by Scott Lynch
“No more than any of us!” said Locke, more hotly than he might have intended. “Well, we’ve got some … philosophical differences, to be sure.”
“She’s a perfectionist.” Jean picked up the broken halves of Sabetha’s baton. “And you’re a real idiot from time to time.”
“What did I do, besides fail to be a master baton duelist?” Locke massaged some of the tender reminders Sabetha had left him of her superior technique. “I didn’t train with Don Maranzalla.”
“Neither did she.”
“Well, come on, how does that make me an idiot?”
“You’re no Sanza,” said Jean, “but you can certainly be one sharp stab in the ass. Look, you’d have stood here and let her slap you into paste just for the sake of being in the same room with her. I know it. You know it. She knows it.”
“Well, uh—”
“It’s not endearing, Locke. You don’t court a girl by inviting her to abuse you from sunrise to sunset.”
“Really? That sounds an awful lot like courtship in every story I’ve ever read—”
“I mean literally abused, as in getting pounded into bird shit with a wooden stick. It’s not charming or impressive. It just makes you look silly.”
“Well, she doesn’t like it when I beat her at anything. She’s certainly not going to respect me if I give up! So just what the hell can I do?”
“No idea. Maybe I see some things clearer than you because I’m not bloody infatuated, but what to actually do with the pair of you, gods know.”
“You’re a deep well of reassurance.”
“On the bright side,” said Jean, “I’m sure you’re higher in her esteem right now than the Sanzas.”
“Sweet gods, that’s sickly praise.” Locke leaned against a wall and stretched. “Speaking of Sanzas, did you see Chains’ face when we woke him up this morning?”
“I wish I hadn’t. He’s going to break those two over his knee like Sabetha’s stick.”
“Where do you think he stomped off to?”
“No idea. I’ve never seen him leave angry before the sun was even up.”
“What in all the hells is going on with us?” said Locke. “This whole summer has been one long exercise in getting everything wrong.”
“Chains muttered to me a few nights ago,” said Jean, fiddling with the broken baton. “Something about awkward years. Said he might have to do something about us being all pent up together.”
“Hope that doesn’t mean more apprenticeships. I’m really not in the mood to go learn another temple’s rituals and then pretend to kill myself.”
“No idea what it means, but—”
“Hey, you two!” Galdo Sanza appeared out of the rear corridor, the spitting image of Calo, save for the fact that his skull was shaven clean of every last speck of hair. “Tubby and the training dummy! Chains is back, wants us in the kitchen with a quickness. And what’d you do to Sabetha this time?”
“I exist,” said Locke. “Some days that’s enough.”
“You should make some friends at the Guilded Lilies, mate,” said Galdo. “Why fall on your face trying to tame a horse when you can have a dozen that are already saddled?”
“So now you like to fuck horses,” said Jean. “Bravo, baldy.”
“Laugh all you will, we’re in demand over there,” said Galdo. “Favorite guests. Command performances.”
“I’m sure you’re popular,” said Jean with a yawn. “Who doesn’t like getting paid for fast, easy work?”
“I’ll say a prayer for you next time I’m having it with two at once,” said Galdo. “Maybe the gods will hear me and let your stones drop. But, seriously, Chains came in the river entrance, and I think we’re all about to die.”
“Well, hurrah,” said Locke. “When the weather’s like this, who honestly wants to live?”
3
THE FATHER Chains waiting in the glass burrow’s kitchen wasn’t wearing any of his usual guises or props. No canes or staves to lean on, no robes, no look of sly benevolence on that craggy, bearded face. He was dressed to be out and about in the city, heavily sweated with exertion, and all the furrows in his forehead seemed to meet in an ominous valley above his fierce dark eyes. Locke was unsettled; he’d rarely seen Chains glower like that at an enemy or a stranger, let alone at his apprentices.
Locke noticed that everyone else was keeping a certain instinctive distance from Chains. Sabetha sat on a counter, well away from anyone, arms folded. The Sanzas sat near one another more out of old habit than present warmth. Their appearances were divergent; Calo with his long, oiled, well-tended tresses and Galdo, scraped smooth as a prizefighter. The twins shared no jokes, no gestures, no small talk.
