by Scott Lynch
“What happened?”
“I don’t know,” she said, staring into her mug as though it might conceal new answers. “I guess sometimes there’s just a darkness in someone. You hope it’ll go away.”
“Moncraine, you mean.”
“If you could have seen him back in those days, I think you’d understand. You know about the Forty Corpses?”
“Um … if I say no, do I become the forty-first?”
“If I killed people, glass-eyes, Moncraine wouldn’t have lived long enough to be arrested. The Forty Corpses is what we call the forty famous plays that survived the fall of the empire. The big ones by all the famous Throne Therins … Lucarno, Viscora, that bunch.”
“Oh,” said Jean.
“They’re called corpses because they haven’t changed for four or five centuries. I mean, we love them, most of them, but they do molder a bit. They get recited like temple ritual, dry and lifeless. Except, when Moncraine was on, when Moncraine was good, he made the corpses jump out of their graves. It was like he was a spark and the whole troupe would catch fire from it. And when you’ve seen that, when you’ve been a part of it … I tell you, Jovanno, you’d put up with nearly anything if only you could have it again.”
“I am returned,” boomed a voice from the inn-yard door, “from the exile to which my pride had sentenced me!”
“Oh, gods below, you people actually did it,” said Jenora, leaping out of her chair. A man entered the common room, a big dark Syresti in dirty clothing, and cried out when he saw her.
“Jenora, my dusky vision, I knew that I could—”
Whatever he’d known was lost as Jenora’s open palm slammed into his cheek. Jean blinked; her arm had been a pale brown arc. He made a mental note that she was quick when angered.
“Jasmer,” she hollered, “you stupid, stubborn, bottle-sucking, lard-witted fuck! You nearly ruined us! It wasn’t your damn pride that put you in gaol, it was your fists!”
“Peace, Jenora,” muttered Moncraine. “Ow. I was sort of quoting a play.”
“Aiiiiiaahhhhhhhh!” screamed Mistress Gloriano, rushing in from a side hall. “I don’t believe it! The Camorri got you out! And it’s more than you deserve, you lousy wretch! You lousy Syresti drunkard!”
“All’s well, Auntie, I’ve already hit him for both of us,” said Jenora.
“Oh, hell’s hungry kittens,” muttered Sylvanus, wandering in behind Mistress Gloriano. His bloodshot eyes and sleep-swept hair gave him the look of a man who’d been caught in a windstorm. “I see the guards at the Weeping Tower can be bribed after all.”
“Good morning to you too, Andrassus,” said Moncraine. “It warms the deep crevices of my heart to hear so many possible explanations for my release except the thought that I might be innocent.”
“You’re as innocent as we convinced Boulidazi to pretend you are,” said Sabetha, entering from the street. She and Locke had left early that morning to hover around the Weeping Tower, ready to snatch Moncraine up as soon as he was released following his appearance in court.
“He did say some unexpected and handsome things,” said Moncraine.
“You going to call the meeting to order,” said Sabetha, “or should I?”
“I can break the news, gir—Verena. Thank you kindly.” Moncraine cleared his throat. “A moment of your time, gentlemen and ladies of the Moncraine Company. And you as well, Andrassus. And our, uh, benefactor and patient creditor, Mistress Gloriano. There are some … changes in the offing.”
“Sweet gods,” said Sylvanus, “you coal-skinned, life-ruining bastard, are you actually suggesting that gainful employment is about to get its hands around our throats again?”
“Sylvanus, I love you as I love my own Syresti blood,” said Moncraine, “but shut your dribbling booze-hole. And yes, Espara will have its production of the Moncraine Company’s The Republic of Thieves.”
Sabetha coughed.
“I am compelled, however, to accept certain arrangements,” continued Moncraine. “Lord Boulidazi’s agreed to reconsider my, er, refusal of his patronage offer. Once Salvard has the papers ready, we’re the Moncraine-Boulidazi Company.”
“A patron,” said Mistress Gloriano in disbelief. “Does this mean we might get paid back for our—”
“Yes,” said Locke, strolling in from the inn-yard with several purses in his hands. “And here’s yours.”
