The Republic of Thieves #2

10

THEIR SECOND night of upper-story work went as smoothly as the first. They swept the block surrounding Josten’s Comprehensive just after midnight, creeping silently through rooftop gardens and over well-tended slate roofs, using chimneys and parapets for cover.

Not everyone they crossed paths with was in Sabetha’s pay. A drunk woman, huddled in the corner of her terrace, was sobbing over a small painting and didn’t notice them slip past. Two lithe young men wrapped in one another’s arms a few gardens over were similarly absorbed. Locke crept past their cast-off clothes, close enough to sift them for purses, but pangs of sympathy stilled the impulse. Doing mischief to happy lovers might invite a cruel justice to trample his own hopes.

Their first legitimate target was taken unawares, and his possessions made his job plain. He wore a mottled gray-brown cloak ideal for blending into city shadows, carried a spyglass, and the remains of a cold meal were spread beside his hiding place. In an instant, Jean flung him down on his stomach and crouched atop him, wrenching the poor fellow’s arms behind his back. Locke knelt at the man’s head, bemused at how familiar he and Jean were becoming with the old Threatening Voice / Silent Brawn act.

“You try to cry out,” whispered Locke, “and we’ll rip your arms off. Shove one down your throat and one up your ass so you’ll look like meat on a spit. How many of you are watching Josten’s?”

“I don’t know,” hissed the man.

Locke gave him a shove on the back of the head, bouncing his face off the roof tiles. Hard, but not too hard.

“It’s not worth it,” said Locke. “Your employer doesn’t expect life-or-death loyalty, surely. But we will hurt you to send a message.”

“There’s one more,” spat their captive. “One that I know of. Maybe more. Look out past this parapet. Four rows down, roof of the apothecary shop. He’s there somewhere. I swear that’s all I can tell you.”

“Good enough,” said Locke. He pulled his dagger and slashed the man’s cloak into strips. When Sabetha’s agent was gagged and thoroughly trussed, Locke gave him a pat on the back. “Now, don’t fret. Once we’ve finished clearing out all your friends, we’ll tip one of them off and you’ll be collected. Shouldn’t be more than a few hours. Don’t do anything stupid.”

The second agent was crouched atop the apothecary shop as indicated, but he was a touch more alert and met them with a drawn cosh. What followed was a proper scrum, with Locke clinging to the man’s legs while Jean attempted to wrestle and disarm him, hampered by the need to avoid killing him. Such was the fellow’s fighting spirit that they ultimately had to pummel him unconscious before they could have a word.

As they neared the end of their circuit around the neighborhood, perhaps ten minutes later, they found a third and likely final observer, fortunately no more on guard than the first.

“All your friends are dealt with,” said Jean cheerfully as he dangled the man over the back-alley side of the building by his jacket collar. “Trussed up like festival chickens.”

“Great gods, mate, it’s nothing personal,” sobbed the man as he stared into the shadows four stories below. “We’re just doing our bloody job!”

“Find another job,” said Locke. “This is us being very, very cordial. Next time we catch spies lurking in this neighborhood, we cripple them. This isn’t Karthain right now, it’s the sovereign state of F*ck Off and Go Home.”

“But—”

“Take a good look at that alley,” said Locke. “Imagine what those cold, hard stones will feel like when we throw you off this roof. You come round here again, you’d best have wings. Now, your comrades are tied up in their usual spots. Fetch them and run hard.”

“Couldn’t we discuss—”

“Get the dogshit out of your ears, you witless corpse-fart,” growled Jean. “Do you want to do as you’re told, or do you want to kiss that pavement?”

It turned out he wanted to do as he was told.