“I suppose it’s only fair to begin,” said Chains, “by apologizing for having failed you all.”
“Um,” said Locke, stepping forward, “how have you failed us, exactly?”
“My mentorship. My responsibility to not allow our happy home to turn into a seething pit of mutual aggravation … which it has.” Chains coughed, as though he’d irritated his throat merely by bringing such words out. “I thought I might ease up on the regimen of previous summers. Fewer lessons, fewer errands, fewer tests. I hoped that without constraints, you might blossom. Instead you’ve rooted yourselves deep without flowering.”
“Hold on,” said Calo, “it hasn’t been such an unwelcome break, has it? And we’ve been training. Jean’s seen to it that we’ve kept up with battering one another about.”
“That’s hardly your principal form of exercise these days,” said Chains. “I’ve heard things from the Lilies. You two spend more time in bed than invalids. Certainly more than you spend planning or practicing our work.”
“So we haven’t run a game on anyone for a few weeks,” said Calo. “Is the fuckin’ Eldren-fire falling? Who gives a damn if we take some ease? What should we be doing, sir, learning more Vadran? More dances? A seventeenth way to hold knives and forks?”
“You snot-nosed grand duke of insolence,” said Chains, growing louder with each word, “you ignorant, wet-eared, copper-chasing shit-barge puppy! Do you have any idea what you’ve been given? What you’ve worked for? What you are?”
“What I am is tired of being yelled at—”
“Ten years under my roof,” said Chains, looming over Calo like an ambulatory mountain, suffused with moral indignation, “ten years under my protection, eating at my table, nurtured by my hand and coin. Have I beaten you, buggered you, put you out in the rain?”
“No,” said Calo, cringing. “No, of course not—”
“Then you can stand one gods-damned rebuke without flapping your jaw.”
“Of course,” said Calo, most meekly. “Sorry.”
“You’re educated thieves,” said Chains. “No matter how you might think it profits you to feign otherwise, you are not ordinary. You can pass for servants, farmers, merchants, nobles; you have the poise and manners for any station. If I hadn’t let you grow so callow, you might realize what an unprecedented personal freedom you all possess.”
Locke reflexively opened his mouth to deliver some smooth assuagement, but the merest half-second flick of Chains’ glare was more than enough to keep him mute.
“What do you think this is all for?” said Chains. “What do you suppose it’s all been in aid of? So you can laze around and work the occasional petty theft? Drink and whore and dice with the other Right People until you get called out or hung? Have you seen what happens to our kind? How many of your bright-eyed little chums will live to see twenty-five? If they scrape thirty they’re gods-damned elders. You think they have money tucked away? Villas in the country? Thieves may prosper night by night, but there’s nothing for them when the lean times come, do you understand?”
“But there’s garristas,” said Galdo, “and the Capa, and a lot of older types at the Floating Grave—”
“Indeed,” said Chains. “Capas and garristas don’t go hungry, because they can take scraps from the mouths
of their brothers and sisters. And how do you suppose you get to grow old in the Capa’s service? You guard his doors with an alley-piece, like a constable on the beat. You watch your friends hang, and die in the gutters, and get called up for teeth lessons because they said the wrong thing in their cups or held back a few silvers one fucking time. You put your head down and shut up, forever. That’s what earns you some gray hair.
“No justice,” he continued sourly. “No true fellowship. Vows in darkness, that’s all, valid until the first time someone goes hungry or needs a few coins. Why do you think I’ve raised you to wink at the Secret Peace? We’re like a sick dog that gnaws its own entrails, the Right People are. But you’ve got a chance to live in real trust and fellowship, to be thieves as the gods intended, scourging the swells and living true to yourselves. I’ll be damned before I’ll let you forget what a gift you’ve been given in one another.”
No smart remark ever made could stand before the gale of this sort of chastisement. Locke noted that he wasn’t the only one with a sudden overwhelming compulsion to stare at the floor.
