The Republic of Thieves #2

INTERLUDE


DEATH-MASKS

1

THE NEXT sound in the room was that of Donker attempting to fling himself at the door, only to be caught and pulled back by the combined efforts of Alondo and the Sanza twins.

“Gods damn it, you brick-skulled hostler,” Jasmer growled. “If the rest of us have to suffer through this farce, then so do you!”

“What’s the name of this hireling of Boulidazi’s?” said Locke.

“Nerissa Malloria,” said Jasmer. “Used to be a lieutenant in the countess’ guard. Now she’s sort of a mercenary. Hard as witchwood and cold as Aza Guilla’s cunt-plumbing.”

“Where’s she meant to take the money after the play?” said Locke.

“The hell should I know, boy?” Jasmer ran his hands slowly over his rough stubble. “His lordship might’ve been screwing me, but it wasn’t the sort of affair where we had pillow talk afterward, know what I mean?”

“I’d bet my life he’d have told her to bring the money to his countinghouse,” said Jenora. “It’s at the Court of Cranes, not far from his manor.”

“No retrieving it from there,” said Sabetha. “I’ll have to work up another note in Boulidazi’s hand and send her somewhere more private.”

“She will still expect to deliver the money to him,” yelled Moncraine. “And she’ll expect a signed receipt, and she will rather expect him to have a PULSE when he signs it!”

“Well, she’s not working for the countess now,” said Sabetha. “She’s not an agent of the law. She’s Boulidazi’s by hire, and she’ll bend to his eccentricities. All we need to do is contrive some that will make her leave the money and go away satisfied.”

“Well, Amadine, Queen of the Shadows, what do you suggest?” Jasmer waved his hands in elaborately mystical gestures. “Magic? Pity I’m only a sorcerer onstage!”

“Enough!” shouted Locke. “The sand is running into the bottom of our glass, and no fooling. Leave the details of the money switch to us, Jasmer. This company needs to move to the Pearl in good order, and all of you need to act as though the play is the only care you have in the world. Stout hearts and brave faces! Out!”

The Moncraine-Boulidazi Company shuffled from the room in mingled states of shock, hangover, and grim resolve. The Sanza twins followed; it had been Sabetha’s suggestion that after the meeting they lurk conspicuously, leaving as few opportunities as possible for anyone to slip away.

“Any ideas toward parting this Malloria from the money?” whispered Sabetha.

“I’ve got one notion,” said Locke. “But you might not appreciate it. We’d need you to play the giggling strumpet again.”

“I’d rather do that than hang!”

“Then we need to find out what the best bathhouse in the city is, and ensure that Baron Boulidazi has a reservation there after the play is finished.” Locke rubbed his eyes and sighed. “And please remember that I did warn you. I think this is going to work, but it’s not going to have more than a scrap of dignity.”

2

“DEMOISELLE GALLANTE, I don’t understand!” Brego looked uncomfortable in finer-than-usual clothes, and he gestured with clenched fists as he spoke. “Where the devils has he got off to? Why won’t he simply—”

“Brego, please,” said Sabetha. “I know where his lordship is meant to be later. As for the present, you know as much as I! Didn’t his notes give you instructions?”

“Yes, of course they did, but I’m uneasy! I’m charged with m’lord’s personal safety, and I wish that I could—”

“Brego!” Sabetha was suddenly cold and stern. “You surprise me. If you have clear directions from the Baron Boulidazi, why are you in difficulty about following them?”

“I … I suppose I have no, ah, difficulty, Demoiselle.”

“Good. My own duties are about to become rather overwhelming.” Sabetha kissed her fingers and touched them to Brego’s cheek. “Be a dear and look to your business. You’ll see what our lord is playing at soon enough.”

The company had left the yard of Gloriano’s, arrayed in some semblance of a spectacle. Three black horses had been loaned by Boulidazi, caparisoned in his family colors, red and silver. Sabetha sat the first, sidesaddle, and Chantal walked beside her holding the reins. Behind them came Andrassus tended by Donker and Moncraine tended by Alondo. The players on horseback wore their costumes, and Alondo wore a hooded mantle and a linen mask that left only his eyes bare. A cruel thing in the heat, but it couldn’t be helped.

The wagon, driven by Jean and Jenora, had also been draped in red and silver and was piled high with props and clothing. At the very bottom of the pile, shrouded and well-dusted with scents and pomanders, lay the corpse of the company’s patron. Galdo walked in the rear, juggling stingingly hot alchemical balls that spewed red smoke, while Locke and Bert led the column waving red pennants.

Brego hurried off to his duties as Calo, perched adroitly atop the rear of the wagon, began to shout:

“Invitation! Invitation!

Hear our joyous declamation!

The gods are kind to you today!

Cast off your toil and see a play!”