“Gandolo’s privates, boy!” She caught the jingling bag Locke threw at her. “I simply don’t believe it.”
“Your countinghouse will believe it for you,” said Locke. “That’s twelve royals to square you. Lord Boulidazi is buying out Master Moncraine’s debts to relieve him of the suffering brought on by their contemplation.”
“To wind a cord about my legs so he can fly me like a kite,” said Moncraine through gritted teeth.
“To keep you from getting knifed in a gods-damned alley!” said Sabetha.
“Not that this isn’t miraculous,” said Jenora, “but those of us with shares in the company have precedence over any arrangement Boulidazi might have proposed. Noble or not, we have papers he can’t just piss on.”
“I realize that,” said Locke. “We’re not here to pry your shares out from under you. Boulidazi is giving Moncraine the funds he needs as an advance against Moncraine’s future share of the company’s profits. Your interest is protected.”
“That’s as may be,” said Jenora, “but if this company is back on a paying basis, I want another set of eyes on the books. No offense, Jasmer, but strange things can happen to profits before they reach the stakeholders.”
“The one for figures is Jovanno,” said Locke. “He’s a genius with them.”
“Hey, thanks for volunteering me,” said Jean. “I was wondering when I could stop doing interesting things and go bury myself in account ledgers.”
“I meant it as a compliment! Besides, given a choice, would you rather trust me, or the Asinos—”
“Dammit,” Jean growled. “I’ll see to the books.”
“Master Moncraine,” said Locke, “this, by the way, is my cousin, Jovanno de Barra.”
“The third of the mysterious Camorri,” said Jasmer. “And where are four and five?”
“The Asino brothers are still asleep,” said Jean. “And when they wake I expect they’ll be hungover. They crossed bottles with that thing.” He gestured at Sylvanus. “It was all I could do to keep them alive.”
“Well, then,” said Moncraine, “let us yet be merciful. I’m for a bath and fresh clothes. Someone hunt down Alondo, and we’ll have our proper meeting about the play after luncheon. How’s that sound?”
“Moncraine!” The street door burst inward, propelled by a kick from an unpleasant-looking man. His expensive clothes were stained with wine, sauces, and ominous dark patches that had nothing to do with food. Half a dozen men and women followed him into the room, clearly assorted species of leg-breakers. The Right People of Espara were on the scene.
“Oh, good morning, Shepherd. Can I offer you some refresh—”
“Moncraine,” said the man called Shepherd, “you sack of dried-up whores’ cunt leather! Did you stop at a countinghouse after your escape from the Weeping Tower?”
“I haven’t had time. But—”
“At some point, Moncraine, compound interest becomes less interesting to my boss than shoving you up a dead horse’s ass and sinking you in a fucking swamp.”
“Excuse me,” said Locke, meekly.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize it was the Children’s Festival this week,” said Shepherd. “You looking for an ass-kicking or what?”
“Can I ask how much Master Moncraine owes your boss?”
“Eighteen royals, four fifths, thirty-six coppins, accurate to this very hour.”
“Thought so. There’s nineteen in this bag,” said Locke, holding out a leather purse. “From Moncraine, of course. He just likes to draw these things out, you know. For dramatic effect.”
“This a fucking joke?”
“Nineteen royals,” said Locke. “No joke.”
Shepherd slipped the purse open, ran his fingers through the coins inside, and gave a startled grunt.
“Strange days are upon us.” He snapped the purse shut. “Signs and wonders. Jasmer Moncraine has paid a debt. I’d say my fucking prayers tonight, I would.”
“Are we square?” said Moncraine.
“Square?” said Shepherd. “Yeah, this matter’s closed. But don’t come crawling back for more, Moncraine. Not for a few months, at least. Let the boss forget what a degenerate ass-chancre you are.”
“Sure,” said Moncraine. “Just as you say.”
“Of course, if you had any brains at all you’d never risk the chance of seeing me again.” Shepherd sketched a salute in the air, turned, and left along with his crew of thugs, most of whom looked disappointed.
“A word,” said Moncraine, leading Locke off to one side of the room. “While I’m pleased as a baby on a breast to have that weight lifted, I begin to wonder if I’m meant to be nothing but a mute witness to my own affairs from now on.”
