by Scott Lynch
“What good name?” said Locke. “Even the members of your own company want to see you get eaten by a bear.”
“And I’d be glad to supply one,” said Sabetha. “Unfortunately for everyone, we’re still going to rescue you. So I want you to sit quietly in your cell and bite your tongue.”
“Tomorrow,” said Locke, “this Baron Boulidazi will forgive your insult and decline to make charges.”
“What?” said Moncraine. “Boy, listen to me. Even if Boulidazi had a thousand cocks in his breeches and you blew every last one like a flute from sunrise to sunset—”
“He’ll forgive your insult,” said Sabetha through gritted teeth, “because that is the only possible salvation we can arrange for you. Understand? We have no other cards to play. So this is how it’ll be. Once you’re out, we’ll discuss what you need to get your Republic of Thieves back into production.”
“The trouble with this fantasy, girl, is that it requires both of us to not be mad,” said Moncraine softly.
“All it requires is that you shut up and behave,” said Sabetha. “And my name isn’t ‘girl.’ Most times you can call me Verena Gallante. But when I’m onstage, you’ll call me ‘Amadine.’ ”
“Will I?” Moncraine laughed. “That’s a presumption a few steps ahead of my grasp. You show me your mythical thread of kindness in Boulidazi. Then we’ll chat on the matter of plays.”
“Go back to your cell,” said Sabetha. “I guarantee we’ll speak again tomorrow.”
5
“EVEN IF we get him out,” said Locke, “we’ll need to put that man on a leash.”
“He’s a menace to himself and the rest of us,” said Sabetha. “When we spring him, we should crowd him. Make it clear that he’s being watched and judged at all times.”
“By the way, who’s Amadine?”
“The best role in The Republic of Thieves,” said Sabetha, grinning. “I haven’t read any of it yet.”
“You should, before all the good parts get snapped up.”
“Someone kept it to herself all the way here!”
“Moncraine’s got to have more copies of it somewhere in his troupe’s mess. Jenora might know. But first, we’ve got our miracle to deliver on.”
“Miracle indeed,” said Locke. They were moving back down the Legion Steps, through the still ranks of the marble soldiers. The drizzle had let up, but there were soft rumbles of thunder from above. “We need to reach this Boulidazi, more or less as we are, and convince him to forgive one of the craziest assholes I’ve ever met for a completely unjustified drunken assault.”
“Any ideas?”
“Uh … maybe.”
“Spit them out. I managed to shut Jasmer up long enough to make our point; I’ve earned my day’s pay.”
“And you were a pleasure to watch, too,” said Locke. “But then, you’re always—”
“You do not have the time to be charming,” said Sabetha, giving him a mild punch to the shoulder. “And I certainly don’t have time to be charmed.”
“Right. Sure,” said Locke. “We need an angle of approach. Why should he open his door for us? Hey, what if we were Camorri nobles going incognito?”
“Hiding in Espara,” she said, clearly liking the notion. “Trouble at home?”
“Hmmm. No. No, if we’re not in favor at home we can’t offer him anything. We might actually be a risk to him.”
“You’re right. Okay. You and I … are cousins,” said Sabetha. “First cousins.”
“Cousins,” said Locke. “So many gods-damned imaginary cousins. You and I are cousins.… If we have to show Jean and the Sanzas, they’re family retainers. We are, uh, grandchildren of … an old count that doesn’t get out much.”
“Blackspear,” said Sabetha. “Enrico Botallio, Count Blackspear. I was a scullery maid in his house a few years ago, that summer you spent on the farm.”
“A Five Towers family,” said Locke. “Would we live in the tower ourselves?”
“Yeah, most of his family does. And he hasn’t been out of the city in twenty years; he’s as old as Duke Nicovante. I’ll be the daughter of his oldest son … and you’re the son of his youngest. He has no other children. Oh, your father’s dead, by the way. Fell off a horse two years ago.”
“Good to know. If we need any real details of the household, I’ll pass the game to you whenever I can.” Locke snapped his fingers. “We’re in Espara because you want to indulge your wish to be onstage—”
“—which could never be allowed under my real name in Camorr!”
