by Scott Lynch
Calo didn’t even waste time on a dirty look. He lashed out with his legs, hooked Galdo below the knees, and toppled him. Galdo rolled over on his back, clutching at his left wrist, and howled in pain.
“Oh, hell,” said Calo, jumping back to his feet. “Is it bad? I didn’t mean to, honest—GNNNAKKKH!”
This last extremely unpleasant sound was forced out of him by a kick from Galdo that terminated in Calo’s groin.
“Nah, it feels fine,” said Galdo. “Just having a bit of acting practice.”
Locke, Jean, Alondo, Jenora, and Sabetha descended on the twins, separating them before Moncraine could get involved in the melee. What followed was a pandemonium of finger-pointing and hard words in which the intelligence, birth city, artistic capacity, work habits, skin color, dress sense, and personal honor of every participant were insulted at least once. Through it all the sun poured down relentless heat, and by the time relative order was restored Locke’s head was swimming. He didn’t notice that someone had come around the corner from the street until they cleared their throat loudly.
“How grand,” said the newcomer, a tall woman of about thirty. She wore a tight gray tunic and baggy trousers, and she was of mixed Therin and dark-skinned parentage, though she was lighter than Jasmer or the Gloriano women. Her black curls were cut just above her ears, and she had the sort of cool self-composure that Locke associated with Camorri garristas. “Jasmer, I’m impressed, but not really in the way I expected to be.”
“Chantal,” said Moncraine, conjuring his dignity with the speed of a quick-draw artist. “A fine afternoon to you as well, you opportunistic turncoat.”
“You were off to the Weeping Tower,” said the woman. “I do like to eat more than once a month. I’ve got nothing to apologize for.”
“What’s the matter, Basanti not handing out charity to any more of my strays?”
“Basanti’s got work for the taking. But I heard some interesting things. Heard you’d found a patron.”
“Yes, it turns out that not all the good taste has been bred out of Espara’s quality.”
“Also heard that those Camorri you promised weren’t a lie after all.”
“They’re all here,” said Moncraine. “Count ’em.”
“And you’re still serious about doing The Republic of Thieves?”
“Serious as a slit throat.”
“Is Jenora finally getting onstage?”
“Gods above, no!” said Jenora.
“Aha.” Chantal strolled toward Moncraine. “By my count, you’re short at least one woman, then.”
“What do you care if I am?”
“Look, Jasmer.” Chantal’s cat-and-mouse smile vanished. “Basanti’s doing The Wine of Womanly Reverence, and I don’t want to spend the summer giggling and flouncing as Fetching Maid Number Four. We’re in a position to help one another.”
“Hmmm,” said Moncraine. “Depends. Did you drag that husband of yours back over here as well?”
As though on cue, a brown-haired Therin man came around the corner behind Chantal. He wore an open white tunic, displaying a rugged physique decorated with dents and scars. Those and the fact that his right ear was half-missing led Locke to guess that he was either a veteran handball player or an aging swordsman who’d seen the writing on the wall.
“Of course you did,” said Moncraine. “Well, my new young friends, allow me to introduce you to Chantal Couza, formerly of the Moncraine Company, and her husband, Bertrand the Crowd.”
“The Crowd?” said Locke.
“He hops costumes from scene to scene like nobody else,” said Alondo. “He’s half a dozen bit players in one.”
“Him I can use,” said Moncraine, “but what makes you think I’ve forgiven either of you?”
“Cut the crap, Jasmer,” said Chantal. “I want decent work. You want a happy audience.”
“Dare I ask if there will be any more reverse defections?”
“Not for a basket of rubies the size of your self-regard, Jasmer. They’re more worried about being taken in as accomplices to assault and sedition than they are about losing their places in your troupe.”
“Well, I say take Bert and Chantal back,” said Alondo.
“Likewise,” said Jenora. “We’ve got parts to fill, and we don’t have time to be choosy. Shall I pry Sylvanus out of bed and see what he thinks?”
“No,” said Moncraine. “He’d say yes just because he can’t take his eyes off her. Fine! You’re in luck, the pair of you, but it’s on wages. No percentage. You know the papers. You lost that when you walked.”
