The Republic of Thieves tgb-3

by Scott Lynch

  “A thief among thieves,” said Nazca.

  “Take my curse. All who serve me shall be vigilant to your faults, blind to your virtues, and deaf to your pleading.”

  “I take your curse as a blessing of my heavenly patron,” said Nazca.

  “Does this one speak for you all?”

  “She does!”

  Justice flung Nazca into the crowd and turned her back.

  “I am the Hired Man,” said a man in a brown leather mask. A shield and truncheon were slung over the back of his robe. He grabbed Jean. “I bar every door, I guard every wall. I wear the leash of better men. I fill the gutters with your blood to earn my bread. Your cries are my music. Who are you to defy me?”

  “A thief among thieves,” said Jean.

  “Take my curse. I shall hound you by sun or stars. I shall use you and incite you to betray your brothers and sisters.”

  “I take your curse as a blessing of my heavenly patron,” said Jean. “Do you?” The man shook Jean fiercely. “Does this one speak for you all?”

  “He does!”

  The Hired Man released Jean, laughed, and turned his back. Locke nudged several other postulants aside to be the first to help Jean back to his feet.

  “I am Judgment,” said the last of the newcomers, a man whose black mask was without ornament. He wielded a hangman’s noose. With this, he caught Tesso Volanti around the neck and yanked him forward. The boy grimaced, clutched at the rope, and fought for balance. “Hear me well. I am mercy refused. I am expedience. I am a signature on a piece of parchment. And that is how you die—by clerks, by stamps, by seals in wax. I am cheap, I am easy, I am always hungry. Who are you to defy me?”

  “A thief among thieves,” gasped Tesso.

  “And will they all hang with you, for fellowship, and split death into equal shares like loot?”

  “I am not caught yet,” growled the boy.

  “Take my curse. I shall wait for you.”

  “I take your curse as a blessing of my heavenly patron,” said Tesso.

  “Does this fool speak for you all?”

  “He does!”

  “You were all born to hang.” The man released Tesso from his noose and turned away. Volanti stumbled backward and was caught by Calo and Galdo.

  “Depart, phantoms!” shouted Chains. “Go with empty hands! Tell your masters how slight a dread we bear for thee, and how deep a scorn!”

  The four costumed antagonists marched back down the aisle, until they vanished from Locke’s sight somewhere behind the crowd near the chamber door.

  “Now face your oath,” said Chains.

  The female priest set a leather-bound book on the altar, and the male priest set a metal basin next to it. Chains pointed at Locke. Tense with excitement, Locke stepped up to the altar.

  “What are you called?”

  “Locke Lamora.”

  “Are you a true and willing servant of our thirteenth god, whose name is guarded?”

  “I am.”

  “Do you consecrate thought, word, and deed to his service, from now until the weighing of your soul?”

  “I do.”

  “Will you seal this oath with blood?”

  “I will seal it with blood on a token of my craft.”

  Chains handed Locke a ceremonial blade of blackened steel.

  “What is the token?”

  “A coin of gold, stolen with my own hands,” said Locke. He used the knife to prick his left thumb, then squeezed blood onto the gold tyrin he’d scored from the cake business. He set the coin in the basin and passed the blade back to Chains.

  “This is the law of men,” said Chains, pointing at the leather-bound tome, “which tells you that you must not steal. What is this law to you?”

  “Words on paper,” said Locke.

  “You renounce and spurn this law?”

  “With all my soul.” Locke leaned forward and spat on the book.

  “May the shadows know you for their own, brother.” Chains touched a cool, gleaming coin to Locke’s forehead. “I bless you with silver, which is the light of moons and stars.”

  “I bless you with the dust of cobblestones, on which you tread,” said the female priest, brushing a streak of grime onto Locke’s right cheek.

  “I bless you with the waters of Camorr, which bring the wealth you hope to steal,” said the third priest, touching wet fingers to Locke’s left cheek.

  And so it was done—the oath of joining, without a fumble or a missed cadence. Warm with pride, Locke rejoined the other boys and girls, though he stood just a few feet apart from them.

