The Gentleman Bastard Series 3-Book Bundle: The Lies of Locke Lamora, Red Seas Under Red Skies, The Republic of Thieves (203 page)

“Yes,” she said. “The court magicians of the last few years of the Therin Throne were
out of control. Circles of pure ambition, working to undermine one another. They wouldn’t
heed reason. The founders of our order brought their concerns to Emperor Talathri
and were laughed off. But we knew the truth of the matter. If human sorcery is to
exist at all, it must be quiet and disciplined, or we risk firsthand knowledge of
the fate of the Eldren.”

“Pardon my limited understanding of your powers,” said Jean, “but what you did to
Therim Pel was anything but quiet.”

“Or disciplined,” said Patience. “Yes, it was precisely the sort of focused, grand-scale
will-working we can’t afford. But on that one occasion, it was a necessary risk. The
imperial seat, its infrastructure, its archives—all the heritable trappings of power
had
to be obliterated. Without Therim Pel, any would-be restorer of the empire found
the easy path to legitimacy swept away. We needed that security in our early years.”

“While you hunted down any magician that wouldn’t join you,” said Locke.

“Without mercy,” said Patience. “You’re right not to think of us as altruists. Certainly
we can be hard. But perhaps you’ll grant now that our motivations are, if not philanthropic,
at least … complicated.”

Locke merely grunted and spooned porridge into his mouth.

“Have I satisfied you on this matter?”

Locke nodded and swallowed. “I’m afraid that if you tell me any more I’ll never be
able to sleep in a dark room again.”

“Shall we talk about our business in Karthain?” said Jean, sensing that he and Locke
were both in the mood for a less disquieting subject.

“The five-year game,” said Patience. “Are the two of you ready for details?”

“My fighting spirit’s back in residence,” said Locke. “I’ve been stuck in bed for
weeks. Turn me loose with a list of laws you want broken.”

“Are you sure you don’t want any tea, Jean?” said Patience.

“No,” said Jean. “Not for breaking fast. I wouldn’t say no to red wine, though. Good
rugged paint-stripping stuff. Plonk with sand in it. That’s a good planning wine.”

“I’ll see to it.”

“So,” said Locke, “we work for your faction. I presume that’s you, Coldmarrow, Navigator,
all you high-minded types who only slaughter people when they’ve been naughty little
children. What about your fellow five-ringers? Where do they stand?”

“Providence and Temperance will be cheering for you. Foresight, as I’m sure will be
no surprise, will be hoping for you to slip and break your neck.”

“Foresight and the Falconer’s lot, that’s the other team? Just two sides, no splinter
factions, no lurking surprises?” said Locke.

“We only have enough major disagreements to supply two factions, I’m afraid.”

The door slipped open, and Coldmarrow entered with a tray. He set down an open bottle
of red wine, several glasses, and Patience’s mug from the previous night. He then
handed Patience two scrolls and withdrew as soundlessly as he’d come.

Patience took her tea mug in hand. There was a sizzling noise, and a cloud of steam
wafted from the cup. Jean poured two glasses of wine and set one in front of Locke.
He took a swig from his own. It tasted like something out of a tanning vat.

“Ah,” he said, “demonic ass-wash. Just the thing.”

“I’m not sure we meant that for drinking,” said Patience. “Possibly for repelling
boarders.”

“Smells adequate to the task,” said Locke, adding water to his glass.

“Now, these,” said Patience, pushing the scrolls toward Locke and Jean with her free
hand, “would be you.”

Jean picked up his scroll, snapped the seal, and found that it was actually several
tightly rolled documents. He scanned them and saw Lashani letters of transit.

“For … Tavrin Callas!” He scowled.

“An old and comfortable piece of clothing, I should think,” said Patience with a smirk.

Beneath the letters of transit, which were a reasonably common means for travelers
to prove themselves something less than total vagabonds, there was a letter of credit
at one Tivoli’s countinghouse, for the sum of three thousand Karthani ducats. If he
wanted to lay claim to that money, of course, he’d have to accept his old alias one
more time.

