by Scott Lynch
At twenty yards, Locke veered slightly, making it clear that there could be no possible collision if he and the stranger continued on their present courses. Ten yards … Jean was nearly at the man’s elbow.
At five yards, Jean bumped into the target from behind, sending him sprawling in just the right direction, with just enough momentum, to smack squarely into Locke’s flax-paper package. Locke ensured that the fragile cube was snapped and crushed instantly, along with the fifteen pounds of spice cake and icing it contained. Much of it hit the cobbles with a sound like meat hitting a butcher’s counter, and the rest of it hit Locke, who artfully fell directly onto his ass.
“Oh gods,” he cried. “You’ve ruined me!”
“Why, I, I’ve—I don’t … damn!” sputtered the target, jumping back from the splattered cake and checking his clothing. He was a well-fed, round-shouldered sort in respectable dress, with a smooth leather ink-guard on his right jacket cuff that told of life lived behind a desk. “I was struck from behind!”
“Indeed you were,” said Jean, who was as well-dressed as the target, and as wide despite a threefold difference in age. Jean was carrying a half-dozen scroll-cases. “I stumbled into you entirely by accident, sir, and I apologize. But the two of us together have smashed this poor servant’s cake.”
“Well, the fault is hardly mine.” The target carefully brushed a few stray pieces of icing off his breeches. “I was merely caught in the middle. Come now, boy, come now. It’s nothing to cry about.”
“Oh, but it is, sir,” said Locke, sniffling as artfully as he ever had in his Shades’ Hill days. “My master will have my skin for bookbindings!”
“Chin up, boy. Everyone takes a few lashes now and again. Are your hands clean?” The target held a hand out, grudgingly, and helped Locke back to his feet. “It’s only the merest cake.”
“It’s not just any cake,” sobbed Locke. “It’s my master’s birthday confection, ordered a month in advance. It’s a crown-cake from Zakasta’s. All kinds of alchemy and spices.”
“Zakasta’s,” said Jean with an admirable impression of awe. “Damn! This is awful luck.”
“That’s my pay for a year,” burbled Locke. “I don’t get to claim a man’s wages for two more to come. He’ll have it out of my hide and my pocket.”
“Let’s not be hasty,” said Jean soothingly. “We can’t get you a new cake, but we can at least give your master his crown back.”
“What do you mean, ‘we’?” The target rounded on Jean. “Who the devil are you to speak for me, boy?”
“Jothar Tathis,” said Jean, “solicitor’s apprentice.”
“Oh? Which solicitor?”
“Mistress Donatella Viricona,” said Jean with the hint of a smile. “Of Meraggio’s.”
“Ahhhh,” said the target, as though Jean had just pointed a loaded crossbow directly at his privates. Mistress Viricona was one of Camorr’s best-known litigators, a woman who served as the voice of several powerful noble families. Anyone who slung parchment for a living was bound to know her legend. “I see … but—”
“We owe this poor boy a crown,” said Jean. “Come, we can split the sum. I might have stumbled into you, but you certainly could have avoided him if you’d been more careful.”
Locke suppressed a grin that would have reached his temples if it hadn’t been checked.
“But—”
“Here, I carry enough as pocket-money.” Jean held out two gold tyrins on his right palm. “Surely it’s no hardship for you, either.”
“But—”
“What are you, a Verrari? Are you that much of a scrub that two tyrins is an imposition for you? If so, at least give me your name so I can let my mistress know who wouldn’t—”
“Fine,” said the man, holding his hands up toward Jean. “Fine! We’ll pay for the damn cake. Half and half.” He passed a pair of gold tyrins over to Locke, and watched as Jean did the same.
“Th-thank you, sirs,” said Locke with a quavering voice. “I’ll catch some hell for this, but not nearly what I would have had coming.”
“It’s only reasonable,” said Jean. “Gods go with you, both of you.”
“Yes, yes,” said the older man, scowling. “Be more careful next time you’re hauling a cake around, boy.” He hurried on his way without another word.