Sabetha had never finished one of his thoughts before, in the way that Jean did all the time. Locke felt a flush of warmth.
“That’s great,” she went on, heedless. “So we’re incognito, but with our family’s permission.”
“Thus whoever helps us makes himself a powerful and wealthy friend in Camorr.” Locke couldn’t help smiling at the improbable thought that they might have found a way out after all. “Sabetha, this is great. It’s also the thinnest line of bullshit we’ve ever hung ourselves on.”
“And we haven’t even been here a full day yet.”
“We need given names.”
“There we can be lazy. I’m Verena Botallio, you’re Lucaza Botallio.”
“Hells, yes.” Locke glanced around, affirming that they were still within the limited corridor of Espara he’d managed to half familiarize himself with. “We should head back to Gloriano’s and see how they did with the horses. Then we can go visit this Boulidazi and beg him not to think too hard about where we’ve come from.”
6
“ALONDO’S COUSIN was as good as promised,” said Jean. He waved at a young man, a bearded and heavier version of Alondo, who was sitting against the wall at the back of Gloriano’s common room, accompanied by Alondo, Sylvanus, the Sanzas, and several half-empty bottles. Nobody else new or unknown was in the room. “He got us just over a royal apiece for the horses. All it cost us was a couple bottles of wine. And, ah, I promised we’d give him a part in the play.”
“What?”
“No lines. He just wants to dress up and get stabbed, he says.”
“Just as long as he doesn’t expect to get paid,” said Sabetha.
“Not in anything except hangovers,” said Jean. “I do notice you haven’t dragged a large Syresti impresario back with you.”
“That game’s afoot,” said Locke. “Come spill your purse. Asino brothers! On your feet a moment, we’d have a word concerning finance.”
“Oh let them stay,” said Sylvanus. “This is the fun side of the room, and our young hostler was about to take hoof for more wine.”
“You’re not finished with the three bottles you have,” said Locke.
“They’re writing farewell notes to their families,” said Sylvanus. “Their holes are already dug in the ground. Oh, I suppose I really must get up before I piss, mustn’t I?” He rolled sideways in the vague direction of the door that led back to the soaked inn-yard. “Give us a hand, hostler, give us a hand. I shall go on all fours to make use of your expertise.”
“Marvelous,” said Locke, pulling Calo and Galdo to their feet. “Lovely. Are you two following Sylvanus down the vomit-strewn path?”
“We may be sociably fuzzed,” said Calo.
“A little blurry at the edges,” said Galdo.
“That’s probably for the best. I need you to come over here and dump out your purses.”
“You need us to do what now?”
“We need a flash bag,” said Sabetha.
“What the hell’s a flash bag?” said Jenora, wandering by at a moment precisely calculated to overhear what the huddled Gentlemen Bastards were up to.
“Since you ask,” said Jean, “it’s a purse of coins you throw together to make it look like you’re used to carrying around big fat sums.”
“Oh,” she said. “That must be a nice thing to have.”
Using a spare table, the five Camorri dumped out their personal funds, to which Jean a
dded the take from the horses and Locke mixed in the remnants of the purse Chains had given them. Camorri barons, tyrins, and solons clattered against Esparan fifths and coppins.
“Get all the coppers out of the pile,” said Locke. “They’re as useless as an Asino brother.”
“Suck vinegar from my ass-crack,” said Calo.
Five pairs of hands sifted through the coins, pulling coppers aside, leaving a diminished but gleaming mass in the center.
“Copper gets split five ways so everyone’s got something,” said Locke. “Gold and silver goes in the purse.”
“Do you want Auntie to change any of that Camorri stuff for you?” said Jenora, peering over Jean’s right shoulder.
“No,” said Locke. “For the moment, it’s actually a point in our favor. What’s the flash count?”
“Five crowns, two tyrins,” said Sabetha. “And two royals, one fifth.”
“That’s more money than any of Auntie’s customers have seen in a long time,” said Jenora.
“It’s shy of what I want,” said Locke. “But it might be convincing. No journeyman actor carries around a year and a half’s pay.”
