The Republic of Thieves

  “There’s no other way.” She held out one of her hands.

  “No.” He rubbed at his eyes, feeling tears starting again.

  “Then what are you loyal to, Locke?”

  A coldness gnawed at the pit of Locke’s stomach. Every failure he’d experienced in his few short years, every time he’d been caught or foiled, every time he’d ever made a mistake, been punished, gone hungry—all those moments churned up and relived at once couldn’t have equaled the bitter weight of the defeat that settled in his gut now.

  He placed the glass vial in her hand, and for a moment their fingers met, warmth against warmth. She gave his hand a little squeeze, and Locke gasped, letting the vial out of his grip. Her fingers curled around it, and now there was no taking it back.

  “Go,” she whispered.

  He stared at her, unable to believe he’d actually done it, and then finally turned away. It was just three steps to the window, but his feet felt distant and numb. He braced one hand on the windowsill, more to steady himself than to escape.

  A loud click echoed in the room, and the door began to swing open.

  Locke heaved himself over the sill, scrambled to plant his feet in the vines that clung to the house’s brick exterior, and prayed to drop down fast enough to escape notice, or at least get a head start—

  “Locke, wait!” came a deep and familiar voice.

  Locke clung precariously to the windowsill and strained to lift his head enough to glance back into the room. The door was wide open, and standing there was Father Chains.

  “No,” whispered Locke, suddenly realizing what the whole point of the night’s exercise really was. But that meant— That meant Sabetha wouldn’t have to—

  He was so startled he lost his grip, and with a sharp cry he fell backward into the air above the darkened garden.

  8

  “TOLD YOU he wasn’t dead.” It was one of the Sanzas, his voice coming out of the darkness. “Like a physiker, I am. Ought to charge you a fee for my opinion.”

  “Sure.” The other Sanza now, speaking close to Locke’s right ear. “Hope you like getting paid in kicks to the head.”

  Locke opened his eyes and found himself on a table in a well-lit room, a room that had the same strange lack of opulence as the library Sabetha had been chained up in. There were the table and a few chairs, but no tapestries, no decorations, no sense that anyone actually lived here. Locke winced, took a deep breath, and sat bolt upright. His back and his head ached dully.

  “Easy, boy.” Chains was at his side in an instant. “You took quite a tumble. If only you weren’t so damnably quick on your feet, I might have convinced—”

  Chains reached out to gently push him back down, and Locke swatted his hands away.

  “You lied,” he growled.

  “Forgive me,” said Chains, very softly. “There was still one thing we needed to know about you, Locke.”

  “You lied!” The depth of Locke’s rage came as a shock; he couldn’t remember feeling anything like it even for tormentors like Gregor and Veslin—and he’d killed them, hadn’t he? “None of it was real!”

  “Be reasonable,” said Chains. “It’s a bit risky to stage a kidnapping using actual agents of the duke.”

  “No,” said Locke. “It was wrong. It was wrong! It wasn’t like they really would have done! I might have gotten her out!”

  “You can’t fight grown men,” said Chains. “You did the very best you could in a bad situation.”

  “IT WAS WRONG!” Locke forced himself to concentrate, to articulate what his gut was telling him. “They would … real guards might have done it differently. Not chained her down. This was all made for me. All made so I had no choice!”

  “Yes,” said Chains. “It was a game you couldn’t win. A situation that finds us all, sooner or later.”

  “No,” said Locke, feeling his anger warm him from his head to his toes. “It was all wrong!”

  “He did it to us too, once,” said Calo, grabbing his right arm. “Gods, we wanted to die, it was so bad.”

  “He did it to all of us,” said Sabetha, and Locke whirled at the sound of her voice. She was standing in a corner, arms folded, studying him with a combination of interest and unease. “He’s right. We had to know if you could do it.”

  “And you did superbly,” said Chains. “You did better than we could have—”

  “It wasn’t fair,” shouted Locke. “It wasn’t a fair test! There was no way to win!”

  “That’s life,” said Chains. “That’s your one sure inheritance as flesh and blood. Nobody wins all the time, Locke.”