“Guilt is such a beautiful thing,” sighed Locke as he scooped up the toppled mess of the boxed cake—a horrid conglomeration of old flour, sawdust, and white plaster worth about a hundredth of what the unfortunate mark had handed over. “That’s a solid tyrin apiece for tonight.”
“Think Chains will be pleased?”
“Let’s hope it’s the Benefactor that ends up pleased,” said Locke with a grin. “I’ll just clear this mess up and find someplace to dump it so the yellowjackets don’t break my skull. Back home?”
“Yeah, roundabout way,” said Jean. “See you in half an hour.”
3
“SO THEN this fellow backs off like Jean’s started juggling live scorpions,” said Locke, just over half an hour later. “And Jean starts calling him a scrub, and a Verrari, and all kinds of things, and the poor bastard just handed over two gold coins like that.”
Locke snapped his fingers, and the Sanza twins applauded politely. Calo and Galdo sat side by side atop the table in the glass burrow’s kitchen, disdaining the use of anything so commonplace as chairs.
“And that’s your offering?” said Calo. “A tyrin apiece?”
“It’s a fair sum,” said Jean. “And we thought we put some effort into it. Artistic merit and all that.”
“Took us two hours to make the cake,” said Locke. “And you should have seen the acting. We could have been on stage. That man’s heart melted into a puddle, I was so sad and forlorn.”
“So it wasn’t acting at all, then,” said Galdo.
“Polish my dagger for me, Sanza,” said Locke, making an elaborate hand gesture that Camorri only used in public when they absolutely wanted to start a fight.
“Sure, I’ll get the smallest rag in the kitchen while you draw me a map to where it’s been hiding all these years.”
“Oh, be fair,” said Calo. “We can spot it easily enough whenever Sabetha’s in the room!”
“Like now?” said Sabetha as she appeared from around the corner of the burrow’s entrance tunnel.
The fact that Locke didn’t die instantly may be taken as proof that a human male can survive having every last warm drop of blood within his body rush instantly to the vicinity of his cheeks.
Sabetha had been exerting herself. Her face was flushed, several strands of her tightly queued hair had fallen out of place, and the open neckline of her cream-colored tunic revealed a sheen of sweat on her skin. Locke’s eyes would ordinarily have been fixed on her as though connected to the aforementioned tunic by invisible threads, but he pretended that something terribly important had just appeared in the empty far corner of the kitchen.
“And where do you two get off teasing Locke?” said Sabetha. “If either of you have any hair on your stones yet, you’ve been putting it there with a paintbrush.”
“You wound us deeply,” said Calo. “And good taste prevents us from being able to respond in kind.”
“However,” said Galdo, “if you were to ask around certain Guilded Lilies, you’d discover that your—”
“You’ve been visiting the Guilded Lilies?” said Jean.
“Ahhh,” said Calo with a cough, “that is to say, were we to visit the, ah, Guilded Lilies, hypothetically—”
“Hypothetically,” said Galdo. “Excellent word. Hypothetically.”
“Oh, I don’t know. It’s just like you two to make someone else do all the work, isn’t it?” Sabetha rolled her eyes. “So what’s your offering, then?”
“Red wine,” said Calo. “Two dozen bottles. We borrowed them from that half-blind old bastard just off Ropelayer’s Way.”
“I went in dressed like a swell,” said Galdo, “and while I
kept him busy around the shop, Calo was in and out the rear window, quiet as a spider.”
“It was too easy,” said Calo. “That poor fellow couldn’t tell a dog’s ass from a douche bucket if you gave him three tries.”
“Anyhow, Chains said they could be used for the toasting after the ceremony,” said Galdo. “Since the point is to get rid of the offerings anyway.”
“Nice,” said Jean, scratching at the faint dark fuzz on his heavy chin. “What have you been up to, Sabetha?”
“Yeah, what’s your offering?” said the twins in unison.
“It’s taken me most of the day,” said Sabetha, “and it hasn’t been easy, but I liked the look of these.” She brought three polished witchwood truncheons out from behind her back. One of them was new, one was moderately dented, and one looked as though it had been used to crack skulls for as long as any of the younger Gentlemen Bastards had been alive.
