he’d used to illustrate his previous point and gulped its contents straightaway. “The last thing. The most important thing … it’s this. I’m sorry.”

She was staring at him with an expression that made him feel like his legs were no longer touching the balcony stones beneath them.

“Sabetha, I’m sorry. You told me that you wanted something important from me, and that it wasn’t a defense or a justification … so it has to be this. If I’ve pushed you aside, if I’ve taken you for granted, if I’ve been a bad friend and screwed up anything that you felt was rightfully yours, I apologize. I have no excuses, and I wish I could tell you how ashamed I am that you had to point that out to me.”

“Gods damn you, Locke,” she whispered. The corners of her eyes glistened.

“Twice now? Look, uh, if I said the wrong thing—”

“No,” she said, wiping at her eyes, trying but failing to do so nonchalantly. “No, the trouble is you said the right thing.”

“Oh,” he said. His heart seemed to wobble back and forth in his chest like an improperly balanced alchemist’s scale. “You know, even for a girl, that’s confusing.”

“Don’t you get it? It’s easy to deal with you when you’re being an idiot. It’s easy to push you aside when you’re blind to anything outside your own skull. But when you actually pay attention, and you actually make yourself … act like an adult, I can’t, I just can’t seem to make myself want to keep doing it.” She grabbed her wine cup at last, gulped most of it, and laughed, almost harshly. “I’m scared, Locke.”

“No you’re not,” he said vehemently. “Nothing scares you. You may be a lot of other things, but you’re never scared.”

“Our world is this big.” She held the thumb and forefinger of her left hand up barely an inch apart. “Just like Chains says. We live in a hole, for the gods’ sake. We sleep fifteen feet apart. We’ve known each other more than half our lives. What have we ever seen of other men or women? I don’t want … I don’t want something like this to happen because it can’t be helped. I don’t want to be loved because it’s inevitable.”

“Not everything that’s inevitable is bad.”

“I should want someone taller,” she said. “I should want someone better-looking, and less stubborn, and more … I don’t know. But I don’t. You are awkward and frustrating and peculiar, and I like it. I like the way you look at me. I like the way you sit and stare and ponder and worry yourself over everything. Nobody else stumbles around quite the way you do, Locke. Nobody else can … keep juggling flaming torches while the stage burns down around them like you do. I adore it. And that … that frightens me.”

“Why should it?” Locke reached out, and his heart threatened to start breaking ribs when she slipped his hand into hers. “Why aren’t you entitled to your feelings? Why can’t you like whoever you want to like? Why can’t you love—”

“I wish I knew.” Suddenly they were on their knees facing one another, hands clasped, and Sabetha’s face was a map of mingled sorrow and relief. “I wish I was like you.”

“No you don’t,” he said. “You’re beautiful. And you’re better at just about everything than I am.”

“I know that, stupid,” she said with a widening smile. “But what you know is how to tell the whole world to f*ck off. You would piss in Aza Guilla’s eye even if it got you a million years in hell, and after a million years you’d do it again. That’s why Calo and Galdo and Jean love you. That’s why … that’s why I … well, that’s what I wish I knew how to do.”

“Sabetha,” said Locke. “Not everything that’s inevitable is regrettable. It’s inevitable that we breathe air, you know? I like shark meat better than squid. You like citrus wine better than red. Isn’t that inevitable? Why the hell does it matter? We like what we like, we want what we want, and nobody needs to give us permission to feel that way!”

“See how easy it is for you to say that?”

“Sabetha, let me tell you something. You called it silly, but I do remember the first glimpses I ever had of you, when we both lived in Shades’ Hill. I remember how you lost your hat, and I remember how your red was coming out at the roots. It struck me witless, understand? I didn’t even know why, but I was delighted.”

“What?”

“I have been fixated on you for as long as I’ve had memories. I’ve never chased another girl, I’ve never even gone with the Sanzas … you know, to see the Guilded Lilies. I dream about you, and only you, and I’ve always dreamt about you as you really are … you know, red. Not the disguise—”

“What?”

“Did I say something wrong?”

“You’ve seen the real color of my hair once.” She pulled her hands out of his. “Once, when you were the next thing to a gods-damned baby, and you can’t get over it, and that’s supposed to flatter me?”

“Hold on, please—”

“ ‘As I really am?’ I’ve kept my hair dyed brown for ten years! THAT’S how I really am! Gods, I am so stupid .… You’re not fixated on me … you want to f*ck a red-haired girl, just like every leering pervert this side of Jerem!”

“Absolutely not! I mean—”

“You know why I’ve been dodging slavers all my life? You know why Chains trusted me with a poisoned dagger when Calo and Galdo were barely allowed to carry orphan’s twists? You ever hear the things they say about Therin redheads that haven’t had their petals plucked?”

“Wait, wait, wait, honest, I didn’t—”

“I am so, so stupid!” She shoved him backward, and he crushed his empty wine cup, painfully, by sitting on it.

“I should have known. I just should have known. You admire me? You respect me? Like hell. I can’t believe I was going to … I just— Get out. Get the hell out of here.”

“Wait, please.” Locke tried to wipe away the haze suddenly stinging his eyes. “I didn’t mean—”

“Your meaning was quite plain. Go away!”

She threw her own empty cup at him, missing, but speeding his stumbling escape into the little passage down to the second floor. As he tried to roll awkwardly back to his feet, a pair of strong hands grabbed him from behind and hauled him up.

“Jean,” he muttered. “Thanks, but I—”

The same hands grabbed him, spun him around, and pressed him hard against the passage wall. Locke found himself eye to eye with the new patron of the Moncraine-Boulidazi company.

“Lord Boulidazi,” Locke sputtered. “Gennaro!”

The well-built Esparan held Locke in place with one iron forearm, and reached beneath his plain, dusty clothing with the other hand. He pulled out ten inches of steel, gleaming in the light from the open balcony door, the sort of knife crafted for arguments rather than display cases. In an instant the tip was against Locke’s left cheek.

“Cousin,” spat Boulidazi. “I thought I’d dress down and come see how my investment was faring. The idiots in the taproom said you might be up here. That’s a fascinating conversation you’ve been having, Cousin, but it leaves me feeling like there’s a few things you haven’t exactly been telling me.”

The knife-tip pressed deeper into Locke’s skin, and he groaned.

“Like everything,” said Boulidazi. “Why don’t we start with everything?”