“We might have to argue that,” said Chantal. “Either way, it’s worth it to avoid Fetching Maid Number Four. Believe me, I’d much rather be Amadine, Queen of the Shadows.”
“I’m ever so sorry,” said Sabetha. If the words THAT WAS A LIE had suddenly sprung up behind her in letters of fire ten feet high, the effect could scarcely have added to her tone of voice. “That role is no longer available.”
“Are you kidding?” Chantal strode across the courtyard until she was looking down at Sabetha, who was a hand-span shorter than the older woman. “Who are you, then?”
“Amadine,” said Sabetha coolly. “Queen of the Shadows.”
“Bloody Camorri. You’re young enough to have come out from between my legs! But not pretty enough. You can’t be serious.”
“She certainly can,” said Locke. Heat and frustration mingled badly with his acute sensitivity at hearing a stranger say anything uncomplimentary about Sabetha.
“Jasmer, you’re mad,” said Chantal. “She’s no Amadine. Give her Penthra, by all means, but not Amadine! What is she, sixteen? Sixteen, boy-assed and average!”
“Average?” said Locke. “Average? How the hell do you get around the city with two glass eyes in your gods-damned head, woman? You gotta be stu—”
Before Locke could append the second syllable of that heartfelt but unwisely chosen word, Bertrand the Crowd, true to his appearance, had one rough hand on Locke’s tunic collar and was dragging him toward a rendezvous with his other fist, already drawn back. The world moved in horrifying slow motion; Locke, who was no stranger to a beating, was cursed with an uncanny ability to recognize one just before it ceased to be theoretical.
A miracle the size and shape of Jean Tannen appeared out of the corner of Locke’s vision. An instant before Bertrand could throw his punch, Jean hit him shoulder-to-stomach and slammed him into the dirt.
“Bert!” shouted Chantal.
“Heavens,” said Jenora.
Locke realized he was holding something, and he glanced down to discover that Jean had somehow tossed his precious optics into his hands while separating him from Bertrand.
Jean was a round-bellied, quietly dignified boy of about sixteen. Even his current crop of carefully hoarded stubble failed to lend his aspect any real menace. Bertrand had at least a decade on him, not to mention six inches and twenty pounds, and he looked like he could tear a side of beef in half on a whim. What happened next surprised even Locke.
Punch was traded for punch. Jean and Bertrand rolled around, a furious tangle of arms and legs, swiping and swatting and straining. The advantage shifted every few seconds. Jean got his hands around Bertrand’s throat, only to find the older man hammering at his ribs. Bertrand pinned Jean beneath him, yet the boy somehow kicked his legs aside and pulled him back to the ground.
“Gods above,” said Chantal. “Stop! Stop it, already! We can talk about this!”
Jean attempted to hold an arm across Bertrand’s neck, and Bertrand responded with something fast and clever that flung Jean forward over his shoulder. When he tried to press his advantage, however, Jean did something equally fast and clever that threw Bert into a wall. The two combatants wrestled again, desperately forming and breaking grips on one another, until at last Jean slipped free and rolled clear. This was a mistake; the older man used the space between them to swing a wild haymaker that clipped Jean across the chin and finally dropped h
im.
A moment later, Bertrand wobbled and fell on his face, just as used up as his younger antagonist.
“Chantal,” said Moncraine, “I would have been happy to tell you that the role of Amadine was beyond negotiation, for several reasons. And hot staggering shit, you cannot expect me to believe that boy can do all that and work a thimble, too!”
Jenora and the Gentlemen Bastards gathered around Jean, while Alondo, Chantal, and Moncraine saw to Bert. Both the fighters regained their senses soon enough, and were eased up into sitting positions against the inn wall.
“Optics,” coughed Jean. When Locke handed them over, he settled them carefully on his nose and sighed with relief.
“Smoke,” muttered Bertrand. Chantal handed him a sheaf of rolled tobacco and flicked a bit of twist-match to light it. Once she’d done this, Bert tore the cigar in two, lit the cold half from the red embers of the other, and passed it over to Jean. The boy nodded his thanks, and the two combatants smoked in peace for a few moments while everyone else watched, dumbfounded.
