The Republic of Thieves

spoke: 

“What thieves of wonder are these poor senses, whispering:
This stage is wood, these men are dust—
And dust their deeds, these centuries gone.
For us it is not so.
See now, and conjure with present vigor,
A happy empire! Her foes sleep in ruins of cold ambitions,
And take for law the merest whim of all-conquering Salerius
Second of that name, and most imperial to bear it!
His youth spent in dreary march and stern discipline
Wherein he met the proudest neighbors of his empire—
With trampled fields for his court, red swords for ambassadors,
And granted, to each in turn, his attention most humbling.
Now all who would not bow are hewn at the feet to better help them kneel.”

Moncraine cleared his throat. “There. I have had my plea. I have taken command, shut those slack jaws, turned those gimlet eyes to the stage. I am midwife to wonders. With their attention snared, I give them history. We are back in the time of the Therin Throne, of Salerius II. An emperor who went out and kicked some ass. Just as we shall, perhaps excepting Sylvanus.”

Sylvanus rose and tossed his copy of the script aside. Jenora managed to catch it before it hit the ground.

“Chorus, you call yourself,” he said. “You’ve the presence of a mouse fart in a high wind. Stand aside, and try not to catch fire if I shed sparks of genius.”

If Locke had been impressed by the change in Moncraine’s demeanor, he was astounded by the change in Sylvanus. The old man’s perpetually sour, unfocused, liquor-addled disposition vanished, and without warning he was speaking clearly, invitingly, charmingly: 

“From war long waged comes peace well lived,
And now, twenty years of blessed interval has set
A final laurel, light upon the brow of bold, deserving Salerius!
Yet heavy sits this peace upon his only son and heir.
Where once the lion roared, now dies the faintest echo of warlike times,
All eyes turn upon the cub, and all men wait
to behold the wrath and majesty
that must spring from such mighty paternity!
Alas, the father, in sparing not the foes of his youth
Has left the son no foe for his inheritance.
Citizens, friends, dutiful and imperial—
Now give us precious indulgence,
see past this fragile artifice!
Let willing hearts rule dullard eyes and ears,
And of this stage you shall make the empire;
From the dust of an undone age hear living words,
on the breath of living men!
Defy the limitations of our poor pretending,
And with us, jointly, devise and receive
the tale of Aurin, son and inheritor of old Salerius.
And if it be true that sorrow is wisdom’s seed
Learn now why never a wiser man was emperor made.”

“Well remembered, I’ll give you that,” said Moncraine. “But then, anything more than three lines is well remembered, where you’re concerned.”

“It’s as fresh now as the last time we did it,” said Sylvanus. “Fifteen years ago.”

“That’s you and I that would make a fair Chorus,” sighed Moncraine. “But we need a Salerius, and we need a magician to advise him and do all the threatening parts, or else the plot goes pear-shaped.”

“I’ll be the Chorus!” said Galdo. “I can do this. Wake everyone up at the beginning, then sit back and watch the rest of you in the play. That sounds like a damn good job.”

“The hell you’ll do it,” said Calo. “You and that shaved head, you look like a vulture’s cock. This job calls for some elegance.”

“You see us wrong,” said Galdo, “who are about to get your fuckin’ ass kicked! ”

“Shut up, idiots.” Moncraine glowered at the twins until they settled down. “It would be to our advantage to leave Sylvanus and myself free for other parts, so yes, one of you may have the Chorus. But you won’t scrap for it in the dirt; you’ll both learn the part and strive to better one another in it. I don’t have to make a final decision for some time.”

“And what does the loser get?” said Calo.

“The loser will understudy the winner, in case the winner should be carried off by wild hounds. And don’t worry; there’ll be other parts to fill.

“Now,” said Moncraine. “Let’s break ourselves up and put Alondo and our other Camorri through some paces, to see where their alleged strengths lie.”

3

THE SUN moved its way and the clouds moved theirs. Before another hour passed the inn-yard was once again in the full light and heat of day. Moncraine donned a broad-brimmed hat, but otherwise seemed heedless of the temperature. Sylvanus and Jenora clung to the inn walls, while Sabetha and the boys darted in and out of cover as they were required to play scenes.

“Our young prince Aurin lives in his father’s shadow,” said Moncraine.

“He’s probably glad to be out of the gods-damned sun, then!” panted Galdo.

“There’s no glory to be had because Salerius II already went out and had it,” continued Moncraine. “No wars to fight, no lands to claim, and it’s still an emperor or two to go before the Vadrans are going to start kicking things over up north. As if that wasn’t bad enough, Aurin has a best friend named Ferrin. Ferrin’s even hungrier for glory than Aurin is, and he won’t shut up about it. Let’s do … Act one, scene two. Alondo, you do Aurin, and let’s have Jovanno give us a Ferrin.”

Alondo leaned back lazily in a chair. Jean approached him, reading from his copy of the script:

“What’s this, lazy lion cub?

The sands of the morning are half run from the glass!

There’s nothing in your bed ’tis worth such fascination.

The sun rules the sky, your father his kingdom,

And you rule a chamber ten paces by ten!”