“Oh, you’re kidding,” said Galdo.
“No, you’re fucking kidding,” said Calo.
“Your eyes do not deceive you,” said Sabetha, twirling the batons by their straps. “Several of Camorr’s famously vigilant city watchmen have indeed misplaced their convincing sticks.”
“Oh, gods,” said Locke, his guts roiling with a tangled mess of admiration and consternation. His self-satisfaction at squeezing half a crown out of the poor slob in the Fountain Bend vanished. “That’s … that’s a bloody work of art!”
“Why, thank you,” said Sabetha, giving a mock bow to the room. “I have to admit, I only got two of them off belts. Third one was lying around in a watch station. I figured I had no business turning down that sort of temptation.”
“But why didn’t you tell us what you were doing?” said Locke. “Chasing the watch on your own—”
“Have you always told everyone else what you’re up to?” said Sabetha.
“But you could have used some top-eyes, or a distraction just in case,” said Locke.
“Well, you were busy. I saw you and Jean baking your little cake.”
“You’re showing off,” said Calo. “Hoping to make an impression?”
“You think there’ll be a choosing,” said Galdo, slyly.
“Chains said there’s a chance every year,” said Sabetha. “Might as well stand out. Haven’t you two ever thought about it?”
“The full priesthood?” Calo stuck out his tongue. “Not our style. Don’t get us wrong, we love the Crooked Warden, but the two of us …”
“Just because we like to drink doesn’t mean we want to run the tavern,” finished Calo.
“What about you, Jean?” said Sabetha.
“Interesting question.” Jean took his optics off and wiped them against a tunic sleeve as he spoke. “I’d be surprised if the Crooked Warden wanted someone like me as a divine. My parents took oath to Gandolo. I like to think I’m welcome where the gods have put me, but I don’t believe I’m meant for anything like a priesthood.”
“And you, Locke?” Sabetha asked quietly.
“I, uh, guess I haven’t really thought about it.” That was a lie. Locke had always been fascinated by the hints Chains dropped about the secretive structure of the Crooked Warden’s priesthood, but he wasn’t sure what Sabetha wanted to hear from him. “I, ah, take it you have?”
“I have.” There was that smile of hers, a smile that was like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. “I want it. I want to know what Chains smirks about all the time. And I want to win it. I want to be the best—”
She was interrupted by an echoing clang from the entrance tunnel. That could only be Chains returning to the burrow from the various preparations the night would require. He rounded the corner and smiled when he saw them all gathered.
“Good, good,” he muttered. “Sanzas, the wine is being carried in by some people who’ll be less busy than yourselves. Everyone else, I trust you have your offerings?” He looked pleased at the nods he received. Locke caught the twinkle of unusual excitement in his eyes despite the dark circles beneath them. “Excellent. Then let’s have some dinner before we leave.”
“Will we need to dress up or bathe for this?” asked Sabetha.
“Oh no, my dear, no. Ours is a pragmatic sort of temple. Besides, it’s no use in trying to prettify yourselves, since you’re going to have sacks thrown over your heads. Try to act surprised. That’s the only little secret I’ll be giving away in advance.”
4
A HUSH ran through the assembled thieves as several men and women, using a collapsible wooden frame, hung curtains over the door the postulants had been carried through. Other than a few vents in the ceiling, that door was the only entrance to the room Locke could see. Guards took up positions by the curtains—serious bruisers in long leather coats, with cudgels and axes ready. Chains had explained that their purpose was to ensure the privacy of the ritual. Other guards would be out there somewhere, an entire network, lurking along every route an outsider could use to spy upon or disrupt the Orphan’s Moon rites.
There were about ten dozen people in the vault. That was a scant fraction of the people in Camorr whose lives were supposed to be ruled by the god with the hidden name, but that, according to Chains, was the nature of devotion. It was easy to mutter prayers and curses in the heat of the moment, and less convenient to skulk around in the middle of nowhere on the one night a year the dedicated actually came together.
“This is the temple of the church without temples,” said a woman in a hooded gray cloak as she stepped into the middle of the vaulted chamber. “This is the ceremony of the order without ceremonies.”