  Locke shook himself free from Calo’s grasp and stood on the table, so that he actually had to look down to meet Chains eye to eye.

  Gods, he’d thought Sabetha was gone once, and he’d rejoiced to find her alive. Then he’d been sent to kill her. That was the rage, he realized, burning like a coal behind his heart. For a few terrible minutes Chains had made him believe that he would have to lose her all over again. Narrowed his world to one awful choice and made him feel helpless.

  “I will never lose again.” He nodded slowly to himself, as though his words were the long-sought solution to some mathematical puzzle. Then he shouted at the top of his lungs, not caring if he was heard across the length and breadth of the Razona.

  “Do you hear me? I WILL NEVER LOSE AGAIN!”

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE BUSINESS

  1

  “MERCIFUL GODS,” SAID Locke. To Jean’s eyes, he seemed genuinely taken aback. “Your actual flesh-and-blood son? By, ah, traditional means?”

  “I certainly didn’t brew him in a cauldron.”

  “Well, come now,” said Locke, “as though we’d know one way or the other—”

  “There are no means but traditional means for such an undertaking.”

  “Damn,” said Locke. “And I thought this was an awkward conversation before.”

  “The Falconer’s heart is still beating. You’ve nothing to fear from me.”

  “You expect us to believe that?” said Jean. His defensive instincts, sharpened over years of alternating triumphs and disasters, came hotly to life. Even if Patience chose to pose no immediate threat, surely wheels were turning somewhere inside her mind. “His friends would have killed us, but you can just wave the whole mess off with a sad smile?”

  “You two didn’t get along,” said Locke.

  “Very mildly put,” said Patience. She looked down at her feet, a gesture that struck Jean as totally outside her usual character. “Even before he earned his first ring … the Falconer was my antagonist in all philosophies, magical or otherwise. If our positions were reversed he certainly wouldn’t feel bound to vengeance on my account.”

  Now Patience slowly raised her head until her dark eyes met Jean’s, and he was able to really study them for the first time. Certain people had what Jean privately thought of as archer’s eyes—a steady coolness, a detached precision. People with eyes like that could sort the world around them into targets, pick their first shot before those nearby even knew the time for talk had passed. Eyes like that had killers behind them, and Patience for-fucking-sure had a pair.

  “He and I live with the consequences of the decisions we made before he took the contract in Camorr,” she said, her voice firm. “Whether or not I choose to explain those decisions is my business.”

  “Fair enough,” said Jean, taking an instinctive half-step back and raising his hands.

  “Indeed. Take it easy.” Locke stifled a cough. “Well, you could murder us, yet supposedly you don’t want to. Your son pickled his own mind, but you say you don’t really give a shit. So what’s the story, Patience? Why are you in Lashain, lending me your cloak?”

  “I’ve come to offer the two of you a job.”

  “A job?” Locke laughed, then broke into more painful-sounding coughs. “A job? I hope you need someone to line a casket for you, you poor Karthani witch, because that’s the only job I’m presently
qualified for.”

  “Until you finally lose the strength for sarcasm, Locke, I wouldn’t hire any mourners.”

  “I’m on my way.” Locke pounded on his chest a few times. “Believe me, I’ve ducked out of paying this bill before, but this time I’m pretty sure the house is going to make me settle. You should have tried, I don’t know, not fucking revealing my plans to the gods-damned Archon of Tal Verrar so he could fucking well poison me! Maybe then my schedule for the immediate future would be a tad more … open.”

  “I can remove the poison from your body.”

  Nobody spoke for several seconds. Jean was dumbstruck, Locke merely scowled, and Patience let the words hang in the empty air without further adornment. The timbers of the roof creaked faintly at the touch of the wind.

  “Bullshit,” Locke muttered at last.