  The ritual continued. Nazca next, then Jean, then Tesso, then Sabetha. There was a general murmur of appreciation when she revealed her offering of stolen truncheons. After that, things went smoothly until one of the Sanzas was beckoned forth, and they stepped up to the altar together.

  “One at a time, boys,” said Chains.

  “We’re doing it together,” said Calo.

  “We figure the Crooked Warden wouldn’t want us any other way,” said Calo. The twins joined hands.

  “Well, then!” Chains grinned. “It’s your problem if he doesn’t, lads. What are you called?”

  “Calo Giacomo Petruzzo Sanza.”

  “Galdo Castellano Molitani Sanza.”

  “Are you true and willing servants of our thirteenth god, whose name is guarded?”

  “We are!”

  “Do you consecrate thought, word, and deed to his service, from now until the weighing of your souls?”

  “We do!”

  Once the Sanzas were finished, the remaining postulants took their oaths without further complication. Chains addressed the assembly while his fellow priests carried away the offering-filled basin. They would give its contents to the dark waters of the Iron Sea later that night.

  “One thing, then, remains. The possibility of a choosing. We priests of the Crooked Warden are few in number, and few are called to join our ranks. Consider carefully whether you would offer yourselves for the third and final oath, the oath of service. Let those who would not desire this join their fellows at the sides of the chamber. Let those who would stand for choosing remain where they are.”

  The crowd of postulants cleared out rapidly. Some hesitated, but most had looks of perfect contentment on their faces, including Jean and the Sanzas. Locke pondered silently … did he truly want this? Did it feel right? Weren’t there supposed to be signs, omens, some sort of guidance one way or another? Maybe it would be best just to step aside—

  He suddenly realized that the only person still standing on the floor beside him was Sabetha.

  There was no hesitation in her manner—arms folded, chin slightly up, she stood as though ready to physically fight anyone who questioned her feelings. She was staring sideways at Locke, expectantly.

  Was this the sign? What would she think of him if he turned away from this chance? The thought of failing to match Sabetha’s courage while standing right in front of her was like a knife in his guts. He squared his shoulders and nodded at Chains.

  “Two bold souls,” said Chains quietly. “Kneel and bow your heads in silence. We three shall pray for guidance.”

  Locke went down to his knees, folded his hands, and closed his eyes. Crooked Warden, don’t let me make some sort of awful mistake in front of Sabetha, he thought; then he realized that praying on the matter of his own problems at a moment like this might well be blasphemous. Shit, was his next thought, and that of course was even worse.

  He struggled to keep his mind respectfully blank, and listened to the murmur of adult voices. Chains and his peers conferred privately for some time. At last Locke heard footsteps approaching.

  “One will be chosen,” said the female priest, “and must answer directly. The chance, if refused, will never be offered again.”

  “Small things guide us in this,” said the long-haired garrista. “Signs from the past. The evidence of your deeds. Subtle omens.”

  “But the Be
nefactor doesn’t make difficult decisions for us,” said the woman. “We pray that our choice will serve his interests, and thus our own.”

  “Locke Lamora,” said Father Chains softly, setting his hands on Locke’s shoulders. “You are called to the service of the Thirteenth Prince of Earth and Heaven, whose name is guarded. How do you answer his call?”

  Wide-eyed with shock, Locke glanced at Chains, and then at Sabetha. “I …” he whispered, then cleared his throat and spoke more clearly. “I … I must. I do.”

  Cheers broke out in the vault, but the look on Sabetha’s face at that instant cut coldly through Locke’s excitement. It was a look he knew only too well, a look he’d practiced himself—the game face, the perfect blank, a neutral mask meant to hide hotter emotions.

  Given her earlier attitude, Locke had no difficulty guessing what those hotter emotions must be.

  CHAPTER FOUR: ACROSS THE AMATHEL

  1

  EVERYTHING THAT WAS wrong came to a crescendo at once: Locke’s screams, Jean’s crippling vertigo, and the surging black candle flames, filling the cabin with their ghastly grave-water un-light.