“Cheer up, Jean,” said Locke. “I’m Sebastian Lazari, it seems. Never heard of the
fellow.”

“I apologize if the selection of your own false faces is part of the savor for you,”
said Patience. “We needed to set up those accounts and put other things into motion
before we fetched you out of Lashain.”

“This is swell,” said Locke. “Don’t think we can’t start working with this, now that
my nerves are more settled, but I hope this isn’t the fullness of our suckle on the
golden teat.”

“Those are merely your setting-up funds, to get you through your first few days. Tivoli
will put you in control of your working treasury. One hundred thousand ducats, same
as your opposition. A goodly sum for graft and other needs, but not so much that you
can simply drench Karthain in money and win without being clever.”

“And, uh, if we set aside a little for afterward?” said Locke.

“We encourage you to spend these funds down to the last copper on the election itself,”
said Patience, “since anything left over when the results are confirmed will disappear,
as though by magic. Clear?”

“Frustratingly damn clear,” said Locke.

“How does this election work, at the most basic level?” said Jean.

“There are fourteen districts in the city, and five representing the rural manors.
Nineteen seats on the ruling Konseil. Each political party stands one candidate per
seat, and designates a line of seconds in case the primary candidate is embroiled
in scandal or otherwise distracted. That tends to happen with curious frequency.”

“No shit,” said Locke. “What are these political parties?”

“Two major interests dominate Karthain. On one hand there’s the Deep Roots party,
old aristocracy. They’ve all been legally debased out of their titles, but the money
and connections are still there. On the other side you’ve got the Black Iris party—artisans,
younger merchants. Old money versus new, let’s say.”

“Who are we taking care of?” said Jean.

“You’ve got the Deep Roots.”

“How? I mean, what are we to these people?”

“Lashani consultants, hired to direct the campaign behind the scenes. Your power will
be more or less absolute.”

“Who’s told these people to listen to us?”

“They’ve been
adjusted
, Jean. They’ll defer enthusiastically to you, at least where the election is concerned.
We’ve prepared them for your arrival.”

“Gods.”

“It’s nothing you don’t try to do with raw charm and fancy stories. We just work faster.”

“We’ve got six weeks, is that right?” said Locke.

“Yes.” Patience sipped at her tea. “The formal commencement of electoral hostilities
is the night after tomorrow.”

“And this Deep Roots party,” said Locke, “you said they’ve won the last two elections?”

“Oh, no,” said Patience.

“You did,” said Jean. “You said we were being entrusted with a winning tradition!”

“Ah. Pardon. I meant that
my
faction of magi has backed the winning party of ungifted twice in a row. It’s a matter
of chance, you see, which party either side gets. The Deep Roots have been rather
lackluster these past ten years, but during those years fortune gave us the Black
Iris. Now, alas—”

“Gods’ immaculate piss,” muttered Locke.

“What are the limits on our behavior?” said Jean.

“As far as the ungifted are concerned, not many. You’ll be working with people eager
to help you break every election law ever scribed, so long as you don’t do anything
bloody or vulgar.”

“No violence?” said Locke.

“Brawls are a natural consequence of enthusiasm,” said Patience. “Everyone loves to
hear about a good fistfight. But keep it at fists. No weapons, no corpses. You can
knock a few Karthani about, and make whatever threats you like, but you
cannot
kill anyone. Nor can you kidnap any citizen of Karthain, or physically remove them
from the city. Those rules are enforced by my people. I should think the reasons are
obvious.”

“Right. You’re not paying us to assassinate the entire Black Iris bunch and ride off
into the sunset.”

“Your own situation is more ambiguous,” said Patience. “You two, and your counterpart
controlling the Black Iris, should expect anything, including kidnapping. Guard your
own backs. Only outright murder is forbidden in your respect.”

“Well, that’s cheery,” said Locke. “About this counterpart, what do we get to know?”

“You know quite a bit already.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s uncomfortable news,” said Patience, “but we’ve learned that at least one person
within the ranks of my faction is passing information to Archedama Foresight.”

“Well, that’s bloody careless of you!”