“Unless they’re not getting paid a damn thing,” said Jenora.
“We’ll deal with that tomorrow,” said Locke as he cinched the flash bag tightly closed. “Hopefully with Moncraine listening very attentively.”
“Where are you going now?” said Jean.
“To see Moncraine’s punching bag,” said Sabetha. “And if that Syresti son of a bitch can teach us better acting than what we’ll need to pull this off, he’ll actually deserve this rescue.”
“Want an escort?” said Jean.
“Based on what you’ve seen tonight,” muttered Locke, “who needs it more, Sabetha and me or the twins?”
“Good point.” Jean polished his optics against the collar of his tunic and readjusted them on his nose. “I’ll keep them out of trouble, and see if I can trick Sylvanus into sleeping indoors.”
“Where’s Palazzo Corsala?” said Sabetha to Jenora.
“That’s on the north side, the swell district. Can’t miss it. Clean streets, beautiful houses, people like Sylvanus and Jasmer beaten on sight.”
“We’ll spring for a hired coach,” said Locke. “We won’t look respectable enough without one.”
“Shall we go call on Baron Boulidazi, then?” said Sabetha.
“Yes,” said Locke. “No. Wait. We’ve forgotten one terribly important thing. Let’s run back up to Stay-Awake Salvard and hope he’s still feeling sympathetic.”
7
“TRADESFOLK ENTRANCE is around back,” growled the tree trunk of a man who opened Boulidazi’s front door. “Tradesfolk hours are—”
“What kind of tradesman hires a coach-and-four to make his rounds?” said Locke, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. Their hired carriage was waiting beyond the rows of alchemically miniaturized olive trees that screened Boulidazi’s manor from the street. The driver hadn’t liked their clothes, but their silver had vouched for them quite adequately.
“Pray give your master this,” said Sabetha, holding out a small white card. This had been scrounged from the office of Stay-Awake Salvard, who had bemusedly agreed to charge them a few coppins for it and some ink.
The servant glanced at the card, glared at them, then glanced at the card again. “Wait here,” he said, and closed the door.
Several minutes went by. The slow drip of water from the canvas awning above their head became a soft, steady drumbeat as the rain picked up again. At last, the door creaked open and a rectangle of golden light from inside the house fell over them.
“Come,” said the bulky servant. Two more men waited behind him, and for an instant Locke feared an ambush. However, these servants wielded nothing more threatening than towels, which they used to wipe Locke and Sabetha’s shoes dry.
Baron Boulidazi’s house was unexceptional, among those of its type that Locke had seen. It was comfortable enough, furnished to show off disposable wealth, but there was no grand and special something, no “hall-piece” as they were often called, to evoke wonder from freshly arrived guests.
The servant took them out of the foyer, through a sitting hall, and into a warmly lit room with felt-padded walls. A blandly handsome man of about twenty, with neck-length black hair and close-set dark eyes, was leaning against a billiards table with a stick in his hands. The white card was on the table.
“The Honorable Verena Botallio and companion,” said the servant without enthusiasm. He left the room immediately.
“Of the Isla Zantara?” said Boulidazi, more warmly. “I’ve just read your card. Isn’t that part of the Alcegrante?”
“It is, Lord Boulidazi,” said Sabetha, giving the slight nod and half-curtsy that was usual in Camorr for an informal noble reception. “Have you ever been there?”
“To Camorr? No, no. I’ve always wanted to visit, but I’ve never had the privilege.”
“Lord Boulidazi,” said Sabetha, “may I present my cousin, the Honorable Lucaza Botallio?”
“Your cousin, eh?” said Boulidazi, nodding as Locke bowed his head. The Esparan lord offered his hand. As they shook, Locke noted that Boulidazi was solidly built, much the same size as Alondo’s hostler cousin, and he didn’t hold back the strength in his grip.
“Thank you for receiving us,” said Locke. “We would have both sent our cards, but only Verena is carrying one, I’m afraid.”
“Oh? You weren’t robbed or anything, I suppose? Is that why you’ve come dressed as you are? Forgive my mentioning it.”