  “You keep presuming that my powers are infinite where they concern your discomfort. Why not credit me with an equivalent capacity to render aid?” Patience folded her arms. “Surely some of the black alchemists you consulted must have passed on hints …”

  “I’m not talking about your damned sorcery. I mean, I see the game now. It’s bullshit. Act one, those Lashani bastards trash the place. Act two, a mysterious savior appears out of the night, and we buy whatever you’re selling. You arranged this whole mess.”

  “I had nothing to do with Cortessa. Jean brought the Lashani down on your heads when he mishandled the physiker yesterday.”

  “What an eminently reasonable excuse! Good gods, woman, who the hell do you think you’re talking to here?” Locke erupted into a coughing fit, and just as quickly brought it under control by evident force of will. “I ought to know a setup when it lands right on top of my head!”

  “Locke, calm down.” Jean felt his heartbeat all the way to the base of his throat. “Think about this for a moment.” It had to be a trick, a plan, a scheme of some sort, but by all the gods, what was that against the total certainty of death? Jean sent a silent plea to the Crooked Warden to give Locke just a few moments of lucid reason.

  “I have no money,” said Locke. “No resources. No treasure. And I’m too sick now to even stand up. That leaves me just one single thing you can still take.”

  “We need to consider—”

  “You want my name, don’t you?” Locke’s voice was hoarse and teasing. He sounded triumphant at having something to fuel a real argument; evidently the god of thieves had no common sense available for lending at the moment. “You knock everything out from under me, then show up at the last minute, waving a reprieve. And all you’d need is my real name, right? Oh, you want leverage, that’s for sure. You haven’t forgiven anyone for what happened to the Falconer.”

  “You’re dying,” said Patience. “Do you really think I’d take these pains just to turn the screws on you? Gods be gracious, how much more pressure could I possibly apply?”

  “I believe you’d do anything, if you wanted your hooks in me bad enough.” Locke wiped his lips with the back of his hand, and Jean could see that his spit was blood-tinged. “I know a thing or two about revenge, and you have powers I can only dream of. So I must believe you’d do anything.”

  “Why bother when I could have your real name anytime I wanted it?”

  “Now that’s so much arrogant bull—”

  “It would simply be a question,” Patience continued, “of how long you could watch Jean Tannen suffer before you would beg for the privilege of telling me.”

  “You’re no different than the Falconer,” said Locke. “Same fucking—”

  “Locke,” said Jean, very loudly. “—attitude toward … yeah?”

  “Kindly shut the hell up,” said Jean, enunciating every word as though teaching the phrase to a small child for the first time. Locke’s slack-jawed stare was gratifying.

  “She’s right,” continued Jean, unable to keep a growing excitement out of his voice. “If your true name was all she wanted, why not torture me? I’m compromised, I’m bloody helpless. It would be quick and simple. So why aren’t I screaming right now?”

  “Because if these people were any good at ‘quick and simple’ the Falconer would have killed us back in Camorr.”

  “No, dammit. Think harder.”

  “Because you have such a sweet and innocent face?”

  “Because if she doesn’t want your real name the easy way—”

  “Then she has some other motive. Sweet dancing donkey shit, Jean!” Locke rolled back toward Patience, but closed his eyes and rubbed at them. “She wants me to stick my own head in the noose, of my own free will. Get it? She wants me to step off the cliff. Cut my own wrists so she can gloat … humiliate—” Locke broke into another severe coughing fit, and Jean sat down on the bed and pounded gently on his back. The rhythmic movement did nothing good for Jean’s collection of fresh aches and bruises, but it calmed Locke rapidly.

  “What we’re discussing,” said Patience, “is employment, not compulsion. Credit me with enough wit to recall the fate of Luciano Anatolius and Maxilan Stragos. Coercing you two never seems to work. We’re willing to trade service for service.”

  “Patience,” said Jean, “can you really get rid of this poison? Can you do it without using his real name?”

  “If we hurry, yes.”

  “If you’re lying,” said Jean, “if you’re leaving anything out, I’ll try to kill you again. Understand? I’ll give it everything I have, even if it forces you to slay me on the spot.”

  Patience nodded.

  “Then let’s talk business.”

  “Let’s not,” snarled Locke. “Let’s show this bitch to the door and refuse to be puppets.”

