Authors: Scott Lynch
Another brief rest in the attiring chamber. Onstage, Bert as the old nobleman, wounded
arm in a sling, sought audience with the emperor and complained bitterly of the lawlessness
of Therim Pel’s streets. Sylvanus, regal and red-cheeked, promised to loose more guards
into the city.
Donker, still hooded and masked and silent, accepted a particular wrapped parcel from
Jenora and quietly took it into a private office. Jean, lounging at the back door,
nodded at Locke to signify that nobody had tampered with the wagon or its cargo.
Back out into the light and heat for the irresponsible revels of the thieves, Aurin
and Amadine’s brief moment of defiant joy while Penthra and Ferrin brooded separately
behind their backs. Now Amadine grew careless and cocksure, and Ferrin begged Aurin
uselessly to remember his station and his charge.
A terrible end came swiftly to this idyll, in the form of bit players dragging Chantal
out of the attiring room, red cloth clutched to her breast. Penthra had gone out into
Therim Pel to clear her head with minor thievery, run into the emperor’s troops without
warning, and come back mortally wounded.
When Chantal spoke her final line, Sabetha wailed. Then, while all the other major
players stayed frozen, Chantal rose and donned her eerie, beautiful death-mask and
her white robe. Penthra’s shade joined that of Valedon as an onlooker.
Recrimination followed. Amadine stood aside in sorrow and shock while Ferrin, in despairing
rage, first cajoled and then ordered Aurin to slay her.
“Now, Aurin, now! She stands bereft of all power! See how her curs crouch in awe.
None shall impede you. A moment’s work will teach your enemies fear forever.”
“I shall not teach anyone that I destroy beauty when I find it, nor betray love when
I profess it,” said Locke. “Swallow your counsel and keep it down, Ferrin. I am your
prince.”
“You are no prince, save you act as one! Our sovereign majesty, your father, has charged
you to execute his justice!”
“My father watered fields with the blood of armies. I will not water stones with the
blood of an unarmed woman. That is execution, yes, but not justice.”
“Then stand aside and let it be done in your name.” Alondo drew his long steel, taking
care to slide it hard against the scabbard for the most sinister and impressive noise
possible. “Look away, Prince. I shall swear to your father it was done by your hand.”
“Twice now, Ferrin, have you presumed upon my patience.” Locke set a hand on the hilt
of his own sword. “Never shall I stand aside, nor shall you presume again! A third
time closes my heart against you and dissolves all friendship.”
“Dissolves our
intimacy
, Prince. Such is your right and power. Dissolve my friendship, you cannot. I act
in this matter as a friend must. So I presume again, though it cuts my very soul,
and charge you to remove yourself.”
“I loved you, Ferrin, but for love’s sake I’ll slay you if I must.” Locke drew his
sword in a flash. “Advance on Amadine and you are my foe.”
“You are an emperor’s heir and I an emperor’s servant!” cried Alondo, raising his
blade to the level of Locke’s. “You can no more run from your throne than you can
from the turning of the sun! It is upon you, Prince! Your life … is … DUTY!”
“I HAVE no duty if not to her!” Locke snarled and lashed out, catching Alondo’s right
sleeve, as though Ferrin had not truly expected Aurin to strike. “And you no duty
if not to me!”
“I see now you are soft as the metal of your naming,” said Alondo coldly, massaging
his “wounded” arm. “But I am the true Therin iron. I shall mourn thee. I mourn thee
already, unkind friend, unnatural son!
Here’s tears for our love and steel for your treachery!
”
Alondo’s voice became an anguished cry as he leapt forward. The
racketing beat of blade against blade echoed across the crowd; all the jokes and muttering
died in an instant. Locke and Alondo had practiced this dance exhaustively, giving
it the motions of two men furious and beyond reason. There was no banter, no clever
blade-play, just harsh speed, desperate circling, and the brutal clash of metal. The
groundlings drank it in with their eyes.
Ferrin was the better, stronger fighter, and he pounded Aurin mercilessly, drawing
“blood,” driving Locke to his knees. At the most dramatically suitable moment, Ferrin
drew back his arm for a killing thrust and received Aurin’s instead. Alondo took the
blade under his left arm, dropped his own sword, and spilled out a red cloth. His
collapse to the stage was so sudden and total that even Locke flinched away in surprise.