“You play handball, kid?” said Bertrand. His voice was deep, his Verrari accent thick.
“Certainly,” said Jean.
“Come play with my side on Penance Day afternoons. We play for ale money, two coppins a man to buy in.”
“Love to,” said Jean. “Just don’t take any more swings at my friends.”
“Sure, kid,” said Bertrand. He waved a finger at Locke. “And you don’t talk about my wife like that.”
“Then tell your wife not to insult Verena,” said Locke.
“Hey there, skinny, we both speak Therin.” Chantal poked Locke sharply in the chest. “You got something to tell me, tell me yourself.”
“Fine,” said Locke, matching gazes with Chantal. “Don’t insult Verena—”
“Excuse me,” said Sabetha, pushing Locke aside without humor or delicacy. “Did I turn invisible or something? I’m not hiding behind him, Chantal.”
Locke winced at the unkind emphasis on him.
“You want to fight your own fights, bitchling?” said Chantal. “Good. Anytime you want a real education, you try and throw a—”
“ENOUGH,” hollered Moncraine in a shake-the-rafters voice, pushing the two women apart. “Gods damn you all for shit-witted wastrels! Bring yourselves to order or I’ll go punch another nobleman, I swear it on my balls and bones!”
“Chantal, sweetness,” said Bertrand, blowing smoke, “when Jasmer’s the voice of reason you might have to admit it’s time to calm down.”
“Verena’s Amadine,” said Jasmer. “That’s the way it is! You can have Penthra or you can have Fetching Maid Number Four and shake your tits all summer for Basanti.”
Chantal glowered, then offered a hand to Sabetha. “Peace, then. I just hope that when you’re onstage the sun shines out of your backside, girl.”
Sabetha shook with Chantal. “When I’m finished, you won’t be able to imagine anyone else as Amadine ever again.”
Bertrand whistled and grinned. “Ha! That’s good. Give my wife a couple of days to grow on you, Verena. She’ll make you like her.”
“I’ve had a lot of opportunities in my life to learn tolerance,” said Sabetha with a thin smile.
“Now, if you’re Amadine,” said Bertrand, “who’s Aurin? Who gets to do all that kissing and mooning and staring, eh?”
Locke’s heart seemed to skip a beat.
“That’s what we were in the business of figuring out when you showed up,” said Moncraine. He rubbed his forehead and sighed. “I suppose I might as well make my decision. I’ll hedge our bets. Lucaza, you’ll be Ferrin.”
“I would love to … wait, what?” said Locke.
“You heard me. Aurin’s a role that needs more nuance. I want Alondo to handle it.”
“But—”
“That’s all,” said Jasmer. “That’s it for today. No further discussion. And gods help me, I can quote the company charter as well as Jenora can. Next one of you that lays a finger on anyone else here gets docked. Wages, shares, work time—I don’t give a damn. I’ll spank you like an angry father. Now, go!”
5
“PENTHRA,” MUTTERED Jean, reading aloud from the script in his hands, “a fallen noblewoman of Therim Pel. Amadine’s boon companion.”
“I’ve read the bloody character list, Jean.” Locke and Jean sat in the corner of Mistress Gloriano’s common room farthest from the bar, where Bertrand, Jasmer, Alondo, Chantal, and Sylvanus were drinking up a significant portion of the company’s future profits. Dinner was just past. “Wait, are you trying to ignore me?”
“Yes.” Jean closed his copy of the play with a sigh. “My ribs ache, I got thrown out of the play, I’m now a bookkeeping stevedore, and you’re plumbing new depths of tedium with your moping.”
“But I—”
“Seriously, if you want to kiss her onstage so badly just speak to Jasmer.”
“He doesn’t want to talk about it.” Locke sipped his cup of warm dark ale, barely tasting it. “Says it’s an artistic decision and therefore not subject to debate.”
“Then talk to Alondo.”
“He acts for a living. Why would he give up the plum role?”
