Authors: Scott Lynch
“What I am is tired of being yelled at—”
“Ten years under my roof,” said Chains, looming over Calo like an ambulatory mountain,
suffused with moral indignation, “ten years under my protection, eating at my table,
nurtured by my hand and coin. Have I beaten you, buggered you, put you out in the
rain?”
“No,” said Calo, cringing. “No, of course not—”
“Then you can stand one gods-damned rebuke without flapping your jaw.”
“Of course,” said Calo, most meekly. “Sorry.”
“You’re educated thieves,” said Chains. “No matter how you might think it profits
you to feign otherwise, you are
not ordinary
. You can pass for servants, farmers, merchants, nobles; you have the poise and manners
for any station. If I hadn’t let you grow so callow, you might realize what an unprecedented
personal freedom you all possess.”
Locke reflexively opened his mouth to deliver some smooth assuagement, but the merest
half-second flick of Chains’ glare was more than enough to keep him mute.
“What do you think this is all for?” said Chains. “What do you suppose it’s all been
in aid of? So you can laze around and work the occasional petty theft? Drink and whore
and dice with the other Right People until you get called out or hung? Have you
seen
what happens to our kind? How many of your bright-eyed little chums will live to
see twenty-five? If they scrape thirty they’re gods-damned elders. You think they
have money tucked away? Villas in the country? Thieves may prosper night by night,
but there’s nothing for them when the lean times come, do you understand?”
“But there’s
garristas
,” said Galdo, “and the Capa, and a lot of older types at the Floating Grave—”
“Indeed,” said Chains. “Capas and
garristas
don’t go hungry, because they can take scraps from the mouths of their brothers and
sisters. And how do you suppose you get to grow old in the Capa’s service?
You guard his doors with an alley-piece, like a constable on the beat. You watch your
friends hang, and die in the gutters, and get called up for teeth lessons because
they said the wrong thing in their cups or held back a few silvers one fucking time.
You put your head down and shut up, forever. That’s what earns you some gray hair.
“No justice,” he continued sourly. “No true fellowship. Vows in darkness, that’s all,
valid until the first time someone goes hungry or needs a few coins. Why do you think
I’ve raised you to wink at the Secret Peace? We’re like a sick dog that gnaws its
own entrails, the Right People are. But
you’ve
got a chance to live in real trust and fellowship, to be thieves as the gods intended,
scourging the swells and living true to yourselves. I’ll be damned before I’ll let
you forget what a gift you’ve been given in one another.”
No smart remark ever made could stand before the gale of this sort of chastisement.
Locke noted that he wasn’t the only one with a sudden overwhelming compulsion to stare
at the floor.
“And so, I need to apologize for my own failure.” Chains drew a folded letter from
his coat. “For allowing us to reach this pretty state of affairs, falling out with
one another and forgetting ourselves. It’s a bad time for all of you. You’re confused
bundles of nerves and passion, cooped up down here where you can do maximum damage
to your mutual regard. You’ve certainly been disagreeable company for me. I’ve decided
I need a vacation.”
“Well, then,” said Jean, “where will you be going?”
“Going? Drinking, I suppose. Perhaps I’ll go see old Maranzalla. And I’ve a mind to
hunt down some chamber music. But forgive me if I’ve been unclear. I require a vacation
from all of you, but I’m not leaving Camorr. You five will be making a journey to
Espara. I’ve arranged work there to keep you busy for several months.”
“Espara?” said Locke.
“Yes. Isn’t it exciting?” The room was quiet. “I thought that might be your response.
Look, I tucked a pin into my jacket for this very moment.”
Chains drew a silver pin from one of his lapels and tossed it into the air. It hit
the floor with the faintest chiming clatter.
“One of those expressions I’ve always wanted to put to the test,” said Chains. “But
seriously, you’re out. All of you. Evicted. There’s a
wagon caravan leaving from the Cenza Gate on Duke’s Day. You’ve got two days to make
yourselves part of it. After that, it’s a week and a half to Espara.”
“But,” said Calo, “what if we don’t want to go to bloody Espara?”
“Then leave, and don’t come back to this temple,” said Chains. “Forfeit everything.
In fact, leave Camorr. I won’t want to see you again, anywhere.”
“What’s in Espara that’s so important?” said Sabetha.
“Your partnership. It’s past time it was put to a real test, far beyond my reach.
