Authors: Scott Lynch
“What’s that, then?” said Galdo.
“
ARE YOU
tired of life itself?” yelled Galdo, attempting to strike the most dynamic pose possible
while perched atop a weathered market stall barrel. “Are you dull to spectacle? Are
you deaf to the timeless poetry of Caellius Lucarno, master wordsmith of the Therin
Throne?”
A light warm rain was pattering down around him, rippling the mud of the market square,
where dozens of Esparans were hawking food, junk, or services from under tarps in
various states of repair. It seemed only natural to Galdo that after endless days
of merciless sun
the sky should close up and start pissing the instant he went out trying to look impressive.
“Because even if you are—” said Calo, who stood on the ground beside his brother.
“Fuck off,” yelled the nearest merchant.
“EVEN IF YOU ARE,” shouted Calo, “you will not be able to resist the romance, the
excitement, the grand dazzling festival of forthright astonishments that awaits you
when the Moncraine-Boulidazi Company mounts its exclusive presentation of the legendary—”
“—the daring,” shouted Galdo.
“—the bloody and heart-wrenching REPUBLIC OF THIEVES, this coming Count’s Day and
Penance Day—”
Galdo had to admit that the state of full sobriety, while in most considerations far
less interesting than any degree of inebriation, did at least lend itself to the better
employment of reflexes. The irate merchant hurled a turnip, which Calo plucked out
of the air just before it struck his head. He tossed it up to Galdo, who leapt off
the barrel, somersaulted in midair, caught the turnip, and landed with arms outflung
in a flourish.
“Turnips can’t stop the Moncraine-Boulidazi Company!” he shouted.
“I’ve got potatoes too,” yelled the merchant.
“Count’s Day! Penance Day! Limited engagements,” hollered Calo. “At the Old Pearl!
Don’t miss the most stupendously exciting sensation that has ever graced your lives!
The dead will live and breathe and speak again! True love, flashing blades, treachery
of the heart, and the secrets of an imperial dynasty, all yours, but if you miss it
now you miss it forever!”
Another turnip was hurled in their direction, and both twins dodged it easily.
“You missed us now and you’ll miss us forever,” shouted Galdo. He turned to his brother
and lowered his voice. “All the same, we’ve got eight stops left. Maybe we’ve favored
these dullards long enough.”
“Too right,” said Calo. The twins bowed to the general indifference of the market
square and hurried off into the rain. “Where next?”
“Jalaan River Gate,” said Galdo. “That’ll be a welcoming and patient crowd for sure,
fresh off the road with mud up their ass-cracks.”
“Yeah,” said Calo. “Gods, where would this gang be without us to do all the actual
miserable footwork for it?”
“We got the aptitude, we get the chores. Bright side, though, would you rather be
doing the bookkeeping?”
“Fuck no. Wouldn’t mind doing the bookkeeper’s assistant.”
“Hey now, prior claim.”
“Oh, I know. Good on tubby for sewing her up. I was starting to worry about him,”
said Calo.
“That leaves red and the genius. Still cause for worry there.”
“How hard is it to fling yourselves at one another and let all the really excited
bits just sort themselves out?”
“It’s not the doing, I think; it’s that our beloved patron barely lets Sabetha out
of his sight. Hell’s own chaperone.”
“Think we should lend a hand?”
“Hey, I’ll cut the prick’s throat if you’ll dig the hole,” said Galdo. “But that would
ruin all this dancing and singing we’re doing on the company’s behalf.”
“You must’ve kept your brains in your hair before you scraped it off, roundhead. I
wasn’t talking about
doing
Boulidazi. More of dropping a useful hint in Sabetha’s ear.”
“
IT WILL
be a better turnout than I expected,” said Jasmer, hunched over a cracked mug of
brandy and rainwater.
“What a generous allowance.” Baron Boulidazi sat across from Moncraine at a back corner
table in Mistress Gloriano’s common room. “It’s better than you ever had any
right
to expect, you damned fool.”
“Very probably, my lord.”
Locke leaned against the wall nearby, listening while trying hard to look like he
wasn’t. He nursed a half-full cup of apple wine. It was the eve of the Count’s Day
performance, and by tradition the company had drunk four toasts in a row—Boulidazi
first, Moncraine second, the company third, and a last cup for Morgante, the City
Father, a prayer for orderly streets and crowds. Fortunately, Chains had taught Locke
the fine art of making half-sips look like vast friendly gulps, and
without violating the spirit of the toasts he’d managed to shield his wits from their
substance.