“I don’t know, because you tricked him? Because you convinced him? Rumor has it you took some lessons in being tricky and convincing.”
“Yeah, but … he’s a decent enough fellow. It’s not like yanking Jasmer around. Feels wrong.”
“Then listen here, my friend. I’m not an oracle and I’m not going to turn into one no matter how long you sit there crying in your beer. You know I used to think that the Sanzas were the biggest annoyance around? I was wrong. Until you and Sabetha get your shit together, they’re the least of all possible evils.”
“She’s just so gods-damned inscrutable.”
“You were talking to her before, right?”
“Yeah. It was going well. Now it’s all strange.”
“Have you considered extreme, desperate measures like talking to her again?”
“Yeah, but, well …”
“You’ve yeah-but your way to this point,” said Jean. “You’re going to yeah-but this mess until it’s time to go home, and I don’t doubt you’ll yeah-but her out of your life. Quit circling at a distance. Go talk to her, for Preva’s sake.”
“Where is she?”
“She sneaks up to the roof when the rest of us are down here making idiots of ourselves.”
“She won’t … I dunno, it’s not that it’s—”
“Reach between your legs,” growled Jean, “and find some balls, or you do not get to speak to me on the subject of her for the rest of the summer.”
“I’m sorry,” said Locke. “I just hate the thought of screwing things up worse than they are. You know I’ve got talents in that direction.”
“Ha. Indeed. Try being direct and honest. I can’t give you any more specific advice. When the hell have I ever charmed my way under anyone’s dress, hmm? All I know is that if you and Sabetha don’t reach some understanding we’re all going to regret it. But you most of all.”
“You’re right.” Locke took a deep, steadying breath. “You’re right!”
“Pretty routinely,” sighed Jean. “Are you going?”
“Absolutely.”
“Not with that beer, you’re not. Give it over.” Locke did so with an absentminded air, and Jean drained the cup in one gulp.
“Okay,” he said. “Go! Before your so-called better judgment has a chance to wake back up. Wait, that’s not the way up. Where the hell are you going?”
“Just back to the bar,” said Locke. “I have a bright idea.”
6
LANGUID, THICK-AIRED evening had come down on Espara, and the city lights were flicking to life beneath a sky the color of harvest grapes. Mistress Gloriano’s crooked gables concealed a little balcony, westward-facing, where two people could sit side by side, assuming they were on good terms. Locke eased the balcony hatch open carefully, peere
d out, and found Sabetha staring directly at him with eyebrows raised. She lowered her copy of The Republic of Thieves.
“Hi,” said Locke, much less confidently than he’d imagined he would as he’d climbed the little passage from the second floor. “Can I, ah, share your balcony for a little while?”
“I was going over my part.”
“You expect me to believe you don’t already have the whole thing memorized?”
It was as though she couldn’t decide whether to be pleased or exasperated. Locke knew the expression well. After a moment, she set her book down and beckoned him out. He sat down cross-legged, as she was, and they faced one another.
“What’s behind your back?” she said.
“A small kindness.” He showed her the wineskin and two small clay cups he’d been concealing. “Or a bribe. Depending on how you look at it.”
“I’m not thirsty.”
“If I’d been worried about thirst, I’d have brought you water. I was worried about knives.”
“Knives?”
“Yeah, the ones you’ve had out for a few days now. I was hoping to sort of dull the edges.”
“Isn’t that rather knavish? Plying a girl with drink?”
“In this case it’s more like self-defense. And I did sort of think you might just … like a cup of wine.”
“And then perhaps a second? And a third, and so on, until my inhibitions were sufficiently elastic?”
“I didn’t deserve that.”
“Yes, well … perhaps not.”
“Gods, I forgot that anyone who wants to be nice to you has to get permission in advance and wear heavy armor.” Biting his lip, Locke poured the pale wine carelessly and slid one of the cups toward her. “Look, you can pretend it just appeared there by magic if it makes you happy.”
“Is that Anjani orange wine?”
“If it’s Anjani my ass is made of gold,” said Locke, sipping from his cup. “But it was some kind of orange, once upon a time.”
“And what miracle are you trying to coax out of me, exactly?”