Calo sprang backward from the cart, turned in the air, and landed on his feet, neatly taking up the juggling of the smoke balls, which Galdo passed to him without a break in their rhythm. Galdo then vaulted into Calo’s spot, and proclaimed:

“At LAST, dear friends, at LAST, the Moncraine-Boulidazi company returns in triumph to the OLD PEARL! Come see! There’s a place for YOU this afternoon! Don’t find yourself bereft! Don’t end the day mocked by your friends and turned out of your lover’s bed as a simpleton! Hear the legendary Jasmer Moncraine, ESPARA’S GREATEST! LIVING! THESPIAN! See the beautiful Demoiselle Verena Gallante, THE THIEF OF EVERY HEART! Behold the luscious Chantal Couza, the woman who will MAKE YOUR DREAMS HER HOME!”

So they continued, in this vein and in close variations, as the procession wound its way through the humid streets of Espara. The sun blazed behind thinning white ramparts of cloud, promising a fantastic afternoon’s light for the play, but little mercy for those who would strut the stage.

3

A BOLD green Esparan banner fluttered from the pole beside the Old Pearl, and the theater was surrounded by noise and tumult. Alondo had explained to Locke, a few days before, how a major play attracted an ad hoc market of mountebanks, charlatans, lunatics, minstrels, and small-time merchants, though only those that made proper arrangements with the company and the envoy of ceremonies would be allowed within ten yards of the theater walls.

“Are you smarter than my chicken?” cried a weathered, wild-haired woman holding a nonplussed bird over her head. At her feet was a wooden board covered with numbers and arcane symbols. “Lay your bets! Test your wits against a trained fowl! One coppin a try! Are you smarter than my chicken? You might be in for a surprise!”

Alas, Locke found no time to dwell on the question. The Moncraine-Boulidazi procession had to move on. Beyond the chicken woman moved the expected beer vendors with wooden cups chained to kegs, the trenchmen with shovels and buckets, the jugglers both clumsy and talented. There were harpists, shawm-players, drummers, and fiddlers, all wearing cloth bands around their heads with pieces of paper fluttering in them, showing that they had paid the street musicians’ tax. There were pot-menders, cobblers, and low tailors with their tools arrayed on cloths or folding tables.

“Sacrilege! Sacrilege! Ghost-bringers and grave-robbers! May the gods stop your voices! May the gods turn your audience from the gates!” A wiry, brown-robed man whose face and arms bore the telltale scars of self-mortification approached the procession. “Salerius lived! Aurin and Amadine lived! You stir their unquiet spirits with your profane impersonations! You mock the dead, and their ghosts shall have their way with Espara! May the gods—”

Whatever the man desired from the gods was lost as Bertrand shoved him back into the crowd, most of whom seemed to share Bert’s opinion of the denouncer; the man was not soon allowed to regain his feet, and the company passed on.

At last, behind everything, came the simple wooden fence at the ten-yard mark, patrolled by city constables with staves. Within the boundary, merchants prosperous enough to afford tents had taken places against the walls of the Old Pearl. The public gate to the theater was guarded by a flinty woman in a bloodred gambeson and wide-brimmed hat. She kept to the shade, head constantly moving to survey the crowd, and she wore truncheon and dirk openly on her belt. The actual money-taking was being handled by a pair of burly hirelings.

Locke spotted Brego hurrying toward the woman, folded parchment clutched in his hands. Locke suppressed a smile. That would be the sealed orders from ‘Baron Boulidazi,’ the ones diverting Malloria and her weight of precious metal from the countinghouse to the bathhouse.

The company halted at the north side of the Pearl, where Moncraine’s half-dozen hired players lounged under an awning. They leapt up, nearly tripping over one another in their eagerness to be seen offering assistance with the costumes and props. As Jean and Jenora handed things to them, carefully keeping them away from the wagon itself, a woman approached on foot with a pair of guards at her back.

She was young, sharp-eyed and heavy, dressed in a cream jacket and skirts trimmed with silver lace. Sun veils dangled from her fourcorn cap, and to Locke she had the air of someone used to crowds parting and doors opening before her. Jasmer and Sylvanus confirmed Locke’s suspicions by climbing hastily from their horses and bowing; in an instant the entire company was doing likewise.

“Master Moncraine,” said the woman. “Do rise. It is agreeable to see you and your company gainfully employed again, if somewhat diminished in number.”

“My lady Ezrintaim. Thank you for your sentiments,” said Jasmer, straightening up but icing his words with a thick coating of deference. “We have every hope that our recent loss of a few supernumerary players will prove a refinement.”

“That remains to be seen. I had expected your patron to precede his company; can you tell me where the Baron Boulidazi might be found?”

“Ah, my lady, as to that, my Lord Boulidazi has not confided his present whereabouts to me. I can assure you that he does have every intention of being present, in some capacity, for the afternoon.”

“In some capacity?”

