The Republic of Thieves #2

CHAPTER NINE


THE FIVE-YEAR GAME: REASONABLE DOUBT

1

“WHAT LOCKE IS,” said Sabetha, “is the man about to cook my dinner.”

“Surely you both saw further than that,” said Patience.

“It’s no affair of yours.” Sabetha slipped out of Locke’s arms, dangerously tense, her air of cautious respect banished. “Locke might answer to you, but I don’t. Best think on how my principals might respond if you use your magic to keep me from dragging you out of this house.”

“Take care when throwing rules at a rule-maker, my dear,” said Patience. “Provoke me outside the bounds of the five-year game and I’m free to respond as I will. And you are quite outside the bounds of the game this evening, aren’t you? Because if you’re not, you’d be perilously close to the one thing you both agreed—”

“Shove your collusion somewhere dark and painful,” said Locke, setting his hands on Sabetha’s shoulders. “You know we weren’t talking business when you appeared. Only a snoop could have such flawless dramatic timing. Why the hell are you here?”

“A matter of conscience.”

“Really?” said Locke. “Yours? You keep alluding to its existence. Somehow I’m not convinced.”

“This interruption is entirely your own fault!” The archedama stabbed a finger in Locke’s direction. “I gave you the clearest, fairest possible warning! I told you to set aside your personal business. To get to work, not to wooing. And what have you done?”

“What have we both done?” said Sabetha. She folded her arms, but Locke could still feel that simmering tension, as familiar to him as her voice or her scent. He tightened his grip, doubting that she had his experience with physically attacking magi. She didn’t relax, but she gave his hand a brief, reassuring squeeze. “Enlighten us, Archedama. And I do mean us.”

“This reckless pursuit of your old romance,” said Patience. “Set it aside. Go back to your appointed tasks. Don’t make me carry out this obligation, Sabetha. Locke is my responsibility now, and there are things about him that you don’t understand. Things you don’t need to understand, if you would only stop here.”

“Stop what? My life?”

“I see I’m wasting breath. Remember that I made the offer, for what it’s worth.” Patience gestured casually, and the balcony doors slid shut behind her. “Locke, you see, is unique. But I’m not merely affirming his egotism. If you would continue pursuing him you have the right to know his true nature.”

“He’s no stranger to me,” said Sabetha.

“He’s a stranger to everyone.” Patience fixed her disconcertingly dark eyes on Locke. “Himself most of all.”

“Enough cryptic bullshit,” Locke growled. “Get to the meat of whatever—”

“Twenty-three years ago,” Patience interrupted him sharply, “the Black Whisper fell on Camorr. Hundreds died, but the quarantine and the canals saved the city. Once the plague burned itself out, you walked out of old Catchfire, recognized by no one. Home unknown, age unknown, parents and friends unknown.”

“Yes, I do bloody well remember that,” said Locke.

“Take it as evidence. Reflect on it.”

“Here’s something you can reflect on, you—”

“I know why you have no real memories of the time before the plague.” Again Patience parried his words with her peremptory tone. “I know why you have no recollection of your father. In fact, I know why you make up stories about how you took the name Lamora. You tell some it came from a sausage vendor. You tell others it was a kindly old sailor.”

“You … you told me it was a sailor,” said Sabetha.

“Look,” said Locke, a serpentine chill creeping up and down his spine, “look, I’ll explain, I just … Patience, how the hell can you possibly know that?”

“Not one instance of the surname Lamora has ever been recorded in a Camorri census. Not in any century since the imperial collapse. You’ll find that we had good cause to check. You brought the name with you out of Catchfire, wholly formed in your mind, though you never knew where from. I do.”

She moved toward them with that uncanny smooth glide facilitated by her elegant robe. “I know that you have only one true and immutable memory glowing dimly in that darkness before the Catchfire plague. A memory of your mother. A memory of her trade.”

“Seamstress,” muttered Locke.

“Yes,” said Patience, gesturing toward herself. “I have, after all, told you what my gray name was. The one I chose for myself, long before I was elevated to archedama—”

“Seamstress,” said Locke, “oh, no. Oh, f*ck no. F*ck, no! You can’t be serious!”