“We’re working on the situation. At any rate, Foresight and her associates learned
of my intention to hire you several weeks ago. They acquired a direct countermeasure.”

“Meaning what?”

“You and Jean have a unique background in deception, disguise, and manipulation. You’re
a rare breed. In fact, there’s only one other person left in the world with intimate
knowledge of your methods and training—”

Locke shot to his feet as though his chair were a crossbow and the trigger had been
pulled. His glass flew, spilling watered wine across the tabletop.

“No,” he said. “No. You’re fucking kidding. No.”

“Yes,” said Patience. “My rivals have hired your old friend Sabetha Belacoros to be
their exemplar. She’s been in Karthain for several days now, making her preparations.
It’s a fair bet that she’s laying surprises for the two of you as we speak.”

IT WAS COOL
and dark in the Elderglass burrow of the Gentlemen Bastards, and far quieter than
usual, when Locke awoke with the certain knowledge that someone was staring at him.
He caught his breath for an instant, then mimicked the deep, slow breathing of sleep.
He squinted and scanned the gray darkness of the room, wondering where everyone was.

Down the hall from the kitchen there were four rooms, or, more appropriately, four
cells. They had dark curtains for doors. One belonged to Chains, another to Sabetha,
the third to the Sanzas, and the fourth to Locke and Jean. Jean should have been on
his cot against the opposite wall, just past their little shelf of books and scrolls,
but there was no sound from that direction.

Locke listened, straining to hear over the thudding of his pulse. There was a whisper
of bare skin against the floor, and a flutter of cloth. He sat up, left hand outstretched,
only to find another warm set of fingers entwined around his, and a palm in the middle
of his chest pushing him back down.

“Shhhh,” said Sabetha, sliding onto the cot.

“Wha … where is everyone?”

“Gone for the moment,” she whispered into his ear. Her breath was warm against his
cheek. “We don’t have much time, but we do have some.”

She took his hands and guided them to the smooth, taut muscles of her stomach. Then
she slid them upwards until he was cupping her breasts—she’d come into the room without
a tunic.

One thing the bodies of sixteen-year-old boys (and that was more or less what Locke
was) don’t do is respond mildly to provocation. In an instant he was achingly hard
against the thin fabric of his breeches, and he exhaled in mingled shock and delight.
Sabetha brushed aside his blanket and slid her left hand down between his legs. Locke
arched his back and uttered a noise that was far from dignified. Luckily, Sabetha
giggled, seeming to find it endearing.

“Mmmm,” she whispered. “I do feel appreciated.” She pressed down firmly but gently
and began to squeeze him to the rhythm of their breathing, which was growing steadily
louder. At the same time, she slid his other hand down from her breast, down her stomach,
down to her legs. She was wearing a linen breechclout, the sort that could be undone
with just a tug in the right place. She pressed his hand between her thighs, against
the intriguing heat just behind the fabric. He caressed her there, and for a few incredible
moments they were completely caught up in this half-sharing, half-duel, their responses
to one another becoming less controlled with every ragged breath, and it was delicious
suspense to wonder who would snap first.

“You’re driving me mad,” he whispered. The heat from her skin was so intense he imagined
he could see it as a ghost-image in the dark. She leaned forward, and her breath tickled
his cheeks again; he drew in the scents of her hair and sweat and perfume and laughed
with pleasure.

“Why are we still wearing clothes?” she said, and they rolled apart to amend the situation,
fumbling, struggling, giggling. Only now the soft heat of her skin was fading, and
the gray shadows of the room loomed more deeply around them, and then Locke was kicking
out, spasming in a full-body reflex as she slipped from his grasp like a breath of
wind.

That cruelest of landlords, cold morning reality, finished evicting
the warm fantasy that had briefly taken up residence in his skull. Muttering and swearing,
Locke fought against his tangled blanket, felt his cot tipping away from the wall,
and failed in every particular to brace himself for his meeting with the floor. There
are three distinct points of impact no romantically excited teenage boy ever hopes
to slam against a hard surface. Locke managed to land on all three.