The groundlings applauded.
Locke and Sabetha held one another, perfectly still, while Alondo slowly rose and
went to the rear of the stage to receive his white mask and robe.
The final scenes were upon them. The sun had moved to crown the high western wall
of the theater. Another fray and tumult; bit players in imperial red advanced their
spears upon bit players in the gray and leather of thieves. Calamaxes followed, black
robe flowing, red and orange pots of alchemical smoke bursting behind him to mark
the use of his sorcery. At last the screams died; Amadine’s subjects were wiped out.
The slaughtered thieves and guardsmen rose as one, donned robes and masks, and joined
the looming chorus of ghosts.
Jasmer pulled Locke and Sabetha to their feet, pushed them apart, and stood dividing
them.
“The kingdom of shadows is swept away,” said Jasmer. “His majesty, tendering your
safety, bid me watch from afar and then retrieve you. I see your duty is nearly done,
though it cost you a friend.”
“It has cost me far more than that,” said Locke. “I shall not go with you, Calamaxes.
Not now or ever.”
“Your life is not your own, my prince, but something held in trust for the million
souls you must rule. You as heir secure their peace. You slain or lost to dalliance
condemns them to mutiny and civil war. You who claim the throne are claimed by it
as tightly.”
“Amadine!” said Locke.
“She must die, Aurin, and you must rule. You will find the strength
to raise your sword, or I will slay her with a spell. Either way, my tale shall flatter
you to your father’s court, and none live to contradict me.”
Locke picked up his sword, stared at Sabetha, and cast it back down to the stage.
“You cannot ask me to do this.”
“I do not ask, but instruct,” said Jasmer with a bow. “And if you cannot, then, the
spell.”
“Hold, sorcerer!” Sabetha brushed past Jasmer and took Locke’s hands. “I see the powers
that sent you before me conspired as much against your will as my realm. Take heart,
my love, for you are my love and never shall I know another. Let it be a final and
fatal honesty between us now. My kingdom is gone and yours remains to be inherited.
Show it much kindness.”
“I shall rule without joy,” said Locke. “All my joy lives in you, and that but shortly.
After comes only duty.”
“I shall teach you something of duty, love. Here is duty to myself.” Sabetha pulled
a dagger from her sleeve and held it high. “I am Amadine, Queen of Shadows, and my
fate is my own. I am no man’s to damn or deliver!”
She plunged the dagger between her left arm and breast and fell forward gently, giving
Locke ample time to catch her and lower her across his knees. Sobbing was easy; even
the sight of Sabetha pretending to stab herself was enough to put rivers behind his
eyes, and he wondered if this touch would be admired as acting. He held her tight,
rocking and crying, under Jasmer’s stern, still countenance.
At last, Locke released her. Sabetha rose and walked with languorous grace to the
waiting line of
phantasma
, who received her like courtiers and concealed her in the most elaborate cloak and
mask of all.
Locke stood and faced Jasmer, composing himself.
“When I am crowned,” he said, “you shall be turned out of all my father’s gifts, your
name and issue disinherited. You shall be exiled from Therim Pel, and from my sight,
wherever that sight should fall.”
“So be it, my prince.” Jasmer reached forth and lowered a gold chain of office onto
Locke’s shoulders, followed by his crown. “So long as you return with me.”
“The way to the throne is straight with never a turning,” said Locke. “Save this which
I had, to my sorrow. I shall return.”
The
phantasma
parted, forming two neat ranks, revealing Sylvanus seated, unmoving, on his throne.
Locke walked slowly toward him, between the rows of ghosts, with Jasmer three paces
behind. Finally, Locke knelt before Sylvanus and lowered his head.
UNCANNY SILENCE
ruled for the span of a few heartbeats. While Locke knelt in submissive tableau,
the nearest two
phantasma
swept off their robes and masks to reveal themselves as Calo and Galdo of the Chorus.
They strolled to the end of the stage and spoke in unison: “The
Republic of Thieves
, a true and tragical history by Caellius Lucarno. Gods rest his soul, and let us
all part as friends.”
The crowd responded with cheers and applause. Sylvanus cracked a smile and beckoned
for Locke to stand. Small objects flew through the air, but they were all being thrown
against the walls and galleries to either side of the stage. Gods, they’d done it!
