The Gentleman Bastard Series 3-Book Bundle: The Lies of Locke Lamora, Red Seas Under Red Skies, The Republic of Thieves
Page 132
“And what if you—”
“When I do I do,” said Locke. “Forgive me.”
“Yes,” said Jean. “And no. Never.”
“I understand, I think,” said Locke. “Get up and give me a hand with the anchor, would you?”
“What do you have in mind?”
“This coast is so gods-damned old,” said Locke. “Falling apart. Seen it, seen everywhere like it. Let’s see if we can’t get this thing pointed somewhere else.”
He stood up, keeping one of his hands on Jean’s shoulder.
“Somewhere new.”
AFTERWORD
Nautical enthusiasts, of both the armchair and the hands-on persuasion, are bound to have noticed that a great deal of folding, spindling, and mutilating has taken place within Red Seas Under Red Skies where the jargon of the sea is concerned.
In some instances I can claim the honorable excuses: that I have abstracted for the sake of reader comprehension or adjusted for the cultural and technological peculiarities of Locke’s world. Others can only be explained by that most traditional affliction of authors—that I have screwed up somewhere and have no idea what I’m talking about. Things always work out best for the both of us, dear reader, when you can’t tell the difference. Toward that end, my fingers are crossed.
This, then, concludes the second volume of the Gentleman Bastard sequence.
Scott Lynch
New Richmond, Wisconsin
January 26, 2007
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Once more to the amazing Jenny, for being so many things over the years—girlfriend, best friend, first reader, constructive critic, and, at long last, wife.
To Anne Groell, Gillian Redfearn, and Simon Spanton, not only for being generally and specifically brilliant, but for not murdering me.
To Jo Fletcher, again with the not murdering me. Cheers!
To everyone at Orion Books who made my first (one can only hope) trip to England a joy, and tolerated me despite my wretched state of illness; especially to Jon Weir, faithful whip-cracker and guide.
To all the UK booksellers who bent over backward promoting and talking up The Lies of Locke Lamora when it was just a newborn baby book, not yet walking on its own two feet, so many thanks.
To Desiree, Jeff, and Cleo.
To Deanna Hoak, Lisa Rogers, Josh Pasternak, John Joseph Adams, Elizabeth Bear, Sarah Monette, Jason McCray, Joe Abercrombie, Tom Lloyd, Jay Lake, GRRM, and so many others.
To Loki, Valkyrie, Peepit, Artemis, and Thor, the best contingent of small household mammals ever assembled.
The Republic of Thieves is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by Scott Lynch
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Del Rey, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House LLC, New York, a Penguin Random House Company.
DEL REY and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Random House LLC.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Lynch, Scott
The Republic of Thieves / Scott Lynch.
pages cm
ISBN 978-0-553-80469-0 (hardcover : acid-free paper)
ebook ISBN: 978-0-553-90558-8
1. Swindlers and swindling—Fiction. 2. Brigands and robbers—Fiction. 3. Man-woman relationships—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3612.Y5427R47 2013
813′.6—dc23
2013024809
www.delreybooks.com
Jacket illustration: Benjamin Carré/Bragelonne
v3.1
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Map
Prologue: The Minder
I: Her Shadow
Chapter One: Things Get Worse
Interlude: The Undrowned Girl
Chapter Two: The Business
Interlude: The Boy Who Chased Red Dresses
Intersect (I): Fuel
Chapter Three: Blood and Breath and Water
Interlude: Orphan’s Moon
Chapter Four: Across The Amathel
II: Cross-Purposes
Interlude: Striking Sparks
Chapter Five: The Five-Year Game: Starting Position
Interlude: Bastards Abroad
Chapter Six: The Five-Year Game: Change of Venue
Intersect (II): Tinder
Interlude: The Moncraine Company
Chapter Seven: The Five-Year Game: Countermove
III: Fatal Honesty
Interlude: Aurin and Amadine
Chapter Eight: The Five-Year Game: Infinite Variation
Interlude: Happenings in Bedchambers
Chapter Nine: The Five-Year Game: Reasonable Doubt
Intersect (III): Spark
Interlude: An Inconvenient Patron
Chapter Ten: The Five-Year Game: Final Approaches
Interlude: Death-Masks
Chapter Eleven: The Five-Year Game: Returns
Intersect (IV): Ignition
Last Interlude: Thieves Prosper
Chapter Twelve: The End of Old Dreams
Epilogue: Wings
Dedication
Afterword
PROLOGUE
THE MINDER
1
PLACE TEN DOZEN hungry orphan thieves in a dank burrow of vaults and tunnels beneath what used to be a graveyard, put them under the supervision of one partly crippled old man, and you will soon find that governing them becomes a delicate business.