“If you’d had your way you’d be starting your real prison sentence today,” said Locke. “You can’t blame us for wanting to keep you out of further trouble.”
“I’m not pleased to be treated like I can’t handle simple business. Give me the purses you have left, and I’ll dispense with my own debts.”
“The tailor, the bootmaker, the scrivener, and the actors that left for Basanti’s company? We can hunt them down ourselves, thank you.”
“They’re not your accounts to close, boy!”
“And this isn’t your money to hold,” said Locke.
“Jasmer,” said Sabetha, coming up behind them with Jean in tow, “I’d hate to think that you were trying to corner and intimidate one of us privately.”
“We were merely discussing how I might take responsibility for my own shortcomings,” said Moncraine.
“You can hold to the deal,” said Sabetha. “And remember who got you out of the Weeping Tower, and brought in our new patron. Your job is to give us a play. Where that’s concerned, we’re your subjects, but where your safety is concerned, you’re ours.”
“Well,” said Moncraine, “don’t I feel enfolded in the bosom of love itself.”
“Just try not to screw anything else up,” said Sabetha. “It won’t be that hard a life.”
“I’ll go have my bath, then,” said Moncraine. “Would the three of you care to watch, to make sure I don’t drown myself?”
“If you did that,” said Locke, “you’d never have the satisfaction of bossing us around onstage.”
“True enough.” Moncraine scratched at his dark gray stubble. “See you after luncheon, then. Oh, since these are matters relating to the play … Lucaza, get a dozen chairs from the common room and set them out in the inn-yard. Verena, dig through the common property to find all the copies of The Republic of Thieves we have. Jenora can lend you a hand.”
“Of course,” said Sabetha.
“Good. Now, if I’m wanted for any further business, I’ll be in my room with no clothes on.”
2
JUST BEFORE noon the sun passed behind a thick bank of clouds, and its brain-poaching heat was cut to a more bearable lazy warmth. The mud of the inn-yard, late resting place of the very pickled Sylvanus Olivios Andrassus, had dried to a soft crust beneath the feet of the excited and bewildered Moncraine-Boulidazi Company.
All five Gentlemen Bastards had seats, though Calo and Galdo, with dark patches under their eyes, pointedly refused to sit together and so bookended Locke, Jean, and Sabetha.
Alondo flipped idly through a torn and stained copy of The Republic of Thieves. Each volume in the little stack of scripts found by Sabetha was a different size, and no two had been copied in the same hand. Some were marked MONCRAINE COMPANY or SCRIBED FOR J. MONCRAINE, while others were the ex-property of other troupes. One even bore the legend BASANTI on its back cover.
Sylvanus, sober, or at least not actively imbibing, sat next to Jenora. Alondo’s cousin stood against a wall, arms folded.
This, then, was the complete roster of the company. Locke sighed.
“Hello again.” Moncraine appeared, looking almost respectable in a quilted gray doublet and black breeches. “Now, let us discover together which of history’s mighty entities are sitting with us, and which ones we shall have to beg, borrow, or steal. You!”
“Me, sir?” said Alondo’s cousin.
“Yes. Who in all the hells are you? Are you a Camorri?”
“Oh, gods above, no, sir. I’m Alondo’s cousin.”
“Got a name?”
“Djunkhar Kurlin. Everyone calls me Donker.”
“Bad fucking luck. You an actor?”
“No, sir, a hostler.”
“What do you mean by spying on my company’s meeting like this?”
“I just want to get killed onstage, sir.”
“Fuck the stage. Come here and I’ll grant your wish right now.”
“He means,” said Jean, “that we promised him a bit part in exchange for helping us sell off some surplus horseflesh.”
“Oh,” said Moncraine. “An enthusiast. I’d be very pleased to help you die onstage. Stay on my good side and it can even be pretend.”
“Uh, thank you, sir.”
“Now,” said Moncraine. “We need ourselves an Aurin. Aurin is a young man of Therim Pel, basically good-hearted, unsure of himself. He’s also the only son and heir to the emperor. Looks like we’ve got a surplus of young men, so you can all fight it out over the next few days. And we’ll need an Amadine—”
“Hey,” said Calo. “Sorry to interrupt. I was just wondering, before we all get measured for codpieces or whatever, where the hell are we supposed to be giving this play? I hear this Basanti has a theater of his own. What do we have?”