Only a satisfied audience expended their hoarded vegetables and debris away from the
stage; it was the ultimate mark of respect from Therin groundlings.
Alondo and Sabetha took off their death-masks and moved to stand abreast with Locke.
Together they bowed, then made way for Bert and Chantal to do the same. Next came
Sylvanus and the bit players. Only Donker remained dressed as a ghost.
Moncraine threw back his hood and took the center of the stage. “My gracious lords
and ladies of Espara,” he proclaimed, stifling the cheering, “gentlefolk and friends.
We, the Moncraine-Boulidazi Company, have obtained much benefit from the generosity
of our noble patron. In fact, so passionate is my lord Boulidazi’s attachment to our
venture that he insisted on rendering the most direct assistance possible. It is my
great honor to give you my lord and patron, the Baron Boulidazi!”
Moncraine had done his part with excellent pretense of enthusiasm. Locke licked his
lips and prayed Djunkhar Kurlin had the nerve to do the same.
Donker allowed the
phantasma
cloak to fall back, revealing an expensive suit of Boulidazi’s clothing, requested
the previous night in one of Sabetha’s forged notes. They fit Donker as though tailored
to the hostler’s frame. In accordance with Locke’s strict instructions, Donker swaggered
into Jasmer’s place on the stage. Jasmer and the other members of the company bent
their heads to him in unison; the bit players were taken by surprise but rapidly made
their obeisance as well, and then the first dozen or so ranks of the crowd. Shouts
of disbelief echoed down from the balconies where Boulidazi’s friends and associates
sat, followed by appreciative laughter and clapping.
Donker pointed to them and pumped his fist in the air triumphantly. Then he faced
the box of Baroness Ezrintaim, extended both arms toward her, and bowed from the waist,
all without removing his
phantasma
mask.
Then, just as Locke had directed, he turned and trotted back to the attiring room.
As the rest of the company took a final bow together, most of the crowd seemed amused
or at least bemused by what had just transpired, and then the noisy jostling for the
exits began in earnest. Musicians started playing again. The company left the stage,
hounded only by a few lingering drunks and those loudly begging kisses, particularly
from Chantal, Sabetha, and Alondo.
Locke pushed past the bit players within the attiring chamber and cast off his wire
crown. Jean held up a hand and nodded again, and a wave of relief made Locke’s knees
nearly turn to water. Sabetha saw it too, and clutched Locke’s arm.
Donker’s instructions had been to hurry into the attiring chamber and, during the
brief moments the bit players remained onstage, take a running leap into the prop
wagon and be concealed under a sheet by Jean. Locke knew it was tempting fate to expect
Donker to lie quietly in sweltering darkness just above a corpse, but there was nothing
else for it. “Boulidazi” had to vanish like a passing breeze, as Donker couldn’t unmask
or even utter a single syllable without breaking the fragile illusion. Jean had been
fully prepared to bash him on the head if he balked.
“Where has the baron gone?” said one of the bit players.
“My lord’s friends were waiting to collect him,” said Jean. “You can imagine how busy
the baron must be tonight.”
“Now for the envoy of ceremonies,” whispered Locke to Sabetha. “Quickly, before the
wait annoys her.”
“Do you want me to come with you?”
“I think it’s our best chance.” He outlined his plan, and she smiled.
“It’s no dumber than anything else we’ve done today!”
The attiring chamber was thick with relieved and sweaty bit players, all collecting
robes and masks and props under Jenora’s demanding direction. There was no time for
leisure; the bit players had to be paid off for their work and sent away without the
usual camaraderie and drinking. The company’s goods had to be packed and rolling toward
the rendezvous with Nerissa Malloria before Malloria herself decamped from the Old
Pearl. That was everyone else’s business, though. Locke and Sabetha swiftly shed their
costume weapons (it was unlawful for them to display such things offstage) and dashed
for the courtyard.
Out into the sunlight again, past the dregs of the escaping groundlings, through the
detritus of fruit peels and spilled beer, they ran up the stairs to the balcony sections
and nearly collided with a pair of guards outside the Baroness Ezrintaim’s box.
“We request an audience with the lady Ezrintaim,” said Locke, holding up the signet
ring they’d taken from Boulidazi the night before. “We come urgently, on behalf of
the Baron Boulidazi.”