by K. J. Parker
“You mean stop doing them.”
Roll of the eyes. “No. Make them good. You don’t understand, do you?”
For some reason, he wasn’t scared, even though he knew he should be. But there was a sincerity in the way she spoke that had caught his attention, as though these questions mattered, urgently, here and now. “Sorry.”
“Fine.” She sat down, folded her hands, composed herself, the start of the lesson. The Master had done the same. “A smith makes a thing, let’s say a hinge or a scythe blade. He makes it, but it comes out wrong. He can throw it in the scrap and start again, or he can try and make it good. With me so far?”
Musen nodded.
“The Great Smith makes us. Sometimes we come out right, sometimes we don’t. Some of us are so badly flawed, we go in the scrap. Some of us are worth making good. Yes?”
“Yes.”
“The Great Smith works on us through us; we are his hands and tools, his anvil and hammer. To make us good, He inspires us with awareness of our error, which leads us to recognition and repentance. Still with me?”
“Yes. Go on.”
She smiled. “He then inspires us to make ourselves good. It’s very important you understand what that means. It doesn’t mean we throw ourselves away and start again. That’d be presumption. It’s not for us to throw ourselves away, only He can do that. Well?”
“I understand.”
“Good boy. When He made you, he gave you a shape, a form. He made you how and what you are. If you try and change that, be someone else entirely, you’re throwing away the thing He made. Which is wrong. Isn’t it?”
“I suppose so, yes.”
“That’s right. The shape and form He gave you is your character. That’s actually what character means, it’s a word in Old Imperial meaning a stamp or design.”
“Oh. I didn’t know that.”
“Of course you didn’t, but you do now. What you have to do is make good. You’ve got to work on that flaw, the flaw in your character, and make it good. Like, the smith draws out the hinge too thin on one place. So, he draws the rest of it down until it’s all one even thickness. Or he burns the edge of the blade, welding it to the back; so he jumps up and draws down all round it and makes the burned bit good. He takes the flaw and makes it good. Do you see?”
“I think so.”
“Excellent, we’re nearly there. What you have to do is identify that flaw of yours – in your case, taking things that don’t belong to you – and make it good. That’s all. But it’s really important. Because that’s what He’s doing, through you. If you fail Him, you’re a bad tool. Bad tools go in the scrap.”
She was silent for a while. He asked, “But I don’t see what I’m meant to do. You’re saying stealing is a flaw, but it’s wrong just to stop doing it.”
Another smile. “It depends on the flaw,” she said. “Is it just a blemish on the surface that can be beaten out and filed smooth, or does it go all the way through the iron, like a cold shut or an inclusion? In your case, I’m guessing, it goes all the way through, right down deep inside you. You won’t ever stop thieving, because you can’t. He made you that way. But He made you. So, two choices. Throw you away or make you good. Which do you think He should do?”
Musen thought about it. “Throw me away.”
“Wrong.” She scowled at him, mock-ferocious. “You have faith, you’re a sincere craftsman. He wouldn’t have made you that way if He didn’t have a use for you. So, you need to be fixed.”
“I’m not sure I—”
“Also,” she said, “you’re a good thief.” That made him blink, like a bright light shoved in his face. “Or you could be, if you’re taught properly. I’ve been watching you very carefully, and in my professional opinion you show genuine promise.” She pursed her lips. “You’re a bit old for training, you’re woefully ignorant of basic general knowledge and you’ve got the manners of a pig, but we can fix that. So, cheer up. I’ve decided. You’re getting out of here.”
A surge of uncontrollable joy, like the rainwater flooding the cellars. “You can—”
She nodded. “I’ve got a ship,” she said. “Well, call it a ship, it’s more a sort of overgrown dinghy, but it’ll get us where we’re going.” She paused. “Now you ask, where’s that?”
“Sorry. Where—?”
She beamed at him. “It’s a really nice place,” she said. “You’ll like it there. Nice shady cloisters, so you won’t boil to death, like most Rhus do in the South. Board and lodging completely free, and the food’s actually quite good. Also, I think you’ll enjoy learning. I should say you’re quite an intellectual, for a farm boy.”
He wasn’t sure what that meant, but she seemed to think it was a good thing. “You’ve got a ship,” he repeated.