“Probably? I’ve stretched myself for you again, Moncraine,” said the baron, his usual
easy bravado discarded. He hadn’t restrained himself while toasting, and his voice
was tight with concern. “I can’t just ask my friends to put in an appearance like
hired clappers, for the gods’ sake. Eleven gentlemen of standing with entourages.
At a first performance, no less. You know they’d usually wait to hear if it’s worth
the bother. So it had damn well better be.”
“You know its quality. You’ve been on us like a bloody leech all through rehearsal.”
“I don’t just need it to be good,” said Boulidazi. “I want it smooth. Flawless. No
incidents, no foul-ups, no miscues.”
“You can’t escape miscues,” said Moncraine. “If the piece is good they just flow right
past; nobody gives a—”
“
I
give a damn.” Boulidazi was genuinely in his cups, Locke saw. “This is my bloody
company now, as much as it is yours, and my reputation hanging in the wind. Fail me
and you’ll regret the day you first saw the sun.”
“With every will to please my gracious lord,” said Moncraine acidly, “if it was as
easy as simply
commanding
someone to get it right, there wouldn’t be any bad plays. Or paintings, or songs,
or—”
“Fuck up and I’ll have your legs broken,” said Boulidazi. “How’s that for motivation?”
“I was already quite adequately motivated,” said Jasmer, rising to his feet. “I believe
I’ll withdraw, my lord, as your heady company quite overwhelms my peasant sensibilities.”
Jasmer moved off into the crowd to mingle with Sylvanus and Chantal. The new bit players
and the inn’s usual crowd of wastrels and parasites were making a joyous noise unto
the wine and ale jugs. Mistress Gloriano fueled the carousing with fresh liquor like
a blacksmith shoveling coal into a smelting furnace.
“Andrassus, you goat,” yelled Jasmer, “how’s tonight’s wine?”
“Undistinguished,” burped Sylvanus. “If it hasn’t improved by the seventh or eighth
cup I might have to resort to sterner forms of self-abuse.”
Baron Boulidazi rose unsteadily, glowering, ignoring Locke. By
chance Sabetha had just come up behind him as she wound her outwardly cheerful path
through the tumult, hostess-like. The cup in her hands was as artfully decorative
as Locke’s.
“Verena,” said the baron in a low voice, “surely you’ve done your duty to the company
this evening. Let me grant you some of the comforts you’re used to, to rest yourself
before the show. A proper hot bath, a fine bed, ice wines, perhaps even—”
“Oh, Gennaro,” she whispered, delicately removing his hand from where it had come
to rest on her upper arm, then twining her fingers through his. “You’ve been so thoughtful.
Surely you know it’s bad luck to celebrate like that before a performance, hmmm? I’ll
be only too happy to accept your offer
after
we’ve taken our last bows.”
It was just about the best possible deflection under the circumstances, thought Locke,
but it was also alarming. She’d committed herself now to being alone with him, no
later than the day after next, when their second show was finished. After weeks of
flirtation and half-promises, Boulidazi could only respond badly to further excuses.
“Oh, let it be so,” said the baron. “Let me take you away from these damned people
and live as we should, even for a day or two. It’s your company that’s kept me down
here incognito, not any love of correcting Moncraine. And when this is finished, I
want you … that is, I want you to think on what you want next. Imagine the role you
desire. I’ll have Moncraine stage it for you, anything you like—”
“You do know just what to say to a lady,” said Sabetha, laying a finger over his lips
and very effectively shutting him up. “I’ll reflect on your offer. On all your offers,
Gennaro. I think our desires for the future may be understood to be in close agreement.”
“Are you sure,” said Boulidazi, plainly dealing with the sudden rush of blood to somewhere
less conversationally useful than his brain, “absolutely sure, that tonight you wouldn’t—”
“I wouldn’t,” she said, sweetly but firmly. “We’ve two long days ahead of us and so
much time to spend as we wish afterward. Let’s not put the cart before the horse.
Or should that be
stallion
, hmmmm?”
