The Republic of Thieves

by Scott Lynch

  “You talk of investments.” Archedon Providence speaks now, a disarmingly mild man about Patience’s age, a staunch ally of hers. “Anatolius casts a wide net with this scheme. Any feast at Raven’s Reach will command the presence of the city’s money, including Meraggio himself. We do maintain accounts at his house, and others.”

  “I’ve researched them,” says the Falconer. “But do these people run countinghouses or trade syndicates by themselves? Any one of them will have family, advisors, lieutenants. Capable and ambitious inheritors. The money in the vaults won’t go anywhere. The letters of credit won’t vanish. The organizations will continue operating under new authorities. At least that’s my conclusion. Do you find it to be in error, Archedon?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Nor I,” says Foresight. “Our few ties to Camorr are secure, our obligations to it nonexistent. Who can name a single concrete injury we would do ourselves if we accepted the Anatolius contract?”

  The chamber is silent.

  “I trust we may consider the first Mandate dispensed with,” says the Falconer. “Let’s give due airing to the second. What Anatolius proposes—and offers to pay a fair, which is to say, exorbitant price for—is that we engineer an opportunity for him to work his revenge against the nobility of Camorr and against its foremost criminal family. Now, I am merely being exact. I’m not attempting to disguise the magnitude of his intentions.

  “With our aid, Anatolius will likely succeed, and hundreds of the most powerful men and women in Camorr will be gentled. Our sister Navigator is correct to point out the foolishness of dancing around this point. These men and women will never again have a single meaningful thought. They won’t be able to wipe the filth from their own asses. Their fate will be tantamount to murder.

  “I would certainly not wish that on anyone I knew or cared for, but then, we are here to consider, as the archedama put it, the concrete injuries of our actions, not to hone our sympathy for distant persons. We must measure whether the disruption this would inflict could be so widespread as to compromise our own interests, and our freedom of action.”

  “Forgive my suspicion,” says Jean/Patience, “that the Speaker has come to this assembly well-armed with conclusions to aid us in that measurement.”

  “Archedama, I would be a poor advocate indeed if I dared to speak extemporaneously on such a crucial matter. I’ve given this contract a great deal of thought since it was first proposed.”

  “If it were carried out,” says Archedama Foresight, “what would happen to Camorr?”

  “I think it impossible,” says the Falconer, “that literally every noble in Camorr could be caught in this trap. There must inevitably be those too ill to attend, those out of favor at court, and those traveling abroad. There will also be those that leave too early or arrive too late. Dozens of them are sure to survive. Anatolius understands this. His point is made regardless.

  “Camorr possesses a standing army of several companies, along with a rather infamous constabulary. At the end of the night, the survivors would retain a disciplined force to keep the peace.”

  “That’s what they’d be used for, then?” Archedon Providence adopts a tone of mock surprise. “Certainly not to settle old scores? Camorri are so famous for their deep sense of restraint where lingering grudges are concerned.”

  “I’m not trying to be fatuous, Archedon,” says the Falconer, “or unduly optimistic. But our information—and our information is better than the duke of Camorr’s—is that the duke’s standing forces are reasonably loyal to the throne and to Camorr itself. Of course there’d be blood on the walls. Doors kicked in, alley fights, that personal Camorri touch. Yet I think it likely the army and constabulary would stand aside from these affairs until the strongest survivors restored a legitimate chain of command.”

  “Are you seriously arguing,” says Providence, “that Camorr would, after a few knife-fights in the dark, suffer no further instability from the sudden and rather horrific subtraction of several hundred nobles?”

  “Of course not. Archedon, you do me a rhetorical injustice. Camorr will lose much—its present ambitions, its particular relations with other city-states, its high culture. If Anatolius has his way, he’ll wipe out most of the old dogs who won the Thousand Days and put down the Mad Count’s rebellion.