The Thiefmaker, skulking eminence of the orphan kingdom beneath Shades’ Hill in old Camorr, was not yet so decrepit that any of his grimy little wards could hope to stand alone against him. Nonetheless, he was alert to the doom that lurked in the clutching hands and wolfish impulses of a mob—a mob that he, through his training, was striving to make more predatory still with each passing day. The veneer of order that his life depended on was insubstantial as damp paper at the best of times.
His presence itself could enforce absolute obedience in a certain radius, of course. Wherever his voice could carry and his own senses seize upon misbehavior, his orphans were tame. But to keep his ragged company in line when he was drunk or asleep or hobbling around the city on business, it was essential that he make them eager partners in their own subjugation.
He molded most of the biggest, oldest boys and girls in Shades’ Hill into a sort of honor guard, granting them shoddy privileges and stray scraps of near-respect. More important, he worked hard to keep every single one of them in constant deadly terror of himself. No failure was ever met with anything but pain or the promise of pain, and the seriously insubordinate had a way of vanishing. Nobody had any illusions that they had gone to a better place.
So he ensured that his chosen few, steeped in fear, had no outlet save to vent their frustrations (and thus enforce equivalent fear) upon the next oldest and largest set of children. These in turn would oppress the next weakest class of victim. Step by step the misery was shared out, and the Thiefmaker’s authority would cascade like a geological pressure out to the meekest edges of his orphan mass.
It was an admirable system, considered in itself, unless of course you happened to be part of that outer edge—the small, the eccentric, the friendless. In their case, life in Shades’ Hill was like a boot to the face at every hour of every day.
Locke Lamora was five or six or seven years old. Nobody knew for certain, or cared to know. He was unusually small, undeniably eccentric, and perpetually friendless. Even when he shuffled along inside a great smelly mass of orphans, one among dozens, he walked alone and he damn well knew it.
2
MEETING TIME. A bad time under the Hill. The shifting stream of orphans surrounded Locke like an unfamiliar forest, concealing trouble everywhere.
The first rule to surviving in this state was to avoid attention. As the murmuring army of orphans headed toward the great vault at the center of Shades’ Hill, where the Thiefmaker had called them, Locke flicked his glance left and right. The trick was to spot known bullies at a safe distance without making actual eye contact (nothing worse, the mistake of mistakes) and then, ever so casually, move to place neutral children between himself and each threat until it passed.
The second rule was to avoid responding when the first rule proved insufficient, as it too often did.
The crowd parted behind him. Like all prey animals, Locke had a honed instinct for approaching harm. He had enough time to wince preemptively, and then came the blow, sharp and hard, right between his shoulder blades. Locke smacked into the tunnel wall and barely managed to stay on his feet.
Familiar laughter followed the blow. It was Gregor Foss, years older and two stone heavier, as far beyond Locke’s powers of reprisal as the duke of Camorr.
“Gods, Lamora, what a weak and clumsy little cuss you are.” Gregor put a hand on the back of Locke’s head and pushed him along, still in full contact with the moist dirt wall, until his forehead bounced painfully off one of the old wooden tunnel supports. “Got no strength to stay on your own feet. Hell, if you tried to bugger a cockroach, the roach’d spin you round and do you up the ass instead.”