“No, we haven’t been mistreated,” said Sabetha. “And there’s nothing to forgive; we’re not traveling in our usual capacity. We’re incognito, with just a bodyguard and a pair of servants, though we’ve left them behind for the moment.”
“Incognito,” said Boulidazi. “Are you in some sort of danger?”
“Not in the slightest,” said Sabetha with a laugh. She then turned and feigned surprise (Locke was confident that only long familiarity allowed him to spot the fact that it was a willful change) at the sight of a saber resting in its scabbard on a witchwood display shelf. “Is that what I think it is?”
“What, exactly, do you think it is?” said Boulidazi, and it seemed to Locke that he was a touch more curt than before.
“Surely it’s a DiVorus? The seal on the hilt—”
“It is,” said Boulidazi, instantly losing his tone of impatience. “One of his later blades, but still—”
“I trained with a DiVorus,” said Sabetha, poising one hand above the hilt of the saber. “The Voillantebona rapier. Don’t get me wrong; it wasn’t mine. My instructor’s. I still remember the balance, and the patterns in the steel … your hilt looks honorably stained. I assume you practice with it?”
“Often,” said Boulidazi. “This one’s called Drakovelus. It’s been in my family for three generations. It suits my style—not the fastest on the floor, but when I do move I can put a bit of strength behind it.”
“The saber rewards a sturdy handler,” said Sabetha.
“We’re neglecting your cousin,” said Boulidazi. “Forgive me, Lucaza, please don’t allow my enthusiasms to shove you aside from the conversation.”
“Not at all, Lord Boulidazi. I’ve had my years with the fencing masters, of course, but Verena’s the connoisseur in the family.”
Boulidazi’s heavy servant returned and whispered into the baron’s ear. Locke silently counted to ten before the servant finished. The big man withdrew again, and the baron stared at Locke.
“You know, I just now recall,” he said. “Botallio … isn’t that one of the Five Towers clans?”
“Of course,” said Sabetha.
“And yet you give your address as the Isla Zantara,” said Boulidazi.
“I’m fond of Grandfather,” said Sabetha. “But surely you can understand how someone my age might prefer a little manor of her own.”
“And your grandfather …” said Boulidazi
expectantly.
“Don Enrico Botallio.”
“Better known as Count Blackspear?” said Boulidazi, still cautiously.
“Verena’s father is Blackspear’s eldest son,” said Locke. “I’m the son of his youngest.”
“Oh? I believe I might have heard something of your father, Lucaza,” said the baron. “I do hope that he’s well?”
Locke felt a surge of relief that they’d pretended to be from a family Sabetha had knowledge of. Boulidazi obviously had access to some sort of directory of Camorri peers. Locke allowed himself to look crestfallen for just an instant, and then put on an obviously forced smile.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I must inform you that my father died several years ago.”
“Oh,” said Boulidazi, visibly relaxing. “Forgive me. I must have been thinking of someone else. But why didn’t the pair of you simply give the name of the count when you—”
“Noble cousin,” said Sabetha, shifting instantly into her excellent Throne Therin, “the name of Blackspear commands instant attention in Camorr, but surely you wouldn’t think us so vulgar as to try and awe you with it in Espara, as the freshest of acquaintances, as guests in your house?”
“Oh—vulgar, oh no, never!” said Boulidazi in the same language. Anyone of breeding was expected to endure years of tutelage in it, and he’d clearly done his time in the purgatory of conjugation and tenses. “I didn’t mean that I expected anything uncouth of you!”
“Lord Boulidazi,” said Locke, returning the conversation to plain Therin, “we’re the ones who should be apologizing, for imposing ourselves upon you in our present state. We have our reasons, but you needn’t regret being cautious.”
“I’m glad you understand,” said the baron. “Tymon!”
The large servant, who must have been lurking just past the door, stepped inside.
“It’s all right, Tymon,” said the baron. “I think our guests will be staying for a while. Let’s have some chairs.”
“Of course, my lord,” said the servant, relaxing out of his cold and intimidating aspect as easily as removing a hat.