  “Camorr will be severely tested. Tal Verrar, we must assume, will poke every visible wound. But will Camorr collapse? Will there be riots in the streets? Will its soldiers throw down their pikes and run to the wilds? Gods be gracious, no. And will it lash out? At whom? Anatolius intends to make it generally known, if his plan is successful, that what took place was an act of vengeance by Camorri, upon Camorri. There’ll be no foreign phantoms to chase.”

  “They will try,” says Temperance, musingly. “And they’ll hunt Anatolius to the ends of creation. Assassins will be lined up at the city gates for work.”

  “I agree,” says the Falconer. “But that would be Anatolius’ problem, and he’s eager to have it. He knows how to reach our agents if he wishes to discuss the price of making himself vanish.”

  There is a good-humored murmur from around the chamber. The sun has climbed higher; the warm golden glow is steady.

  “I believe the chaos unleashed by Anatolius’ plan would be brief, local, and easily contained,” says the Falconer. “It is, of course, the place of the arch-magi to determine whether or not I’ve been convincing. But I would say one thing more—a decision here is only the first requirement for a contract to be placed into action. It must also have a mage willing to become its instrument. I am no hypocrite! If the arch-magi allow it, I would be the first to request the honor of the assignment.”

  Jean feels a strange flare of emotion from somewhere below the surface of the memories he rides. It isn’t anger, or even surprise. Rather … satisfaction? Anticipation? The hint of feeling vanishes quickly, pushed back behind the curtains of Patience’s mental stage.

  “Are there any further arguments to be made,” says Temperance, “against the Anatolius proposal, on the basis of the second Mandate?”

  Silence around the room.

  “We call the question.” Temperance raises his left hand, a gesture that allows his sleeve to fall back just far enough to reveal his five rings. “Have these arguments changed the opinions already offered by my peers?”

  “I still can’t deem it acceptable,” says Providence.

  “I can,” says Foresight.

  “Then the time has come for Patience and me to make our declarations.” Temperance broods before continuing. “I agree that this is a proposal without precedent. I agree that it seems a singular and sinister thing, and I am no enemy of black contracts. But our custom compels a duty to fact, not to vague impressions. I find no valid reason in law to disqualify the proposal.”

  A critical moment. Temperance has handed Patience the most meaningful decision of the entire assembly. If she refuses the proposal, agents of the Bondsmagi will politely inform Luciano Anatolius that his proposition has not been found convenient. If she allows the proposal, the Falconer will go to Camorr to work an act of butchery.

  “I share the qualms of the honorable Navigator, and our esteemed Archedon Providence,” Jean/Patience says at last. “I also share the Archedon Temperance’s respect for the strictness of our Mandates. I too lack any valid reason to disallow the contract.”

  Jean is chilled to the core of his vaporous body as he feels this statement come from his/Patience’s lips. Of all the curious privileges he has ever been granted in life, surely this is among the most awful—the chance to speak the words that sent the Falconer to Camorr, to slaughter the Barsavi family, to cause the deaths of Calo and Galdo and Bug, to come within a hair’s width of killing himself and Locke.

  “The proposal is accepted,” says Temperance. “I think it no small justice that the task should be yours, Falconer. We know you have the stomach for black contracts. Now we’ll see if your subtlety is any match for your ent
husiasm.”

  The Falconer has been handed a double-edged opportunity, a chance to crown his relatively early success with a contract unlike any other. A chance to fail spectacularly if he lacks the nerve to pull it off.

  “This assembly is adjourned,” says Temperance. Jean’s perception shifts again; in mid-sentence, the sound of the eldest archedon’s voice transmutes to the sensation of thoughts. Patience has returned to her natural perspective.

  Like a theater audience with no applause, the magi rise and begin to file out of the Sky Chamber. A hundred private discussions continue, but there is no need to form conversational knots and clusters when they are taking place in the swift silence of thought.

  The other arch-magi rise to leave, but Jean/Patience lingers, staring at the pool of dreamsteel in the middle of the chamber. He/she can feel the Falconer’s eyes from across the room.

  I must admit, I wasn’t expecting you to make that allowance, Mother.

  If you’re no hypocrite, neither am I.

