The Republic of Thieves

Wearing half a scowl and half a smirk, the servant reached through the bars. Jean dropped the envelope, seized the man by the collar, and slammed him hard against the gate. An instant later Jean flourished a knife in his free hand.

It was a push-dagger, the sort wielded with a thrusting fist rather than a fencer’s grip. The blade seated against Jean’s knuckles was half a foot long and curved like an animal’s claw.

“There’s only one use for a knife like this,” whispered Jean. “You see it? You try to call out or pull away, and you’ll be wearing your belly-fat for an apron. Open the gate.”

“You’ll die for this,” hissed the servant. “They’ll skin you and boil you in salt water.”

“And what a consolation that will be for you, eh?” Jean prodded him in the stomach with his knife. “Open the gate or I’ll take the keys from your corpse.”

With a shaking hand, the old man opened the gate. Jean threw it aside, grabbed the servant again, and turned him around. The knife was now at the small of the man’s back.

“Take me to your master. Stay composed. Tell him that an important case has come up and that he will want to hear my offer.”

“The scholar is in the garden. But you’re mad.… He has friends in the highest places … urk!”

Jean poked him again with the blade, urging him forward.

“Of course,” said Jean. “But do you have any friends closer than my knife?”

At the heart of the garden, a short, solid man of about thirty-five was sharing a hearty laugh with a woman who had yet to see twenty. Both of them wore light breeches, silk shirts, and padded leather gloves. That explained the rhythmic noise from before. They’d been using a cleared section of stone wall for pursava, the “partner chase,” an aristocratic cousin of handball.

“Sir, madam, a thousand pardons,” said the servant at another poke from Jean. Jean stood half a pace behind the man, where neither Zodesti nor his guest could see the true means of his entry into the garden. “A very urgent matter, sir.”

“Urgent?” Zodesti had a mop of black curls, now slick with sweat, and the remains of an upper-class Verrari accent. “Who does this fellow come to speak for?”

“An eminent friend,” said Jean. “In the usual fashion. It would not be appropriate to discuss these matters in front of your young—”

“By the gods, I’ll say what’s appropriate or not in my own garden! This fellow has some cheek, Loran. You know my preferences. This had better be in earnest.”

“Dire earnest, sir.”

“Let him leave his particulars. If I find them suitable he may call again after dinner.”

“Now would be better,” said Jean, “for everyone.”

“Who in all the hells do you think you are? Shit on your dire earnest! Loran, throw this—”

“Refusal noted and cordially declined.” Jean shoved Loran to the turf. Half a second later he was upon Zodesti, with a meaty forearm wrapped around the physiker’s throat and his blade held up so the young woman could see it. “Cry out for help and I will use this, madam. I would hate to have an injury to the scholar resting upon your conscience.”

“I … I …” she said.

“Babble all you like, so long as you don’t scream. As for you—” Jean squeezed the man’s windpipe to demonstrate his strength, and the physiker gasped. “I’ve tried to be civil. I would have paid well. But now I’ll teach you a new way of doing business. Do you have a kit you would bring to a case of poisoning? Materials you’d need for a consultation?”

“Yes,” choked Zodesti. “In my study.”

“We’re going to calmly walk into your house, all of us. On your feet, Loran. You have a carriage and driver on the grounds, Scholar?”

“Yes,” said Zodesti.

“Inside, then, as though nothing is amiss. If any of you give me any trouble, by the gods, I’ll start practicing throat surgery.”

7

THE TICKLISH part was getting them all into Zodesti’s study, past the curious eyes of a cook and a kitchen-boy. But none of Jean’s hostages caused a scene, and soon enough the study door was between them and any interference. Jean shot the bolt, smiled, and said, “Loran, would you—”

At that moment, the old man found the courage for a last desperate struggle. Foul as his temper was, Jean didn’t truly have the heart to stab the poor idiot, and he smashed the edge of his knife hand into Loran’s jaw instead. The servant hit the floor senseless. Zodesti darted to a desk in the corner and had a drawer open before Jean collared him and flung him down beside Loran. Jean glanced into the drawer and laughed.

“Going to fight me off with a letter-opener? Take a seat, both of you.” Jean indicated a pair of armchairs against the rear wall. While Zodesti and his companion sat there, wide-eyed as pupils awaiting punishment from a tutor, Jean cut down one of the drapes that hung beside the study’s shuttered window. He slashed it into strips and tossed them to Zodesti.

“I don’t quite understand—”

“Your young friend offers a problem,” said Jean. “Meaning no particular offense to you, madam, but one hostage is difficult enough to handle, let alone two. Particularly when they’re clumsy amateur hostages, unused to their roles and expectations. So we’ll leave you in that fine big closet over there, where you won’t be found too late or too soon.”

“How dare you,” said the young woman. “I’ll have you know that my uncle is—”

“Time is precious and my knife is sharp,” said Jean. “When some servant finally opens that closet, do they find you alive or dead?”

“Alive,” she gulped.

“Gag her, Scholar,” said Jean. “Then tie some good, firm knots. I’ll check them myself when you’re done. After she’s secure, do the same for old Loran.”

As Zodesti worked to tie up his pursava partner (if that was indeed the limit of their partnership), Jean tore down another drape and cut it into more strips. His eyes wandered to the room’s glass-fronted cabinets. They contained a collection of books, glass vessels, herbal samples, alchemical powders, and bizarre surgical instruments. Jean was heartened; if Zodesti’s esoterica reflected his actual ability, he might just have an answer after all.

8

“THIS WILL do,” said Jean.

“Michel,” said Zodesti, leaning out the window on his side of the carriage, “pull up here.”

The carriage rattled to a halt, and the driver hopped down to open the door. Jean, knife half-concealed by the wide cuff of his coat, gestured for Zodesti to step out first. The scholar did, carrying a leather bag and a bundle of clothing.

A light rain had begun to fall, for which Jean was grateful. It would drive bystanders from the streets, and the overcast sky gave the city the look of twilight rather than midafternoon. A kidnapper could ask for no more.

Jean had ordered the halt about two blocks from the Villa Suvela, in front of an alley that would lead there by twists and turns with a dozen other possible destinations branching off along the way.

“The scholar will require several hours,” said Jean, passing a folded slip of parchment to the driver. “Wait at this address until we meet you again.”

The address on the parchment was a coffeehouse in Lashain’s mercantile district, a half-mile distant. The