“Right,” he said. “Right. As you … as you wish, always. And yet—”
Locke forced himself to cease listening as Boulidazi burbled a fresh stream of love-struck
inanities. The baron’s predictable refusal to accept Sabetha’s polite-speak invitation
to piss off for the evening meant
that she’d be tending him until she was too tired to do anything but collapse, sour
and exhausted, sometime after midnight. Every halting step Locke had taken with Sabetha,
every precious moment of understanding they’d clawed out of one another was again
being wasted. Locke stared fixedly at his drink, wondering if it was time to quit
playacting and throw back a few.
“Ahoy there, Lucaza,” said Calo, swooping out of nowhere to seize Locke by the arms.
He spoke rather loudly: “We’re short a thrower for a game of Fuck-the-Next-Fellow.”
“But I don’t want to throw dice—”
“Nonsense,” said Calo, pulling him away from Sabetha and Boulidazi. “You’re just standing
here mooning when you could be losing coins like a proper lad. Come, you’re rolling
with us.”
“But … but—”
His sputtering achieved nothing. Calo relieved him of his wine and drank it in two
gulps. He then dragged Locke on a zigzag path through the crowd, down a side passage
and up the narrow stairs near Sabetha and Jenora’s room.
“What the hell are you—”
“Biggest favor of your life, half-wit,” said Calo. The long-haired Sanza kicked the
wall, and to Locke’s surprise that section of wood paneling slid backward with a click.
“Trust me. In the box.”
Calo’s shove sent Locke sprawling into the confines of a hidden room, perhaps four
feet high and seven feet long. A layer of blankets softened his landing, and the space
was lit by the pale red glow of a tiny alchemical lamp set atop a stack of small wine
casks. The secret panel slid shut behind him.
Befuddled, Locke glanced around, taking in the very few interesting features of the
tiny space. “Fucking Sanzas,” he muttered.
“I should think not,” said Sabetha an instant later as the panel snapped open again.
She closed it as quickly as possible behind her and flopped down on the blankets with
a relieved sigh.
“Oh gods,” said Locke, “this was all your—”
“The twins told me about this place. Seems Mistress Gloriano’s done some smuggling
in her time. Calo accidentally opened it when he tripped against the wall one night.”
“What are we going to do about that damned baron?”
“Nothing,” said Sabetha. “He doesn’t exist.”
“My throat disagrees.”
She grabbed him by the tunic, and there was nothing playful or hesitant in the way
she planted her lips on his neck.
“Your throat’s my concern,” she whispered. “And there’s nothing outside this room.
Not now, not for as long as we’re in here.”
“Your absence will be as obvious to Boulidazi as if someone had stolen his breeches,”
said Locke.
“Ordinarily. That’s why I made sure I handed him his last drink while we were toasting.”
“You didn’t!”
“I did.” Her smirk struck Locke as extremely becoming. “Something mild, to muddle
his thoughts. Soon enough he won’t want to do anything except go to bed, and for once
the miserable ass and I share a notion.”
“But if he—”
“I already told you he doesn’t exist.” She took his head in her hands and spread her
fingers through his hair. “I’m tired of everyone else getting what they want except
us. Coming and going as they please, sleeping where they please, while you and I live
from interruption to interruption.” She brushed the faintest hint of a kiss against
his lips, and then a longer one, and by the time she started on the third Locke was
in serious danger of forgetting his own name.
“So you really did choose to be charmed at last, hmm?” he managed to whisper.
“No.” She jabbed him in the chest, playfully but firmly. “I’m not here because you
finessed me, dunce. You were right, on the roof that night. We want what we want.
We don’t need to justify it. And when we can take it, we should. I want you. And I
am
taking
you.”
Her next kiss told him that she meant to be finished with talking for some time.
GLORIANO
’
S INN-ROOM
wobbled around Gennaro Boulidazi as though mounted on an impossibly huge gimbal,
and the lights and colors of the room had begun to run together like watercolors painted
in the rain. The dull pressure in his skull meant he’d gone well past the horizon
of smart indulgence, but how was that possible? Gloriano’s swill had snuck up on him.
The thought gave him more vague amusement than alarm. Very little ever alarmed him.
Verena, now, she was at least causing him consternation. The alluring bitch! Plainly
she
wanted
him, but if not for the fact that she was so bloody young he would have sworn she
was deliberately leading him on for frustration’s sake. She had to be skittish, of
course. Still a virgin. Well, he could fix that.
Gods
, could he fix that.