  There was a bone-rattling vibration in the hot air, a sensation that something vast and unseen was rushing past at high speed. Then the black flames died, casting the room into real darkness. Locke’s screams trailed off into hoarse sobs.

  Jean’s strength failed. Pressed down by nausea that felt like a weighted harness, he tumbled forward, and his chin hit the deck hard enough to bring back memories of his less successful alley brawls. He resolved to rest for just a handful of heartbeats; heartbeats became breaths became minutes.

  Another of Patience’s cohorts pushed the cabin door open at last and came down the steps with a lantern. By that wobbling yellow light, Jean was able to take in the scene.

  Patience and Coldmarrow were still standing, still conscious, but clutching one another for support. The two younger Bondsmagi were on the floor, though whether alive or dead Jean couldn’t muster the will to care.

  “Archedama!” said the newcomer with the lantern.

  Patience brushed the woman off with a shaky wave.

  Jean rose to one knee, groaning. The nausea was still like ten hangovers wrapped around a boot to the head, but the thought that Patience was upright stung his pride enough to lend him strength. He blinked, still feeling a prickly inflammation at the edges of his eyes, and coughed. The candelabrum was charred black and wreathed in vile-smelling smoke. The woman with the lantern flung the stern windows open, and blessedly fresh lake air displaced some of the miasma.

  Another few moments passed, and Jean finally stumbled to his feet. Standing beside Coldmarrow, he clung to the table and shook Locke’s left arm.

  Locke moaned and arched his back, to Jean’s immense relief. The ink and dreamsteel ran off Locke’s pale skin in a hundred black-and-silver rivulets, forming a complete mess, but at least he was breathing. Jean noticed that Locke’s fingers were curled tightly in against his palms, and he carefully eased them apart.

  “Did it work?” Jean muttered. When neither of the magi responded, Jean touched Patience on the shoulder. “Patience, can you—”

  “It was close,” she said. She opened her eyes slowly, wincing. “Stragos’ alchemist knew his business.”

  “But Locke’s all right?”

  “Of course he’s not all right.” She extricated herself from the silver thread that bound her to Coldmarrow. “Look at him. All we can promise is that he’s no longer poisoned.”

  Jean’s nausea subsided as the night breeze filled the room. He wiped some of the silvery-black detritus from under Locke’s chin and felt the fluttering pulse in his neck.

  “Jean,” Locke whispered. “You look like hell.”

  “Well, you look like you lost a fight with a drunken ink merchant!”

  “Jean,” said Locke, more sharply. He seized Jean’s left forearm. “Jean, gods, this is real. Oh, gods, I thought … I saw—”

  “Easy now,” said Jean. “You’re safe.”

  “I …” Locke’s eyes lost their focus, and his head sank.

  “Damnation,” muttered Patience. She wiped more of the black-and-silver mess from Locke’s face and touched his forehead. “He’s so far gone.”

  “What’s wrong now?” said Jean.

  “What you and I just endured,” said Patience, “was a fraction of the shock he had to bear. His body is strained to its mortal limits.”

  “So what do you do about it? More magic?”

  “My arts can’t heal. He needs nourishment. He needs to be stuffed with food until he can’t hold another scrap. We’ve made arrangements.”

  Coldmarrow groaned, but nodded and staggered out of the cabin.

  He returned carrying a tray. This bore a stack of towels, a pitcher of water, and several plates heaped with food. He set the tray on the table just above Locke’s head, then cleaned Locke’s face and chest with the towels. Jean took a pinch of baked meat from the tray, pulled Locke’s chin down, and stuffed it into his mouth.

  “Come now,” said Jean. “No falling asleep.”

  “Mmmmph,” Locke mumbled. He moved his jaw a few times, started to chew, and opened his eyes once more. “Whhhgh hgggh fgggh igh hhhhgh,” he muttered. “Hgggh.”

  “Swallow,” said Jean.

  “Mmmmph.” Locke obeyed, then gestured for the water.