“And so, I need to apologize for my own failure.” Chains drew a folded letter from his coat. “For allowing us to reach this pretty state of affairs, falling out with one another and forgetting ourselves. It’s a bad time for all of you. You’re confused bundles of nerves and passion, cooped up down here where you can do maximum damage to your mutual regard. You’ve certainly been disagreeable company for me. I’ve decided I need a vacation.”
“Well, then,” said Jean, “where will you be going?”
“Going? Drinking, I suppose. Perhaps I’ll go see old Maranzalla. And I’ve a mind to hunt down some chamber music. But forgive me if I’ve been unclear. I require a vacation from all of you, but I’m not leaving Camorr. You five will be making a journey to Espara. I’ve arranged work there to keep you busy for several months.”
“Espara?” said Locke.
“Yes. Isn’t it exciting?” The room was quiet. “I thought that might be your response. Look, I tucked a pin into my jacket for this very moment.”
Chains drew a silver pin from one of his lapels and tossed it into the air. It hit the floor with the faintest chiming clatter.
“One of those expressions I’ve always wanted to put to the test,” said Chains. “But seriously, you’re out. All of you. Evicted. There’s a wagon caravan leaving from the Cenza Gate on Duke’s Day. You’ve got two days to make yourselves part of it. After that, it’s a week and a half to Espara.”
“But,” said Calo, “what if we don’t want to go to bloody Espara?”
“Then leave, and don’t come back to this temple,” said Chains. “Forfeit everything. In fact, leave Camorr. I won’t want to see you again, anywhere.”
“What’s in Espara that’s so important?” said Sabetha.
“Your partnership. It’s past time it was put to a real test, far beyond my reach. Take all your years of training and make something of them. False-face together, rely upon one another, and come back alive. Prove that we haven’t been wasting our time down here. Prove it to me … and prove it to yourselves.”
Chains held up the folded letter.
“You’re going to Espara to enjoy a career on the stage.”
4
“AFTER MY soldiering ended,” continued Chains, “and before I came back to Camorr, I indulged in several vices, not the least of which was acting. I fell in with a troupe in Espara run by the single unluckiest thick-skulled son of a bitch that ever crawled out of a womb. Jasmer Moncraine. I saved his life by design and he saved mine by accident. We’ve kept in touch across the years.”
“Oh gods,” said Sabetha, “you’re sending us in payment of a debt!”
“No, no. Jasmer and I are square. The favor is mutual. I need the five of you occupied elsewhere. Jasmer has desperate need of players, and an equally desperate need to avoid paying them.”
“So it is questionable circumstances, then.”
“Oh, never doubt. I get the impression from his letters that he’s one mistake away from being chained up for debt. I’d appreciate you preventing that. He wants to do Lucarno’s Republic of Thieves. Your story will be that you’re a band of up-and-coming thespians from Camorr; I sent a letter ahead of you telling him how to play the angles right. The rest is entirely up to you.”
“Do you have a copy of the letter for us?” said Locke.
“Nah.”
“Well, then, what should we do about—”
Chains tossed a jingling bag at Locke’s head. Locke barely managed to pluck it out of the air before it struck his nose.
“Oh, look, a bag of money. That’s all the help you’ll be getting from me, my boy.”
“But … aliases, travel arrangements—”
“Your problem, not mine.”
“We don’t know anything about the stage!”
“You know about costumes, makeup, elocution, and deportment. Everything else, you can learn once you get there.”
“But—”
“Look,” said Chains. “I don’t want to spend the rest of the day interrupting your questions, so I’m going to temporarily forget how to make words come out of my mouth. I’ll be nursing a chilled bottle of Vadran white over at the Tumblehome until further notice. Remember the caravan. Two days. You can be part of it, or you can leave the Gentlemen Bastards. Your time is henceforth your own.”
He left the kitchen in a state of extreme self-satisfaction. A few moments later, Locke heard the creak and slam of the burrow’s concealed riverside exit. Locke and his cohorts traded a sincere set of bewildered looks.
“Well, this is a fist-fuck and a flaming oil bath,” said Calo.
