The Republic of Thieves

“He hops costumes from scene to scene like nobody else,” said Alondo. “He’s half a dozen bit players in one.”

“Him I can use,” said Moncraine, “but what makes you think I’ve forgiven either of you?”

“Cut the crap, Jasmer,” said Chantal. “I want decent work. You want a happy audience.”

“Dare I ask if there will be any more reverse defections?”

“Not for a basket of rubies the size of your self-regard, Jasmer. They’re more worried about being taken in as accomplices to assault and sedition than they are about losing their places in your troupe.”

“Well, I say take Bert and Chantal back,” said Alondo.

“Likewise,” said Jenora. “We’ve got parts to fill, and we don’t have time to be choosy. Shall I pry Sylvanus out of bed and see what he thinks?”

“No,” said Moncraine. “He’d say yes just because he can’t take his eyes off her. Fine! You’re in luck, the pair of you, but it’s on wages. No percentage. You know the papers. You lost that when you walked.”

“We might have to argue that,” said Chantal. “Either way, it’s worth it to avoid Fetching Maid Number Four. Believe me, I’d much rather be Amadine, Queen of the Shadows.”

“I’m ever so sorry,” said Sabetha. If the words THAT WAS A LIE had suddenly sprung up behind her in letters of fire ten feet high, the effect could scarcely have added to her tone of voice. “That role is no longer available.”

“Are you kidding?” Chantal strode across the courtyard until she was looking down at Sabetha, who was a hand-span shorter than the older woman. “Who are you, then?”

“Amadine,” said Sabetha coolly. “Queen of the Shadows.”

“Bloody Camorri. You’re young enough to have come out from between my legs! But not pretty enough. You can’t be serious.”

“She certainly can,” said Locke. Heat and frustration mingled badly with his acute sensitivity at hearing a stranger say anything uncomplimentary about Sabetha.

“Jasmer, you’re mad,” said Chantal. “She’s no Amadine. Give her Penthra, by all means, but not Amadine! What is she, sixteen? Sixteen, boy-assed and average!”

“Average?” said Locke. “Average? How the hell do you get around the city with two glass eyes in your gods-damned head, woman? You gotta be stu—”

Before Locke could append the second syllable of that heartfelt but unwisely chosen word, Bertrand the Crowd, true to his appearance, had one rough hand on Locke’s tunic collar and was dragging him toward a rendezvous with his other fist, already drawn back. The world moved in horrifying slow motion; Locke, who was no stranger to a beating, was cursed with an uncanny ability to recognize one just before it ceased to be theoretical.

A miracle the size and shape of Jean Tannen appeared out of the corner of Locke’s vision. An instant before Bertrand could throw his punch, Jean hit him shoulder-to-stomach and slammed him into the dirt.

“Bert!” shouted Chantal.

“Heavens,” said Jenora.

Locke realized he was holding something, and he glanced down to discover that Jean had somehow tossed his precious optics into his hands while separating him from Bertrand.

Jean was a round-bellied, quietly dignified boy of about sixteen. Even his current crop of carefully hoarded stubble failed to lend his aspect any real menace. Bertrand had at least a decade on him, not to mention six inches and twenty pounds, and he looked like he could tear a side of beef in half on a whim. What happened next surprised even Locke.

Punch was traded for punch. Jean and Bertrand rolled around, a furious tangle of arms and legs, swiping and swatting and straining. The advantage shifted every few seconds. Jean got his hands around Bertrand’s throat, only to find the older man hammering at his ribs. Bertrand pinned Jean beneath him, yet the boy somehow kicked his legs aside and pulled him back to the ground.

“Gods above,” said Chantal. “Stop! Stop it, already! We can talk about this!”

Jean attempted to hold an arm across Bertrand’s neck, and Bertrand responded with something fast and clever that flung Jean forward over his shoulder. When he tried to press his advantage, however, Jean did something equally fast and clever that threw Bert into a wall. The two combatants wrestled again, desperately forming and breaking grips on one another, until at last Jean slipped free and rolled clear. This was a mistake; the older man used the space between them to swing a wild haymaker that clipped Jean across the chin and finally dropped him.

A moment later, Bertrand wobbled and fell on his face, just as used up as his younger antagonist.

“Chantal,” said Moncraine, “I would have been happy to tell you that the role of Amadine was beyond negotiation, for several reasons. And hot staggering shit, you cannot expect me to believe that boy can do all that and work a thimble, too!”

Jenora and the Gentlemen Bastards gathered around Jean, while Alondo, Chantal, and Moncraine saw to Bert. Both the fighters regained their senses soon enough, and were eased up into sitting positions against the inn wall.

“Optics,” coughed Jean. When Locke handed them over, he settled them carefully on his nose and sighed with relief.

“Smoke,” muttered Bertrand. Chantal handed him a sheaf of rolled tobacco and flicked a bit of twist-match to light it. Once she’d done this, Bert tore the cigar in two, lit the cold half from the red embers of the other, and passed it over to Jean. The boy nodded his thanks, and the two combatants smoked in peace for a few moments while everyone else watched, dumbfounded.

“You play handball, kid?” said Bertrand. His voice was deep, his Verrari accent thick.

“Certainly,” said Jean.

“Come play with my side on Penance Day afternoons. We play for ale money, two coppins a man to buy in.”

“Love to,” said Jean. “Just don’t take any more swings at my friends.”

“Sure, kid,” said Bertrand. He waved a finger at Locke. “And you don’t talk about my wife like that.”

“Then tell your wife not to insult Verena,” said Locke.

“Hey there, skinny, we both speak Therin.” Chantal poked Locke sharply in the chest. “You got something to tell me, tell me yourself.”

“Fine,” said Locke, matching gazes with Chantal. “Don’t insult Verena—”

“Excuse me,” said Sabetha, pushing Locke aside without humor or delicacy. “Did I turn invisible or something? I’m not hiding behind him, Chantal.”

Locke winced at the unkind emphasis on him.

“You want to fight your own fights, bitchling?” said Chantal. “Good. Anytime you want a real education, you try and throw a—”

“ENOUGH,” hollered Moncraine in a shake-the-rafters voice, pushing the two women apart. “Gods damn you all for shit-witted wastrels! Bring yourselves to order or I’ll go punch another nobleman, I swear it on my balls and bones!”

“Chantal, sweetness,” said Bertrand, blowing smoke, “when Jasmer’s the voice of reason you might have to admit it’s time to calm down.”

“Verena’s Amadine,” said Jasmer. “That’s the way it is! You can have Penthra or you can have Fetching Maid Number Four and shake your tits all summer for Basanti.”

Chantal glowered, then offered a hand to Sabetha. “Peace, then. I just hope that when you’re onstage the sun shines out of your backside, girl.”

Sabetha shook with Chantal. “When I’m finished, you won’t be able to imagine anyone else as Amadine ever again.”

Bertrand whistled and grinned. “Ha! That’s good. Give my wife a couple of days to grow on you, Verena. She’ll make you like her.”

“I’ve had a lot of opportunities in my life to learn tolerance,” said Sabetha with a thin smile.

“Now, if you’re Amadine,” said Bertrand, “who’s Aurin? Who gets to do all that kissing and mooning and staring, eh?”