Take all your years of training and make something of them. False-face together, rely
upon one another, and come back alive. Prove that we haven’t been wasting our time
down here. Prove it to me … and prove it to yourselves.”
Chains held up the folded letter.
“You’re going to Espara to enjoy a career on the stage.”
“
AFTER MY
soldiering ended,” continued Chains, “and before I came back to Camorr, I indulged
in several vices, not the least of which was acting. I fell in with a troupe in Espara
run by the single unluckiest thick-skulled son of a bitch that ever crawled out of
a womb. Jasmer Moncraine. I saved his life by design and he saved mine by accident.
We’ve kept in touch across the years.”
“Oh gods,” said Sabetha, “you’re sending us in payment of a debt!”
“No, no. Jasmer and I are square. The favor is mutual. I need the five of you occupied
elsewhere. Jasmer has desperate need of players, and an equally desperate need to
avoid paying them.”
“So it
is
questionable circumstances, then.”
“Oh, never doubt. I get the impression from his letters that he’s one mistake away
from being chained up for debt. I’d appreciate you preventing that. He wants to do
Lucarno’s
Republic of Thieves
. Your story will be that you’re a band of up-and-coming thespians from Camorr; I
sent a letter ahead of you telling him how to play the angles right. The rest is entirely
up to you.”
“Do you have a copy of the letter for us?” said Locke.
“Nah.”
“Well, then, what should we do about—”
Chains tossed a jingling bag at Locke’s head. Locke barely managed to pluck it out
of the air before it struck his nose.
“Oh, look, a bag of money. That’s all the help you’ll be getting from me, my boy.”
“But … aliases, travel arrangements—”
“Your problem, not mine.”
“We don’t know anything about the stage!”
“You know about costumes, makeup, elocution, and deportment. Everything else, you
can learn once you get there.”
“But—”
“Look,” said Chains. “I don’t want to spend the rest of the day interrupting your
questions, so I’m going to temporarily forget how to make words come out of my mouth.
I’ll be nursing a chilled bottle of Vadran white over at the Tumblehome until further
notice. Remember the caravan. Two days. You can be part of it, or you can leave the
Gentlemen Bastards. Your time is henceforth your own.”
He left the kitchen in a state of extreme self-satisfaction. A few moments later,
Locke heard the creak and slam of the burrow’s concealed riverside exit. Locke and
his cohorts traded a sincere set of bewildered looks.
“Well, this is a fist-fuck and a flaming oil bath,” said Calo.
“Is there anyone here,” said Locke quietly, “who’d rather leave the gang than go to
Espara?”
“There’d better
not
be,” said Galdo.
“The billiard ball’s right for once,” said Calo. “It’s not as though I’m enthusiastic
about this, but anyone who wants to leave can do it headfirst off the temple roof.”
“Good,” said Locke. “Then we need to talk. Get some ink and parchment.”
“Count the money,” said Sabetha.
“I’ll fetch some wine,” said Jean. “Strong wine.”
THEY WERE
far from comfortable together. The Sanzas sat on opposite sides of the table, and
Sabetha leaned against a chair pushed
away from everyone else. Yet they all seemed to grasp the urgency of their situation;
over the course of two bottles of Verrari lemon wine they hashed out mostly civil
arguments and scratched up lists of supplies and responsibilities.
“Right, then,” said Locke when his glass was empty and his notepages full. “Sabetha
will try to scare up any portions of
The Republic of Thieves
from the shops and scribes, so we can all have a look at it on the road.”
“I’ve got some other Lucarno plays I’ll pack,” said Jean. “And some Mercallor Mentezzo
dross I’m not so fond of, but we should all study them and pick up some lines.”
“Jean and I will find a wagon and get us in with a caravan master,” said Locke. He
passed one of his lists over to Galdo. “The Sanzas will pack the common goods and
supplies.”
“We need aliases,” said Sabetha. “We can smooth out our stories on the way, but we
should have our game names ready to use.”
“Who do you want to be, then?” said Jean.
“Hmmmm. Call me … Verena. Verena Gallante.”
“Lucaza,” said Locke. “I’ll be Lucaza … de Barra.”
“Must you?” said Sabetha.
“Must I what?”