  Jean/Patience waves a hand across the surface of the dreamsteel; currents of warmth pulse up and down the ghostly fingers. The silvery metal ripples birth slender shapes. The sculpting takes a few moments, and is far from perfect, but soon enough Jean/Patience has beckoned the dreamsteel into a caricature of the Camorr skyline, with the Five Towers looming over islands studded with smaller buildings.

  Having no excuse to forbid this isn’t the same as condoning it.

  Frame it as you like.

  Is there any point to my offering a piece of advice?

  If it’s truly advice, I’ll be surprised.

  Don’t go to Camorr. This contract isn’t just complex, it’s dangerous.

  I thought as much. Dangerous? I don’t recall my name being on Luciano Anatolius’ list of enemies.

  Not merely dangerous for the ungifted. Dangerous for you.

  Oh, Mother. I hardly know whether your game is too deep or too shallow for me. Is this your legendary prescience again? Curious how you seem to cite it whenever you have an obvious reason to slow me down.

  The Falconer stretches forth a hand, and the Five Towers sink. In seconds the liquid-sculpture buildings dissolve back into their primordial silver ooze. The dreamsteel quivers, then becomes mirror-smooth once again. The Falconer grins.

  Someday, Speaker, you may have cause to regret the intensity of your self-regard.

  Yes, well, perhaps we can continue to explore your rather thorough catalog of my faults when I return from Camorr. Until then—

  I doubt we’ll ever have the opportunity. Farewell, Falconer.

  Farewell, Mother. Rest assured I do look forward to enjoying the last word, whenever it comes.

  He turns toward the door. As he walks away, Vestris cocks her head slightly, stares with cold hunter’s eyes, and makes the slightest squawk. The bird’s equivalent of a disdainful laugh.

  The Falconer departs on his mission to Camorr two days later. When he returns, months will have passed, and he will be in no condition to enjoy any words at all.

  5

  “GODS ABOVE,” whispered Jean as the deck of the Sky-Reacher became real beneath his feet again. His eyes felt as though he’d been staring into a bitter wind. It was a deep relief to find himself back in the familiar shape and mass of his own body. “That was insane.”

  “The first time isn’t easy. You bore it well enough.”

  “You people do that often?” asked Jean.

  “I wouldn’t go so far as ‘often.’ ”

  “You can just pass your memories back and forth,” said Locke, shaking his head. “Like an old jacket.”

  “Not quite. The technique requires preparation and conscious guidance. I couldn’t simply give you the sum total of my memories. Or teach you to speak Vadran with a touch.”

  “Ka spras Vadrani anhalt.”

  “Yes, I know you do.”

  “Falconer,” muttered Jean, rubbing his eyes. “Falconer! Patience, you could have stopped him. You were inclined to stop him!”

  “I was,” said Patience. She stared out at the Amathel, the cooling dregs of her tea forgotten.

  “But the Falconer was one of your exceptionalists, right?” said Locke. “Along with what’s-her-name, Foresight. And here you had a contract, a mission, to go and really fuck things up, Therim Pel style. If he’d actually pulled it off—and he came gods-damned close, let me tell you—isn’t that just the sort of thing that would have given more prestige to his faction?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “And you let him go anyway.”

  “I thought of abstaining, until he announced his willingness to take the contract. No, his intention of taking the contract. Once he’d done so, I realized that he wouldn’t be coming back safely from Camorr.”

  “What, you had some sort of premonition?”

  “After a fashion. It’s one of my talents.”

  “Patience,” said Locke, “I would like to ask you something deeply personal. Not to antagonize you. I ask because your son helped kill four close friends of mine, and I want to know … I guess …”

  “You want to know why we don’t get along.”

  “Yes.”

  “He hated me.” Patience wrung her hands together. “Still does, behind the fog of his madness. He hates me as much as he did when we parted that day in the Sky Chamber.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s simple. And yet … rather hard to explain. The first thing you should understand is how we choose our names.”

  “Falconer, Navigator, Coldmarrow, et cetera,” said Jean.