Everyone nearby laughed, a few from genuine amusement, the rest from fear of being seen not laughing. Locke kept stumbling forward, seething but silent, as though it were a perfectly natural state of affairs to have a face covered with dirt and a throbbing bump on the forehead. Gregor shoved him once more, but without vigor, then snorted and pushed ahead through the crowd.
Play dead. Pretend not to care. That was the way to keep a few moments of humiliation from becoming hours or days of pain, to keep bruises from becoming broken bones or worse.
The river of orphans was flowing to a rare grand gathering, nearly all the Hill, and in the main vault the air was already heavier and staler than usual. The Thiefmaker sat in his high-backed chair, his head barely visible above the press of children, while his oldest subjects carved paths through the crowd to take their accustomed places near him. Locke sought a far wall and pressed up against it, doing his best impression of a shadow. There, with the welcome comfort of a guarded back, he touched his forehead and indulged in a momentary pout. His fingers were slippery with blood when he took them away.
After a few moments, the influx of orphans trickled to a halt, and the Thiefmaker cleared his throat.
It was a Penance Day in the seventy-seventh Year of Sendovani, a hanging day, and outside the dingy caves below Shades’ Hill the duke of Camorr’s people were knotting nooses under a bright spring sky.
3
“IT’S LAMENTABLE business,” said the Thiefmaker. “That’s what it is. To have some of our own brothers and sisters snatched into the unforgiving arms of the duke’s justice. Damned deplorable that they were slackards enough to get caught! Alas. As I have always been at pains to remind you, loves, ours is a delicate trade, not at all appreciated by those we practice upon.”
Locke wiped the dirt from his face. It was likely that his tunic sleeve deposited more grime than it removed, but the ritual of putting himself in order was calming. While he tended to himself the master of the Hill spoke on.
“Sad day, my loves, a proper tragedy. But when the milk’s gone bad you might as well look forward to cheese, hmm? Oh yes! Opportunity! It’s unseasonal fine hanging weather out there. That means crowds with spending purses, and their eyes are going to be fixed on the spectacle, aren’t they?”
With two crooked fingers (broken of old, and badly healed) he did a pantomime of a man stepping off an edge and plunging forward. At the end of the plunge the fingers kicked spasmodically and some of the older children giggled. Someone in the middle of the orphan army sobbed, but the Thiefmaker paid them no heed.
“You’re all going out to watch the hangings in groups,” he said. “Let this put fear into your hearts, loves! Indiscretion, clumsiness, want of confidence—today you’ll see their only possible reward. To live the life the gods have given you, you must clutch wisely, then run. Run like the hounds of hell on a sinner’s scent! That’s how we dodge the noose. Today you’ll have a last look at some friends who could not.
“And before you return,” he said, lowering his voice, “each of you will do them one better. Fetch back a nice bit of coin or flash, at all hazards. Empty hands get empty bellies.”
“Has we gots to?”
The voice was a desperate whine. Locke identified the source as Tam, a fresh catch, a lowest-of-the-low teaser who’d barely begun to learn the Shades’ Hill life. He must have been the one sobbing, too.
“Tam, my lamb, you gots to do nothing,” said the Thiefmaker in a voice like moldy velvet. He reached out and sifted through the crowd of orphans, parting them like dirty stalks of wheat until his hand rested on Tam’s shaven scalp. “But then, neither do I if you don’t work, right? By all means, remove yourself from this grand excursion. A limitless supply of cold graveyard dirt awaits you for supper.”
“But … can’t I, like, do something else?”
“Why, you could polish my good silver tea service, if only I had one.” The Thiefmaker knelt, vanishing briefly from Locke’s sight. “Tam, this is the job I got, so it’s the job you’re gonna do, right? Good lad. Stout lad. Why the little rivers from the eyes? Is it just ’cause there’s the hangings involved?”
“They—they was our friends.”