  Jean eased Locke onto his elbows and held the pitcher to his lips. Coldmarrow continued to wipe the ink and dreamsteel away, but Locke took no notice. He gulped water in undignified slurps until the pitcher was empty.

  “More,” said Locke, turning his attention to the food. The mage with the lantern set it down, took the pitcher, and hurried out.

  The stuff on the tray was simple fare—baked ham, rough dark bread, some sort of rice with gravy. Locke attacked it as if it were the first food the gods had ever conjured on earth. Jean held a plate for him while Locke pushed the bread around with shaking hands, scooped everything else into his mouth, and barely paused to chew. By the time the water pitcher returned, he was on his second plate.

  “Mmmm,” he mumbled, and a number of other monosyllables of limited philosophical utility. His eyes were bright, but they had a dazed look. His awareness seemed to have narrowed to the plate and pitcher. Coldmarrow finished cleaning him off, and Patience stretched a hand out above his legs. The rope that had bound him to the table unknotted itself and leapt into her grasp, coiling itself neatly.

  The first tray of food—enough to feed four or five hungry people—was soon gone. When the attending mage brought a second, Locke attacked it without slowing. Patience watched him alertly. Coldmarrow, meanwhile, tended to the young magi who had collapsed during the ritual.

  “They alive?” said Jean, at last finding a residue of courtesy if nothing more. “What happened to them?”

  “Ever tried to lift a weight that was too heavy?” Coldmarrow brushed his fingers against the forehead of the unconscious young woman. “They’ll be fine, and wiser for the experience. Young minds are brittle. Oldsters, now, we’ve had some disappointments. We’ve set aside the notion that we’re the center of the universe, so our minds bend with strain instead of meeting it head-on.”

  Coldmarrow’s knees popped as he stood.

  “There,” he said, “on top of all our other services this evening, some philosophy.”

  “Jean,” Locke muttered, “Jean, where the hell … what am I doing?”

  “Trying to fill a hole,” said Patience.

  “Well, was I …? I seem to have lost myself just now. I feel gods-damned strange.”

  Jean put a hand on Locke’s shoulder and frowned. “You’re getting warmer,” he said. He set his palm against Locke’s forehead and felt a fever-heat.

  “Certainly doesn’t feel like it on my side of things,” said Locke. Shivering, he reached for the blanket on his legs. Jean grabbed it for him and draped it across his shoulders.

  “You back to your senses, then?” aske
d Jean.

  “Am I? You tell me. I just … I’ve never felt so hungry. Ever. Hell, I’d still be eating, but I think I’m out of room. I don’t know what came over me.”

  “It will come over you again,” said Patience.

  “Oh, lovely. Well, this may be a stupid question,” said Locke, “but did it work?”

  “If it hadn’t, you’d have died twenty minutes ago,” said Patience.

  “So it’s out of me,” muttered Locke, staring down at his hands. “Gods. What a mess. I feel … I don’t know. Other than the hundred tons I just shoved into my stomach, I can’t tell if I’m actually feeling any better.”

  “Well, I’m sure as hell feeling better,” said Jean.

  “I’m cold. Hands and feet are numb. Feels like I’ve aged a hundred years.” Locke slid off the table, drawing the blanket more tightly around himself. “I think I can stand up, though!”

  He demonstrated the questionable optimism of this pronouncement by falling on his face.

  “Damn,” he muttered as Jean picked him up. “Sure you can’t do anything about this, Patience?”

  “Master Lamora, you full-blooded ingrate, haven’t I worked enough miracles on your behalf for one night?”

  “Purely as a business investment,” said Locke. “But I suppose I should thank you nonetheless.”

  “Yes, nonetheless. As for your strength, everything now falls to nature. You need food and rest, like any other convalescent.”

  “Well,” said Locke, “uh, if it’s no trouble, I’d like to speak alone with Jean.”

  “Shall I have the cabin cleared?”

  “No.” Locke stared at the unconscious young magi for a moment. “No, let your apprentices or whatever sleep off their hangovers. A walk on deck will do me some good.”

  “They do have names,” said Patience. “You’ll be working for us; you might as well accept that. They’re called—”