  “Yes. We call them gray names, because they’re mist. They’re insubstantial. Every mage chooses a gray name when their first ring is tattooed on their wrist. Coldmarrow, for example, chose his in memory of his northern heritage.”

  “What were you, before you were Patience?” said Jean.

  “I called myself Seamstress.” She smiled faintly. “Not all gray names are grandiose. Now, there’s another sort of name. We call it the red name, the name that lives in the blood, the true name which can never be shed.”

  “Like mine,” muttered Jean.

  “Just so. The second thing you need to understand is that magical talent has no relation to heredity. It doesn’t breed true. Many decades of regrettable interference in the private lives of magi made this abundantly clear.”

  “What do you do,” said Jean, “with, ah, ‘ungifted’ children when you have them?”

  “Cherish them and raise them, you imbecile. Most of them end up working for us, in Karthain and elsewhere. What did you think we’d do, burn them on a pyre?”

  “Forget I asked.”

  “And gifted children?” said Locke. “Where do they come from, if they’re not homegrown?”

  “A trained mage can sense an unschooled talent,” said Patience. “We usually catch them very young. They’re brought to Karthain and raised in our unique community. Sometimes their original memories are suppressed for their own comfort.”

  “But not the Falconer,” said Locke. “You said he was your flesh-and-blood son.”

  “Yes.”

  “And for him to have the power … how rare is that?”

  “He was the fifth in four hundred years.”

  “Was his father a mage?”

  “A master gardener,” said Patience softly. “He drowned on the Amathel six months after our son was born.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Of course you’re not.” Patience moved her fingers slightly and her tea mug disappeared. “I suppose I might have gone mad, if not for the Falconer. He was my solace. We became so close, that little boy and I. We explored his talents together. Ultimately, though, for magi to be born of magi is more curse than blessing.”

  “Why?” said Jean.

  “You’ve been Jean Tannen all your life. It’s what your mother and father called you when you were learning how to speak. It’s engraved on your soul. Your friend here also has a red name, but, to his great good fortune,
he stumbled into a gray name for himself at an early age. He calls himself Locke Lamora, but deep down inside, when he thinks of himself, he thinks something else.”

  Locke smiled thinly and nibbled a biscuit.

  “The very first identity that we accept and recognize as us, that’s what becomes the red name. When we grow from the raw instincts of infancy and discover that we exist, conscious and separate from the things around us. Most of us acquire red names from what our parents whisper to us, over and over, until we learn to repeat it in our own thoughts.”

  “Huh,” said Locke. An instant later, he spat crumbs. “Holy shit. You know the Falconer’s true name because you gave it to him!”

  “I tried to avoid it,” said Patience. “Oh, I tried. But I was lying to myself. You can’t love a baby and not give him a name. If my husband had lived, he would have given the Falconer a secret name. That was the procedure … other magi might have intervened, would have if I hadn’t deceived them. I wasn’t thinking straight. I needed that private bond with my boy so desperately … and, inevitably, I named him.”

  “He resented you for it,” said Jean.

  “A mage’s deepest secret,” said Patience. “Never shared, not between masters and students, closest friends, even husbands and wives. A mage who learns another mage’s true name wields absolute power over them. My son has bitterly resented me since the moment he realized what I held over him, whether or not I ever chose to use it.”

  “Crooked Warden,” said Locke. “I guess I should be able to find it in my heart to have some sympathy for the poor bastard. But I can’t. I sure as hell wish you’d had a normal son.”

  “I think I’ve said enough for the time being.” Patience moved away from the taffrail and turned her back to Locke and Jean. “You two rest. We can dispose of any further questions when you awake.”

  “I could sleep,” admitted Locke. “For seven or eight years, I think. Have someone kick the door in at the end of the month if I’m not out yet. And Patience … I guess … I am sorry for—”

  “You’re a curious man, Master Lamora. You bite on reflex, and then your conscience bites you. Have you ever wondered where you might have acquired such contradictory strains of character?”