The Gentleman Bastard Series Books 1-3

by Scott Lynch

  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 fucking 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 slowly eased himself back into his seat. 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?”

  7

  LOCKE AND Sabetha conferred in a rare, brief moment of privacy on the changing nature of Boulidazi’s expectations. Changed as they were, the Esparan baron’s old habits didn’t shift, and it was simply too dangerous to attempt to steal more meaningful privacy at Gloriano’s Rooms. Boulidazi or one of his several associates might appear at any time, from around any corner, up or down any flight of stairs.

  Still, the baron had delivered on his promise to transmute Locke’s role, and had to be kept thinking that Lucaza de Barra was his earnest ally. To this end Sabetha began to play a closer and more dangerous game of flirtation with Boulidazi. While not allowing that the time was right for her to enjoy a secret sojourn under the baron’s roof, she doted on him more frequently, met his eyes more often, pretended to smile at his alleged jokes.

  She also deployed more of her arsenal of feminine fascinations, carefully letting her smock hang an inch or two lower on her chest, trading boots for cheap slippers to display her ankles and elegantly muscled calves. These steps, coupled with the casual ease with which Jean and Jenora went off together each night, kept the twin flames of distraction and jealousy flickering lively in Locke’s breast.

  His new role as Aurin turned out to be no help in the matter. While it sent a thrill shuddering up and down his every nerve to be working so close to Sabetha, professing love in the marvelously lurid language of Lucarno, the hawk-eyed vigil of Boulidazi was a check on every other expression of passion. In fact, he was so careful and so chaste in his stage embraces that Moncraine, his patience burnt to ash and the ashes ground deep into the dirt of his mood, soon snapped.

  “Gods’ piss, you gangling twit, the love’s the whole matter of the play! Who the hell wants to pay good money to see a tragic love story if the lovers handle each other like fine porcelain? Bert! Chantal! Educate this idiot.”

  Husband and wife came forward eagerly upon realizing they weren’t to share the rebuke. Chantal swooned into Bertrand’s arms, and he turned toward Locke and Sabetha.

  “Exaggerate,” he said, “and lean. Leaning’s what makes a good embrace, kid. Stage kissing you’ve got down. When she’s in your arms, tilt her a bit. Take her off her feet. It looks good to the audience. Quickest way to show passion that even the drunks at the far back can see. Isn’t that right, jewel?”

  “Oh, Bert, you couldn’t explain swimming to a fish. But you’ve always been one for doing, hmmm?” Giggling and poking playfully at one another, the two of them nonetheless managed to rapidly correct the flaws in Locke’s pretend girl-embracing technique. Even Moncraine grunted satisfaction, and Locke found himself suddenly able to be arm to arm, chest to chest, cheek to cheek with Sabetha without Boulidazi raising the slightest objection. Yet anyone who has ever pretend-held an intensely desirable other person will know how little it assuages the longing for genuine contact, genuine surrender, and so even this improvement was no balm to Locke’s mood or desires.

  Thus the situation carried on, gaining momentum like a cart nudged off the top of a hill. The crowds at Gloriano’s grew larger and more boisterous. Calo and Galdo indulged their appetite for dice and cards, closely watched by the others to ensure they didn’t indulge their appetite for never losing. Jean and Jenora churned out costume after costume, restored theatrical weapons to full polish, and spun minor miracles out of dusty scraps. The daily rehearsals became tighter, scripts and notes were discarded, costume and prop trials were made. At last, one evening as the bronze disk of the sun slid westward, Moncraine summoned the company to the stage.

  “Can’t say for sure that we’re getting any better,” he growled, “but at least we’re no longer getting any worse. I think it’s time we gave public notice. My lord Boulidazi, you and the stakeholders must consent.”

  “I do,” said the baron. Alondo, Jenora, and Sylvanus nodded.

  “Gods save us,” said Moncraine. “What this means, dear Camorri, is that we hire our bit players and spear-carriers. Then we announce the times of our shows, and if we don’t manage to put them on, we’re bloody liable. To the ditch-tenders, the beer- and breadmongers, the cushion furnishers, the envoy of ceremonies, and the countess herself, gods forbid.”

  “I presume we’ll need some handbills?” said Jean.

  “Handbills? Who reads? Put those up in most neighborhoods and the good citizens would use them for ass-wiping. We send criers around the poor districts, notes to the nicest. Maybe just a few handbills around the trade streets, but in the main we keep the oldest of old fashions.”

  “What’s that, then?” said Galdo.

  8

  “ARE YOU tired of life itself?” yelled Galdo, attempting to strike the most dynamic pose possible while perched atop a weathered market stall barrel. “Are you dull to spectacle? Are you deaf to the timeless poetry of Caellius Lucarno, master wordsmith of the Therin Throne?”

  A light warm rain was pattering down around him, rippling the mud of the market square, where dozens of Esparans were hawking food, junk, or services from under tarps in various states of repair. It seemed only natural to Galdo that after endless days of merciless sun the sky should close up and start pissing the instant he went out trying to look impressive.