“I said so, didn’t I? It’s all right, it’ll still be there in the morning.” She stood up, walked to the fire. “Sorry about this,” she said, and threw his pack of cards into it. They burned up quite quickly, and the reflection of the brief flare on the gilded walls was like daybreak. “No valued possessions, it’s the rule. Essential, actually, when you think about it. Five hundred thieves under one roof, the one thing you simply can’t afford to let them have is property. Otherwise, there’d be chaos.”
“Five hundred thieves,” he repeated.
“There or thereabouts,” she said. “At the Priory. People just like you.”
His head was swimming. “The Priory. That’s where we’re going.”
“That’s it. Or you can stay here and die, of course, if that’s what you’d prefer. This place has got absolutely no chance. That’s official, direct from the General Staff.”
He took a deep breath. “Sorry,” he said. “Can I just get this straight? You’re sending me to a sort of thief school, in the South.”
“You could call it that.”
“And this is to do with religion. It’s a holy school.”
She gave him a fond smile. “It’s all right,” she said, “they’ll explain it all when you get there.”
“And you can do this. Make the decision, I mean.”
“Me? No, of course not.” She paused for a moment. “Well, the actual decision, whether you’re suitable or not, yes, that’s me. But we’ve been watching you for a long time.”
“You have.”
“Since you were eight. Quite a remarkable thing, two of you in one poxy little village out in the middle of the bush. We thought it was just an inexperienced observer trying to make a name for himself. But no, you both measured up. And, of course, a linked pair’s always a good thing to have up your sleeve. Anyhow, that’s enough about that. Be here, first light. I’ll send someone.” She stood up and walked towards the open door. “Nice meeting you. You won’t see me again for a bit.”
“You’re not coming on the ship.”
She shook her head. “Too much to do here,” she replied. “I expect I’ll see you at Beal Defoir, I don’t know. Cheer up,” she added. “Smile. You’re going to get out. You’re going to paradise.”
He woke up and assumed it had all been a dream. Then he saw the toes of two pairs of boots.
“You coming, or what?”
His mouth tasted of mud. Sleeping with his mouth open. “The ship?”
He’d said something amusing. “Yeah, the ship. You coming?”
Musen scrambled to his feet, not so easy on a dead-smooth marble floor. “I’m right behind you,” he said.
They were both short, broad men, very dark but not Blueskins; black curly hair and beards that made them look much older than they sounded. “I’m Loster and that’s Coif,” one of them said. They both wore long coats, bilberry-stain blue. He couldn’t really tell them apart.
“Musen.”
“Yes, we know.”
They were going west, towards the docks, but he’d never been down these streets before. Didn’t look like anyone had been that way for a very long time. They walked until Musen’s feet began to hurt. “Is it much further?”
Another joke; he wished he could be that amusing on purpose. “Nearly there.”
They stopped. By the looks of it, a carpenter’s shop; the shutters had been stripped, the planks prised out, and the workbench was open to the air; tools lying everywhere, as though someone had gone through them in a hurry, looking for something in particular. “Wait here,” Loster said. He went inside, and Musen heard his feet on stairs. Coif grinned at him, as though they were co-conspirators in some mildly antisocial venture. “Won’t be long,” he said.
“We are going to the ship, aren’t we?”
“Oh yes.”
Two pairs of feet coming down the stairs. He’d hoped it would be the woman. Instead, it was a man. He had a hood drawn round his face, but Musen recognised him immediately.
“Hello,” he said. “It’s Musen, isn’t it?”
“That’s right.”
“The thief. You’re on your way to the Priory at Beal Defoir.”
He wondered if Loster and Coif knew who the red-headed man was. “That’s right,” he said.
“Splendid,” Oida said. “We’ll be shipmates as far as Tirres.”
Wherever that was. “That’s nice,” Musen said. He felt such a fool.
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Having worked in journalism and the law, K. J. Parker now writes and makes things out of wood and metal.
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BY K. J. PARKER
The Fencer trilogy
Colours in the Steel
The Belly of the Bow
The Proof House
The Scavenger trilogy
Shadow
Pattern
Memory
The Engineer trilogy
Devices and Desires
Evil for Evil
The Escapement
The Company
The Folding Knife
The Hammer
Sharps
The Two of Swords (e-novellas)
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Welcome
Dedication
6 The Thief
About the Author
By K. J. Parker
About Orbit Short Fiction
Orbit Newsletter
Copyright
Copyright
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Copyright © 2015 by K. J. Parker
Cover design by Kirk Benshoff
Cover copyright © 2015 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
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First ebook edition: April 2015
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ISBN 978-0-316-26580-5
E3