“Which means only—”
“Tam, you little piss-rag, stuff your whining up your stupid ass!”
The Thiefmaker whirled, and the new speaker recoiled from a slap to the side of his head. There was a ripple in the close-packed orphans as the unfortunate target stumbled backward and was returned to his feet by shoves from his tittering friends. Locke couldn’t suppress a smile. It always warmed his heart to see a bullying oldster knocked around.
“Veslin,” said the Thiefmaker with dangerous good cheer, “do you enjoy being interrupted?”
“N-no … no, sir.”
“How pleased I am to find us of a like mind on the subject.”
“Of … course. Apologies, sir.”
The Thiefmaker’s eyes returned to Tam, and his smile, which had evaporated like steam in sunlight a moment before, leapt back into place.
“As I was saying about our friends, our lamented friends. It’s a shame. But isn’t it a grand show they’re putting on for us as they dangle? A ripe plum of a crowd they’re summoning up? What sort of friends would we be if we refused to work such an opportunity? Good ones? Bold ones?”
“No, sir,” mumbled Tam.
“Indeed. Neither good nor bold. So we’re going to seize this chance, right? And we’re going to do them the honor of not looking away when they drop, aren’t we?”
“If … if you say so, sir.”
“I do say so.” The Thiefmaker gave Tam a perfunctory pat on the shoulder. “Get to it. Drops start at high noon; the Masters of the Ropes are the only punctual creatures in this bloody city. Be late to your places and you’ll have to work ten times as hard, I promise you. Minders! Call your teasers and clutchers. Keep our fresher brothers and sisters on short leashes.”
As the orphans dispersed and the older children called the names of their assigned partners and subordinates, the Thiefmaker dragged Veslin over to one of the enclosure’s dirt walls for a private word.
Locke snickered, and wondered whom he’d be partnered with for the day’s adventure. Outside the Hill there were pockets to be picked, tricks to be played, bold larceny to be done. Though he realized his sheer enthusiasm for theft was part of what had made him a curiosity and an outcast, he had no more self-restraint in that regard than he had wings on his back.
This half-life of abuse beneath Shades’ Hill was just something he had to endure between those bright moments when he could be at work, heart pounding, r
unning fast and hard for safety with someone else’s valuables clutched in his hands. As far as his five or six or seven years had taught him, ripping people off was the greatest feeling in the whole world, and the only real freedom he had.
4
“THINK YOU can improve upon my leadership now, boy?” Despite his limited grip, the Thiefmaker still had the arms of a grown man, and he pinned Veslin against the dirt wall like a carpenter about to nail up a decoration. “Think I need your wit and wisdom when I’m talking out loud?”
“No, your honor! Forgive me!”
“Veslin, jewel, don’t I always?” With a falsely casual gesture, the Thiefmaker brushed aside one lapel of his threadbare coat and revealed the handle of the butcher’s cleaver he kept hanging from his belt. The faintest hint of blade gleamed in the darkness behind it. “I forgive. I remind. Are you reminded, boy? Most thoroughly reminded?”
“Indeed, sir, yes. Please …”
“Marvelous.” The Thiefmaker released Veslin, and allowed his coat to fall over his weapon once again. “What a happy conclusion for us both, then.”
“Thank you, sir. Sorry. It’s just … Tam’s been whining all gods-damned morning. He’s never seen anyone get the rope.”
“Once upon a time it was new to us all,” sighed the Thiefmaker. “Let the boy cry, so long as he plucks a purse. If he won’t, hunger’s a marvelous instructor. Still, I’m putting him and a couple other problems into a group for special oversight.”
“Problems?”
“Tam, for his delicacy. And No-Teeth.”
“Gods,” said Veslin.
“Yes, yes, the speck-brained little turd is so dim he couldn’t shit in his hands if they were stitched to his asshole. Nonetheless, him. Tam. And one more.”
The Thiefmaker cast a significant glance at a far corner, where a sullen little boy leaned with his arms folded across his chest, watching other orphans form their assigned packs.