  “Because even if you are—” said Calo, who stood on the ground beside his brother.

  “Fuck off,” yelled the nearest merchant.

  “EVEN IF YOU ARE,” shouted Calo, “you will not be able to resist the romance, the excitement, the grand dazzling festival of forthright astonishments that awaits you when the Moncraine-Boulidazi Company mounts its exclusive presentation of the legendary—”

  “—the daring,” shouted Galdo.

  “—the bloody and heart-wrenching REPUBLIC OF THIEVES, this coming Count’s Day and Penance Day—”

  Galdo had to admit that the state of full sobriety, while in most considerations far less interesting than any degree of inebriation, did at least lend itself to the better employment of reflexes. The irate merchant hurled a turnip, which Calo plucked out of the air just before it struck his head. He tossed it up to Galdo, who leapt off the barrel, somersaulted in midair, caught the turnip, and landed with arms outflung in a flourish.

  “Turnips can’t stop the Moncraine-Boulidazi Company!” he shouted.

  “I’ve got potatoes too,” yelled the merchant.

  �
�Count’s Day! Penance Day! Limited engagements,” hollered Calo. “At the Old Pearl! Don’t miss the most stupendously exciting sensation that has ever graced your lives! The dead will live and breathe and speak again! True love, flashing blades, treachery of the heart, and the secrets of an imperial dynasty, all yours, but if you miss it now you miss it forever!”

  Another turnip was hurled in their direction, and both twins dodged it easily.

  “You missed us now and you’ll miss us forever,” shouted Galdo. He turned to his brother and lowered his voice. “All the same, we’ve got eight stops left. Maybe we’ve favored these dullards long enough.”

  “Too right,” said Calo. The twins bowed to the general indifference of the market square and hurried off into the rain. “Where next?”

  “Jalaan River Gate,” said Galdo. “That’ll be a welcoming and patient crowd for sure, fresh off the road with mud up their ass-cracks.”

  “Yeah,” said Calo. “Gods, where would this gang be without us to do all the actual miserable footwork for it?”

  “We got the aptitude, we get the chores. Bright side, though, would you rather be doing the bookkeeping?”

  “Fuck no. Wouldn’t mind doing the bookkeeper’s assistant.”

  “Hey now, prior claim.”

  “Oh, I know. Good on tubby for sewing her up. I was starting to worry about him,” said Calo.

  “That leaves red and the genius. Still cause for worry there.”

  “How hard is it to fling yourselves at one another and let all the really excited bits just sort themselves out?”

  “It’s not the doing, I think; it’s that our beloved patron barely lets Sabetha out of his sight. Hell’s own chaperone.”

  “Think we should lend a hand?”

  “Hey, I’ll cut the prick’s throat if you’ll dig the hole,” said Galdo. “But that would ruin all this dancing and singing we’re doing on the company’s behalf.”

  “You must’ve kept your brains in your hair before you scraped it off, roundhead. I wasn’t talking about doing Boulidazi. More of dropping a useful hint in Sabetha’s ear.”

  9

  “IT WILL be a better turnout than I expected,” said Jasmer, hunched over a cracked mug of brandy and rainwater.

  “What a generous allowance.” Baron Boulidazi sat across from Moncraine at a back corner table in Mistress Gloriano’s common room. “It’s better than you ever had any right to expect, you damned fool.”

  “Very probably, my lord.”

  Locke leaned against the wall nearby, listening while trying hard to look like he wasn’t. He nursed a half-full cup of apple wine. It was the eve of the Count’s Day performance, and by tradition the company had drunk four toasts in a row—Boulidazi first, Moncraine second, the company third, and a last cup for Morgante, the City Father, a prayer for orderly streets and crowds. Fortunately, Chains had taught Locke the fine art of making half-sips look like vast friendly gulps, and without violating the spirit of the toasts he’d managed to shield his wits from their substance.

  “Probably? I’ve stretched myself for you again, Moncraine,” said the baron, his usual easy bravado discarded. He hadn’t restrained himself while toasting, and his voice was tight with concern. “I can’t just ask my friends to put in an appearance like hired clappers, for the gods’ sake. Eleven gentlemen of standing with entourages. At a first performance, no less. You know they’d usually wait to hear if it’s worth the bother. So it had damn well better be.”

  “You know its quality. You’ve been on us like a bloody leech all through rehearsal.”

  “I don’t just need it to be good,” said Boulidazi. “I want it smooth. Flawless. No incidents, no foul-ups, no miscues.”

  “You can’t escape miscues,” said Moncraine. “If the piece is good they just flow right past; nobody gives a—”

  “I give a damn.” Boulidazi was genuinely in his cups, Locke saw. “This is my bloody company now, as much as it is yours, and my reputation hanging in the wind. Fail me and you’ll regret the day you first saw the sun.”

  “With every will to please my gracious lord,” said Moncraine acidly, “if it was as easy as simply commanding someone to get it right, there wouldn’t be any bad plays. Or paintings, or songs, or—”

  “Fuck up and I’ll have your legs broken,” said Boulidazi. “How’s that for motivation?”

