The Republic of Thieves #2

6

“IT’S NOT that I mind reusing so much of your old mess,” said Jean the next morning, driving an iron needle through a pad of salvaged canvas. “I’m just curious as to why you’re so averse to pinching a little more money out of our esteemed patron for new stuff.”

“Because he’d give back two pinches for our one,” said Jenora, who was picking through a pile of seedy costume lace. The two were comfortably seated in the shade behind the Pearl’s stage, surrounded by their usual jumble of clothes and props. By a process of steady cannibalism, they were turning the dusty remains of all the troupe’s previous productions into suitable and perhaps even ambitious trimmings for this one. At present they were making phantasma.

It was traditional in Therin theater for the players of dead characters to dress up as phantasma, in pale death-masks and robes, to silently haunt the rest of the production as ghostly onlookers.

“There’s two sorts of patron,” she continued. “Some rain money like festival sweets and don’t mind if they lose on the deal, so long as the production goes well. They do it to impress someone, or because they can piss coins as they please. Others take what you might call a more interested position. They expect full and strict repayment.

“Now, our lord and master ain’t the one who’s keeping track, but some creature of his damn well is, down to the last bent copper. I’ve seen the papers. We can have all we like to make the production grand, sure, but if we spend past what we’re apt to take in from the crowds, there won’t be profits enough to cover us plain-blood sorts after Boulidazi gets his.”

“But you said you had some sort of precedence as original stakeholders—”

“Oh, we’re guaranteed a cut of profits; it’s just that profits have a way of magically turning into something else before that cut gets made. Boulidazi gets security on his expenses under Esparan law. The rest of us divide the leavings. So you see, if we tap our noble patron for too many pretty expensive things, we only piss our own portion away.”

“Savvy,” said Jean. Camorr lacked that particular privilege for business-minded nobles; no doubt the wealth of its lenders and money-changers gave them teeth that Espara’s commoners had yet to grow. “I can see why you’re so keen to economize.”

“A bit of pain to the wrists and elbows might save us the pain of a sharp stick in the purse when this is all—”

Uncharacteristic noises from the stage snapped Jean and Jenora out of their habitual prop-making reverie. Jasmer Moncraine had stomped across the stage with Boulidazi close behind, interrupting whatever scene was being rehearsed. Jean had seen them all so many times by now he’d learned to ignore them, but there was no ignoring this.

“You’ve no right to interfere with my artistic decisions,” yelled Moncraine.

“None of your decisions are privileged by our arrangement, artistic or otherwise,” said Boulidazi.

“It’s the damned principle of the matter—”

“Principle gets you kind words at your temple of choice, not power over me.”

“Gods damn your serpent’s eyes, you up-jumped dilettante!”

“That’s right.” Boulidazi stepped in close to Moncraine, making it impossible for the impresario to miss if his temper should snap again. “Abuse me. Forget the fact that you’re a nightskin peasant. Say something I can’t forgive. Better yet, hit me. You’ll be back at the Weeping Tower like an arrow-shot, and I’ll have the company. You think you can’t be replaced? You’ve got five scenes. I’ll hire another Calamaxes away from Basanti. The play will go on without you, and you’ll go on without one of your hands.”

Jasmer stood with terrible rigidity, lines and wattles of his dark face deepening as his jaw clenched harder and harder, and for a moment it seemed he was about to doom himself. At last he took a step back, exhaled sharply, and barked, “Alondo! Lucaza!”

Locke and Alondo appeared before him with haste.

“Swap your roles,” growled Moncraine. “Lucaza’s Aurin from now on, and Alondo’s got Ferrin. If you don’t like it, discuss the aesthetic ramifications with our honorable gods-damned patron.”

“But we just did up the Aurin costume yesterday, sized for Alondo,” said Jenora. Moncraine whirled and stalked toward her, plainly itching to pass on some of the abuse he’d just received from Boulidazi.

“Then take a knife to it,” he shouted, “or put Lucaza on a f*cking rack and grow him four inches. I don’t give a damn either way!”

Jenora and Jean both leapt up, but before either could speak Moncraine turned and stormed away. Boulidazi smirked, shook his head, and gestured for the actors to continue practicing.

Eyes wide, Jean eased himself back into his seat only slowly. The baron had never before so publicly taunted or countermanded his unfortunate “partner,” and coarse as he was Boulidazi always seemed to work to a design. What was this ploy in aid of?

“I, uh, I’m sorry about this, Alondo,” said Locke, breaking the silence before it stretched too long.

“Bah,” said the young Esparan. “Not as though it’s your fault. Jasmer tells me to play a baby rabbit, I’m a baby rabbit, you know? And I’m still in most of the best scenes anyway. If I had to go begging work from Basanti I wouldn’t even have a lusty maid part waiting for me, eh?”