“You always have to choose an alias that starts with ‘L,’ and Jean nearly always goes
for a ‘J.’ ”
“Keeps things simple,” said Jean. “And now, just because you’ve said that, I’ll be …
Jovanno. Hell, Locke and I can be first cousins. I’ll be Jovanno de Barra.”
“False names are fun,” said Calo. “Call me Beefwit Smallcock.”
“These are aliases, not biographical sketches,” said Galdo.
“Fine, then,” said Calo. “Lend me a hand. There’s a masculine form of Sabetha, isn’t
there?”
“Sabazzo,” said Galdo, snapping his fingers.
“Yeah, Sabazzo. I’ll be Sabazzo.”
“Like
hell
you will,” said Sabetha.
“Hey, I know,” said Galdo. “I’ll be Jean. You can call yourself Locke.”
“You two will crap splinters for a month after I make you eat this table,” said Jean.
“Well, if you put it like that,” said Calo. “Why don’t we use our middle names? I’ll
be Giacomo, and you can be Castellano.”
“Might work,” said Galdo grudgingly. “Need a last name.”
“
Asino
!” said Calo. “It’s Throne Therin for ‘donkey.’ ”
“Gods lend me strength,” said Sabetha.
“
MASTER DE
Barra,” said Anatoly Vireska two nights later, looking up with a smile that put every
gap in his teeth on display, like archery ports in a crumbling fortress wall. The
rangy, middle-aged Vadran caravan master gave the Gentlemen Bastards’ wagon a friendly
thump as Jean brought their team of four horses to a halt. “And company. You picked
a good time to show up.”
“I’ve seen this place when it’s busy.” Locke glanced backward at the Millfalls District
and the Street of Seven Wheels, which lay under the strange particolored haze of fading
Falselight. Traffic on the cobbled road itself was sparse, since few business travelers
came or went from the Cenza Gate as darkness was falling. “Figured we might get a
jump on the chaos.”
“Just so. Pull up anywhere in the commons beneath the wall. Now, if you want more
than half-assed shelter, there’s the Andrazi stable down the lane to the right, and
the Umbolo stable just yonder, the one with all the mules. Andrazi tips me a few coppers
a week to point people her way, but I wouldn’t take the money if I didn’t think her
place was the better bargain, hey?”
“Duly noted,” said Jean.
“Want me to send a boy around to help with your horses? I could have my outfitter
check your packing, too.”
“I’m sure we’re fine, thanks,” said Locke.
“Glad to hear it. Just so we’re clear, though, my guards don’t stand to duty until
we line up all our ducklings tomorrow morning. As long as we’re behind walls, your
security is your own business. Given that you’re bedding down twenty yards from a
watch barracks, I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it.”
“Nor shall we.” Jean waved farewell, and convinced the horses to take them into the
shadow of Camorr’s walls. Rickety overhanging
panels topped about a hundred yards’ worth of barren common space in the lee of the
wall, where those unwilling or unable to pay for service at the commercial stables
could pull in. Sabetha, Calo, and Galdo piled out of the back of the open-topped wagon
as it rolled to a stop.
“One quarter of a mile down, a mere two hundred to go,” said Locke. The humid air
was heavy with the smells of old hay, animal sweat, and droppings. Other travelers
were lighting lanterns, laying out bedrolls, and starting cooking fires; there were
at least a dozen wagon parties stopped beside the wall. Locke wondered idly how many
of them were bound for Espara as part of Vireska’s caravan.
“Let’s get you fixed up for the night, boys.” Jean hopped down from the wagon and
gave a reassuring pat to the flank of the nearest cart-horse. Jean had spent several
months in the role of a teamster’s apprentice two years earlier, and had assumed responsibility
for driving and tending their animals without complaint. The team represented a significant
portion of the money Chains had given them, but could be resold in Espara to flesh
out their temporarily thinned finances.
“Sweep beneath the wagon, would you, Giacomo?” said Galdo. “Don’t want turds for pillows.”
“Sweep it your fuckin’ self,
Castellano
,” said Calo. “Nobody put you in charge.”
“Mind yourself,” whispered Sabetha, grabbing Calo by the arm. “We’ve got ten days
on the road ahead of us. Do they have to be a miserable trial for no good reason?”
“I’m not his damn valet,” said Calo.
“That’s right.” Locke stepped between the Sanzas, thinking quickly. “None of us are.
We’ll share sweeping duties, all of us. Calo starts tonight—”