  “I was already quite adequately motivated,” said Jasmer, rising to his feet. “I believe I’ll withdraw, my lord, as your heady company quite overwhelms my peasant sensibilities.”

  Jasmer moved off into the crowd to mingle with Sylvanus and Chantal. The new bit players and the inn’s usual crowd of wastrels and parasites were making a joyous noise unto the wine and ale jugs. Mistress Gloriano fueled the carousing with fresh liquor like a blacksmith shoveling coal into a smelting furnace.

  “Andrassus, you goat,” yelled Jasmer, “how’s tonight’s wine?”

  “Undistinguished,” burped Sylvanus. “If it hasn’t improved by the seventh or eighth cup I might have to resort to sterner forms of self-abuse.”

  Baron Boulidazi rose unsteadily, glowering, ignoring Locke. By chance Sabetha had just come up behind him as she wound her outwardly cheerful path through the tumult, hostess-like. The cup in her hands was as artfully decorative as Locke’s.

  “Verena,” said the baron in a low voice, “surely you’ve done your duty to the company this evening. Let me grant you some of the comforts you’re used to, to rest yourself before the show. A proper hot bath, a fine bed, ice wines, perhaps even—”

  “Oh, Gennaro,” she whispered, delicately removing his hand from where it had come to rest on her upper arm, then twining her fingers through his. “You’ve been so thoughtful. Surely you know it’s bad luck to celebrate like that before a performance, hmmm? I’ll be only too happy to accept your offer after we’ve taken our last bows.”

  It was just about the best possible deflection under the circumstances, thought Locke, but it was also alarming. She’d committed herself now to being alone with him, no later than the day after next, when their second show was finished. After weeks of flirtation and half-promises, Boulidazi could only respond badly to further excuses.

  “Oh, let it be so,” said the baron. “Let me take you away from these damned people and live as we should, even for a day or two. It’s your company that’s kept me down here incognito, not any love of correcting Moncraine. And when this is finished, I want you … that is, I want you to think on what you want next. Imagine the role you desire. I’ll have Moncraine stage it for you, anything you like—”

  “You do know just what to say to a lady,” said Sabetha, laying a finger over his lips and very effectively shutting him up. “I’ll reflect on your offer. On all your offers, Gennaro. I think our desires for the future may be understood to be in close agreement.”

  “Are you sure,” said Boulidazi, plainly dealing with the sudden rush of blood to somewhere less conversationally useful than his brain, “absolutely sure, that tonight you wouldn’t—”

  “I wouldn’t,” she said, sweetly but firmly. “We’ve two long days ahead of us and so much time to spend as we wish afterward. Let’s not put the cart before the horse. Or should that be stallion, hmmmm?”

  “Right,” he said. “Right. As you … as you wish, always. And yet—”

  Locke forced himself to cease listening as Boulidazi burbled a fresh stream of love-struck inanities. The baron’s predictable refusal to accept Sabetha’s polite-speak invitation to piss off for the evening meant that she’d be tending him until she was too tired to do anything but collapse, sour and exhausted, sometime after midnight. Every halting step Locke had taken with Sabetha, every precious moment of understanding they’d clawed out of one another was again being wasted. Locke stared fixedly at his drink, wondering if it was time to quit playacting and throw back a few.

  “Ahoy there, Lucaza,” said Calo, swooping out of nowhere to seize Locke by the arms. He spoke rather loudly: “We’
re short a thrower for a game of Fuck-the-Next-Fellow.”

  “But I don’t want to throw dice—”

  “Nonsense,” said Calo, pulling him away from Sabetha and Boulidazi. “You’re just standing here mooning when you could be losing coins like a proper lad. Come, you’re rolling with us.”

  “But … but—”

  His sputtering achieved nothing. Calo relieved him of his wine and drank it in two gulps. He then dragged Locke on a zigzag path through the crowd, down a side passage and up the narrow stairs near Sabetha and Jenora’s room.

  “What the hell are you—”

  “Biggest favor of your life, half-wit,” said Calo. The long-haired Sanza kicked the wall, and to Locke’s surprise that section of wood paneling slid backward with a click. “Trust me. In the box.”

  Calo’s shove sent Locke sprawling into the confines of a hidden room, perhaps four feet high and seven feet long. A layer of blankets softened his landing, and the space was lit by the pale red glow of a tiny alchemical lamp set atop a stack of small wine casks. The secret panel slid shut behind him.

  Befuddled, Locke glanced around, taking in the very few interesting features of the tiny space. “Fucking Sanzas,” he muttered.

  “I should think not,” said Sabetha an instant later as the panel snapped open again. She closed it as quickly as possible behind her and flopped down on the blankets with a relieved sigh.

  “Oh gods,” said Locke, “this was all your—”

  “The twins told me about this place. Seems Mistress Gloriano’s done some smuggling in her time. Calo accidentally opened it when he tripped against the wall one night.”