“Father of our fortunes, we consecrate this hall to your purpose; to be joined to your grace and to receive your mysteries.” This was Chains, his voice rich and resonant. He took his place by the woman’s side, wearing a similar robe. “We are thieves among thieves; our lot is shared. We are keepers of signs and passwords, here without malice or guile.”
“This is our calling and our craft, which you from love have given us.” The third speaker was the garrista who’d sworn the postulants to secrecy, now robed in gray. “Father of Shadows, who teaches us to take what we would dare to take, receive our devotions.”
“You have taught us that good fortune may be seized and shared,” said the female priest.
“Thieves prosper,” chanted the crowd.
“You have taught us the virtue and the necessity of our arts,” said Father Chains.
“The rich remember.”
“You have given us the darkness to be our shield,” said the third priest. “And taught us the blessing of fellowship.”
“We are thieves among thieves.”
“Blessed are the quick and the daring,” said Chains, moving to the front of the hall, where a block of stone had been covered with a black silk drape. “Blessed are the patient and the watchful. Blessed is the one who aids a thief, hides a thief, revenges a thief, and remembers a thief, for they shall inherit the night.”
“Inherit the night,” chanted the crowd solemnly.
“We are gathered in peace, in the eyes of our Benefactor, the Thirteenth Prince of Earth and Heaven, whose name is guarded.” The female priest spoke now, and took a place by Chains’ left hand. “This is the night he claims for his remembrance, the Orphan’s Moon.”
“Are there any among us who would swear a solemn covenant with this temple, and take the oath of joining?” said the third priest.
This was the crucial moment. Any thief, anyone even remotely connected to an unlawful existence, was welcome in this company, so long as they took the oath of secrecy. But those taking the next step, the oath of joining, would proclaim their choice of the Unnamed Thirteenth as their heavenly patron. They would certainly not be turning their backs on the other gods of the Therin pantheon, but to their patron they would owe their deepest prayers and best offerings for as long as they lived. Even children studying to become priests didn’t take formal oaths of joining until their early teens, and many people never
took them at all, preferring to cultivate a loose devotion to all gods rather than a more formal obligation to one.
Nazca was the first to step forward, and behind her in a self-conscious rush came everyone else. Once the postulants had arranged themselves with as much dignity as they could manage, Chains held up his hands.
“This decision, once made, cannot be unmade. The gods are jealous of promises and will not suffer this oath to be cast aside. Be therefore sober and solemnly resolved, or stand aside. There is no shame in not being ready at this time.”
None of the postulants backed down. Chains clapped three times, and the sound echoed around the vault.
“Hail the Crooked Warden,” said the three priests in unison.
“STOP!”
A new voice boomed from the back of the chamber, and from behind the crowd of watchers came a trio of men in black robes and masks, followed by a woman in a red dress. They stormed down the aisle in the center of the vault, shoving the postulants aside, and formed a line between them and the altar.
“STOP AT ONCE!” The speaker was a man whose mask was a stylized bronze sun, with carved rays spreading from a sinister, unsmiling face. He seized Oretta, a scar-covered girl with a reputation as a knife-fighter, and dragged her forward. “The Sun commands you now! I burn away shadows, banish night, make your sins plain! Honest men rise as I rise, and sleep as I set! I am lord and father of all propriety. Who are you to defy me?”
“A thief among thieves,” said Oretta.
“Take my curse. The night shall be your day, the pale moons your sun.”
“I take your curse as a blessing of my heavenly patron,” said Oretta.
“Does this one speak for you all?”
“She does,” yelled the crowd of postulants. The Sun threw Oretta to the ground, not gently, and turned his back on them all.
“Now hear the words of Justice,” said the woman in the red dress, which was short and slashed. She wore a velvet mask like those used by the duke’s magistrates to conceal their identities. Justice pulled Nazca forward by her shoulders and forced her to kneel. “All things I weigh, but gold counts dearest, and you have none. All names I read, but those with titles please me best, and you descend from common dirt. Who are you to defy me?”