“Is there anyone here,” said Locke quietly, “who’d rather leave the gang than go to Espara?”
“There’d better not be,” said Galdo.
“The billiard ball’s right for once,” said Calo. “It’s not as though I’m enthusiastic about this, but anyone who wants to leave can do it headfirst off the temple roof.”
“Good,” said Locke. “Then we need to talk. Get some ink and parchment.”
“Count the money,” said Sabetha.
“I’ll fetch some wine,” said Jean. “Strong wine.”
5
THEY WERE far from comfortable together. The Sanzas sat on opposite sides of the table, and Sabetha leaned against a chair pushed away from everyone else. Yet they all seemed to grasp the urgency of their situation; over the course of two bottles of Verrari lemon wine they hashed out mostly civil arguments and scratched up lists of supplies and responsibilities.
“Right, then,” said Locke when his glass was empty and his notepages full. “Sabetha will try to scare up any portions of The Republic of Thieves from the shops and scribes, so we can all have a look at it on the road.”
“I’ve got some other Lucarno plays I’ll pack,” said Jean. “And some Mercallor Mentezzo dross I’m not so fond of, but we should all study them and pick up some lines.”
“Jean and I will find a wagon and get us in with a caravan master,” said Locke. He passed one of his lists over to Galdo. “The Sanzas will pack the common goods and supplies.”
“We need aliases,” said Sabetha. “We can smooth out our stories on the way, but we should have our game names ready to use.”
“Who do you want to be, then?” said Jean.
“Hmmmm. Call me … Verena. Verena Gallante.”
“Lucaza,” said Locke. “I’ll be Lucaza … de Barra.”
“Must you?” said Sabetha.
“Must I what?”
“You always have to choose an alias that starts with ‘L,’ and Jean nearly always goes for a ‘J.’ ”
“Keeps things simple,” said Jean. “And now, just because you’ve said that, I’ll be … Jovanno. Hell, Locke and I can be first cousins. I’ll be Jovanno de Barra.”
“False names are fun,” said Calo. “Call me Beefwit Smallcock.”
“These are aliases, not biographi
cal sketches,” said Galdo.
“Fine, then,” said Calo. “Lend me a hand. There’s a masculine form of Sabetha, isn’t there?”
“Sabazzo,” said Galdo, snapping his fingers.
“Yeah, Sabazzo. I’ll be Sabazzo.”
“Like hell you will,” said Sabetha.
“Hey, I know,” said Galdo. “I’ll be Jean. You can call yourself Locke.”
“You two will crap splinters for a month after I make you eat this table,” said Jean.
“Well, if you put it like that,” said Calo. “Why don’t we use our middle names? I’ll be Giacomo, and you can be Castellano.”
“Might work,” said Galdo grudgingly. “Need a last name.”
“Asino!” said Calo. “It’s Throne Therin for ‘donkey.’ ”
“Gods lend me strength,” said Sabetha.
6
“MASTER DE Barra,” said Anatoly Vireska two nights later, looking up with a smile that put every gap in his teeth on display, like archery ports in a crumbling fortress wall. The rangy, middle-aged Vadran caravan master gave the Gentlemen Bastards’ wagon a friendly thump as Jean brought their team of four horses to a halt. “And company. You picked a good time to show up.”
“I’ve seen this place when it’s busy.” Locke glanced backward at the Millfalls District and the Street of Seven Wheels, which lay under the strange particolored haze of fading Falselight. Traffic on the cobbled road itself was sparse, since few business travelers came or went from the Cenza Gate as darkness was falling. “Figured we might get a jump on the chaos.”
“Just so. Pull up anywhere in the commons beneath the wall. Now, if you want more than half-assed shelter, there’s the Andrazi stable down the lane to the right, and the Umbolo stable just yonder, the one with all the mules. Andrazi tips me a few coppers a week to point people her way, but I wouldn’t take the money if I didn’t think her place was the better bargain, hey?”
“Duly noted,” said Jean.
“Want me to send a boy around to help with your horses? I could have my outfitter check your packing, too.”