  “Shut up.” Jean pushed firmly down on Locke’s shoulders, foiling his attempt to roll out of bed. “Tell us about this job.”

  Locke drew in a rasping breath to spew some more damn fool craziness. Jean, with the reflexes that kept him alive when blades were drawn, clamped a hand over Locke’s mouth before he could speak and pushed his head back down against his pillow. “I can’t agree to anything on Locke’s behalf, but I want us to hear your proposal. Tell us what the job is.”

  “It’s political,” said Patience.

  “Mmmmph mmph,” said Locke, struggling in vain against Jean’s arm. “Mmmph fckhnnng fmmmph!”

  “He wants to hear more,” said Jean. “He says he’s very excited to hear the whole thing.”

  2

  “I NEED an election adjusted.”

  “How adjusted?”

  “As a cautious estimate?” Patience turned to the window and stared out into the rain. “I need it rigged from top to bottom.”

  “Government affairs are a bit beyond our experience,” said Jean.

  “Nonsense. You’ll feel right at home. What is government but theft by consent? You’ll be moving in a society of kindred spirits.”

  “What sort of election are we supposed to be mucking about with here?”

  “Every five years,” said Patience, “the citizens of Karthain elect an assembly, the Konseil. Nineteen representatives for nineteen city districts. This dignified mess runs the city, and I need a majority of their seats to go to the faction of my preference.”

  “This is what you want us for?” Locke finally slipped Jean’s hand aside and managed to speak. “My dead ass! With your powers, you’d have to be out of your gods-damned minds to settle for anything Jean and I could pull off! You could wiggle your fingers and make them elect cats and dogs, for fuck’s sake.”

  “No,” said Patience. “In public, the magi stand completely aloof from the government of the city. In private, we are forbidden to use any of our arts. Not on the poorest citizen of Karthain, not for a single vote.”

  “You won’t use your sorcery on the people of Karthain?” said Jean. “Not at all?”

  “Oh, Karthain is our city, through and through. We’ve adjusted everything to suit our needs, and that includes the inhabitants. It’s this contest we can’t touch. The election itself.”
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  “Seems awkward as all hell. Why the limitation?”

  “You’ve seen some of our arts. You opposed the Falconer. You survived Tal Verrar.”

  “In a manner of speaking,” muttered Locke.

  “Imagine a society of men and women where those powers are universal,” said Patience. “Imagine … sitting down to dinner with four hundred people, each of whom has a loaded crossbow set beside their wineglass. Some very strict rules will have to be enforced if anyone wants to live long enough to see the last course.”

  “I think I get it,” said Jean. “You have some sort of rule about not shitting where you eat?”

  “Magi must never work magic against one another,” said Patience. “We’re as human as you are, as complicated, as insecure, as driven to argument. The only difference is that any one of us, out of the mildest irritation, could make someone evaporate into smoke with a gesture.

  “We don’t duel,” she continued. “We don’t so much as tease one another with our arts. We forcefully separate ourselves from any situation where our crossed purposes might tempt us to do so.”

  “Situations like this election,” said Jean.

  “Yes. We do need to control the Konseil, one way or another. Once the election is over, the new government becomes a general tool. We adjust its members by consensual design. But during the contest itself, when our blood is up, we need to keep our arts entirely out of the situation. We need to be pure spectators.”

  Patience raised both of her hands, palms up, as though presenting two invisible objects for weighing.

  “There are two major factions among my people. Two major parties in Karthani politics. We battle by proxy. Each side is allowed to choose agents. Enterprising individuals, never magi. We set them loose to fight on our behalf. In the past we’ve favored orators, political organizers, demagogues. This time, I’ve convinced my people to hire someone with a more unusual portfolio of achievement.”

  “Why?” said Jean.

  “Some people play handball,” said Patience, smiling. “Some people play Catch-the-Duke. This is our sport. The election diverts much of the frustration our factions come to feel for one another, and brings prestige to the side that backs the winner. It’s become a highly anticipated tradition.”