“My lady, if I may … I cannot answer for him. Save to assure you, on my honor, that my lord is laboring, even now, to ensure that today is not merely memorable but, ah, singular.”

“I shall of course be watching attentively from my box,” said the woman. “You will inform your patron that he is expected, following the performance if not before.”

“Of … of course, my lady Ezrintaim.”

Moncraine bowed again, but the woman had already turned and started away. One of her guards snapped a silk parasol open and held it between her and the sun. Moncraine made his obeisance for another half-dozen heartbeats, then rose, stormed over to Locke, and seized him by the collar.

“As you can see,” said Moncraine, speaking directly into Locke’s ear, “Countess Antonia’s envoy of ceremonies now expects a personal appearance from the very, very late Lord Boulidazi once we’ve taken our bows. What do you propose to do, thrust a hand up his ass and work him like a puppet?”

“You will pretend to be Lord Boulidazi,” said Locke.

“What?”

“I’m f*cking with you! Why do you keep acting as though it’s your problem? The play is your problem. Leave the rest to us. And take your hand off me.”

“If I end up facing the rope because of this,” said Moncraine, “I’m going to ensure that I bring a merry fellowship along for the drop.”

Moncraine stalked off before Locke could say anything else.

“I keep asking myself,” whispered Sabetha, giving Locke’s arm a squeeze, “are we smarter than that woman’s chicken?”

“At the moment it’s an open question,” said Locke.

4

BEHIND THE stage lay a number of corridors and small offices, as well as two large preparation areas referred to as the attiring chambers. Stairs led to a cellar where hoists could be used to send players up or down through trapdoors. The air smelled of sweat, smoke, mildew, and makeup.

The attiring chambers buzzed with chatter, most of it from the hired players. Bert and Chantal looked stern but willing, Alondo had his arm around Donker’s shoulders, and Sylvanus was relieving a wine bottle of its contents. The twins were robing themselves for their joint role as the Chorus; one in red with a gold-ornamented cap to represent the imperial court and the other in black with a silver-chased cap to represent the court of thieves. Jean and Jenora hung white robes and phantasma masks on wall hooks, there to be seized and donned in a hurry by that significant portion of the cast that wouldn’t escape the play alive.

Brego and a pair of servants came to retrieve Boulidazi’s horses and colors. Once they’d gone, Jean took up a post at the back door. He would keep a close watch on the wagon and its sensitive contents, darting in to help Jenora only with a few crucial or complicated operations.

“We’re on at the second hour sharp,” said Moncraine. “There’s a Verrari clock behind the countess’ box. When it chimes two, the flag dips. I salute the countess; then it’s out with the louts to tame the groundlings. And gods, will they need taming.”

Locke could hear the murmurs, the catcalls, the shouts and jeers of the Esparans filling the earth-floored penny pit beyond the stage, as well as musicians trying to strain coins out of the crowd.

Second hour of the afternoon, thought Locke. That left about twenty minutes for dressing and thinking. The former was so much easier. His Aurin costume was brown hose, a simple white tunic, and a brown vest. He wound red cloth in a band just above his ears; this would keep the sweat out of his eyes and suggest a crown even when he wasn’t wearing one. For the early scenes at the court of Salerius II, Locke would wear a red cloak over his other gear, a smaller version of the cloak that would be worn by Sylvanus at all times.

Sabetha approached, and Locke’s throat tightened. Amadine’s colors were those of the night, so Sabetha wore black hose and a fitted gray doublet with a plunging neckline. Her hair was coiffed, courtesy of Jenora and Chantal’s expertise, threaded around silver pins and bound back with a blue cloth matching Locke’s red. Her doublet gleamed with paste gems and silvery threads, and she wore two sheathed daggers at her hip.

“Luck and poise,” she whispered as she embraced him just long enough to brush a kiss against his neck.

“You outshine the sun,” he said.

“That’s damned inconvenient, for a thief.” She squeezed his hands and winked.

Calo and Galdo approached.

“We were hoping for a moment,” said Galdo.

“Over by the door with Tubby,” said Calo. “We thought a little prayer might not be out of order.”

Locke felt the sudden unwelcome tension of responsibility. This wasn’t something they were asking of him as a comrade, but across the barrier even the laissez-faire priests of the Nameless Thirteenth were bound to feel from time to time. There was no refusing this. The others deserved any comfort Locke could give them.

The five Camorri gathered in a circle at the back door, hands and heads together.

“Crooked Warden,” whispered Locke, “our, uh, our protector … our father … sent us here with a task. Don’t let us shame ourselves. Don’t let us shame him, now that we’re so close to pulling it all off. Don’t let us fail these people trusting us to keep them out of the noose. Thieves prosper.”

“Thieves prosper,” the others whispered.

Chantal came to summon them for Moncraine’s final instructions. There was no more time for prayer or planning.