The Republic of Thieves

“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?”