“You’re one of the Asino brothers, right?” said Moncraine.
“Giacomo Asino.”
“Well, being from Camorr, Giacomo, you probably don’t know about the Old Pearl. It’s a public theater, built by some count—”
“Poldaris the Just,” muttered Sylvanus.
“Built by Poldaris the Just,” said Moncraine, “as his perpetual legacy to the people of Espara. Big stone amphitheater, about two hundred years old.”
“One hundred and eighty-eight,” said Sylvanus.
“Apologies, Sylvanus, unlike you I wasn’t there. So you see, Giacomo, we can use it, as long as we pay a little fee to the countess’ envoy of ceremonies.”
“If it’s such a fine place, why did Basanti build his own?”
“The Old Pearl is perfectly adequate,” said Moncraine. “Basanti built to flatter his self-regard, not fatten his pocketbook.”
“Because businessmen like to spend lots of money to replace perfectly adequate structures they can use for nearly nothing, right?”
“Look, boy,” said Moncraine, “it wouldn’t matter if Basanti’s new theater turned dog turds into platinum, while merely setting foot inside the Old Pearl gave people leprosy. The Old Pearl’s it. There’s no time or money for anything else.”
“Does it?” said Calo. “Give people leprosy, I mean?”
“Go lick the stage and find out. Now, let’s talk about Amadine. Amadine is a thief in a time of peace and abundance. Therim Pel has grown a crop of bandits in the ancient catacombs beneath the city. They mock the customs of the upright people, of the emperor and his nobles. Some of them even call their little world a republic. Amadine is their leader.”
“You should be our Amadine, Jasmer,” said Sylvanus. “Think of the pretty skirts Jenora could sew for you!”
“Verena’s our Amadine,” said Moncraine. “There’s a certain deficiency of breasts in the company, and while yours may be larger than hers, Sylvanus, I doubt as many people would pay to see them. No, since our former Amadine abandoned us … she’ll do.”
Sabetha gave a slight, satisfi
ed nod.
“Now, everyone take a copy of the lines. Have them out for consultation. A troupe learns a play like we all learn to screw, stumbling and jostling until everything’s finally in the right place.”
Locke felt his cheeks warm a bit, though the sun was still hidden away behind the high wall of summer clouds.
“So, Aurin falls for Amadine, and they have lots of problems, and it’s all very romantic and tragic and the audience gives us ever so much money to see it,” said Moncraine. “But to get there we’ve got to sharpen things to a fine point … slash some deadweight from the text. I’ll give you full cuts later, but for now I think we can discard all the bits with Marolus the courtier. And we’ll cut Avunculo, and Twitch, the comic relief thieves, for a certainty.”
“Aye, a certainty,” said Sylvanus, “and what a bold decision that is, given that our Marolus, Avunculo, and Twitch all ran across town chasing Basanti’s coin when you took up lèse-majesté as a new hobby.”
“Thank you, Andrassus,” said Moncraine. “You’ll have many weeks to belittle my every choice; don’t spend yourself in one afternoon. Now you, Asino—”
“Castellano,” said Galdo, yawning.
“Castellano. Stand up. Wait, you can read, can’t you? You can all read, I assume?”
“Reading, is that where you draw pictures with chalk or where you bang a stick on a drum?” said Galdo. “I get confused.”
“The first thing that happens,” said Moncraine with a scowl, “the first character the audience meets, is the Chorus. Out comes the Chorus—give us his lines, Castellano.”
“Um,” said Galdo, staring down at his little book.
“What the fuck’s the matter with you, boy?” shouted Moncraine. “Who says ‘um’ when they’ve got the script in their hands? If you say ‘um’ in front of five hundred people, I guarantee that some unwashed, wine-sucking cow down in the penny pit will throw something at you. They wait on any excuse.”
“Sorry,” said Galdo. He cleared his throat, and read:
“You see us wrong, who see with your eyes,
And hear nothing true, though straining your ears.
