The Republic of Thieves

“You’ve seen the real color of my hair once.” She pulled her hands out of his. “Once, when you were the next thing to a gods-damned baby, and you can’t get over it, and that’s supposed to flatter me?”

“Hold on, please—”

“ ‘As I really am?’ I’ve kept my hair dyed brown for ten years! THAT’S how I really am! Gods, I am so stupid … . You’re not fixated on me … you want to fuck a red-haired girl, just like every leering pervert this side of Jerem!”

“Absolutely not! I mean—”

“You know why I’ve been dodging slavers all my life? You know why Chains trusted me with a poisoned dagger when Calo and Galdo were barely allowed to carry orphan’s twists? You ever hear the things they say about Therin redheads that haven’t had their petals plucked?”

“Wait, wait, wait, honest, I didn’t—”

“I am so, so stupid!” She shoved him backward, and he crushed his empty wine cup, painfully, by sitting on it.

“I should have known. I just should have known. You admire me? You respect me? Like hell. I can’t believe I was going to … I just— Get out. Get the hell out of here.”

“Wait, please.” Locke tried to wipe away the haze suddenly stinging his eyes. “I didn’t mean—”

“Your meaning was quite plain. Go away!”

She threw her own empty cup at him, missing, but speeding his stumbling escape into the little passage down to the second floor. As he tried to roll awkwardly back to his feet, a pair of strong hands grabbed him from behind and hauled him up.

“Jean,” he muttered. “Thanks, but I—”

The same hands grabbed him, spun him around, and pressed him hard against the passage wall. Locke found himself eye to eye with the new patron of the Moncraine-Boulidazi Company.

“Lord Boulidazi,” Locke sputtered. “Gennaro!”

The well-built Esparan held Locke in place with one iron forearm, and reached beneath his plain, dusty clothing with the other hand. He pulled out ten inches of steel, gleaming in the light from the open balcony door, the sort of knife crafted for arguments rather than display cases. In an instant the tip was against Locke’s left cheek.

“Cousin,” spat Boulidazi. “I thought I’d dress down and come see how my investment was faring. The idiots in the taproom said you might be up here. That’s a fascinating conversation you’ve been having, Cousin, but it leaves me feeling like there’s a few things you haven’t exactly been telling me.”

The knife-tip pressed deeper into Locke’s skin, and he groaned.

“Like everything,” said Boulidazi. “Why don’t we start with everything?” 

CHAPTER EIGHT: THE FIVE-YEAR GAME: INFINITE VARIATION

1

“SOMEONE’S GONNA RECOGNIZE us,” said Locke.

“We look like hell,” said Jean, practicing understatement at the master level. “Just two more travelers covered in dust and shit.”

“Volantyne must have returned by now. Sabetha’s got to have people watching the gates.” Locke tapped the side of his head. “You and I would.”

“That’s a generous appraisal of our foresight.”

It had been a hard four days back to Karthain. They’d looted the wagon and shoved it into a ravine on the second day, needing every scrap of speed they could coax out of their unyoked team. Lashain’s constables were no threat, but the previous occupant of the wagon could always hire mercenaries. There was no law on the long, ancient road between city-states; a column of dust rising rapidly in the sky behind them would probably have meant someone was going to die.

Now the city, finally in sight, had taunted them for half a day with the prospect of relative safety. They’d come up the coast road from the east, through hills and terraced farming villages, their bodies thoroughly punished by the seedy emergency saddles they’d filched from the wagon.

“Maybe you’re right, though,” said Jean. “If we’ve got no chance of hiding ourselves, we’ve got to rely on speed. We get one move, maybe, before she can respond.”

“Let’s go straight for her,” said Locke. His scowl shook little puffs of dust out of the creases of his road- grimed face.

“To do what?”

“Finish a conversation.”

“You in a hurry to get back to sea? I can handle a couple of her people at a time. She’s got more than a couple.”

“Taken care of,” said Locke. “I know a fellow who’ll be eager to help us past the guards.”

“You do?”

“Didn’t you notice that Vordratha favors tight breeches?”

“What the hell’s that got to do with anything?”

“Every little detail matters,” said Locke. “Just wait. It’ll be a fun surprise.”

“Well, shit,” said Jean. “It’s not like I’ve done anything especially smart in months. Why start now?”

2

THEY SLIPPED into traffic and the usual milling semi-confusion of customs inspectors, guards, teamsters, travelers, and horse manure. The Court of Dust, despite the general cleanliness of Karthain, could have been peeled up beneath its paving stones and set down in place of its counterpart in nearly any Therin city without arousing much notice.

Locke scanned the crowds as he and Jean were poked and prodded by bored constables. Sabetha’s spotters would most likely be working in teams, one person on watch while the other was always plausibly absorbed in some trivial business. After counting five possible pairs of watchers, Locke shook his head. What was the point?

Locke felt something else unusual going on, though. A buzz of activity around the court, beyond mundane business. He’d spent too many hours picking pockets in crowds like this not to sense that something was awry.

Jean was alert, too. “What’s the excitement?” he asked of a passing constable.

“It’s the Marrows. You ain’t heard?” The woman gestured toward a crowd forming around a battered statue of a Therin Throne noblewoman. “Crier’s just about to start up again.”

Locke saw that a young woman, a finger’s width over four feet tall, had climbed the statue pedestal. She wore the blue coat of Karthain, and standing below her was a man in the regalia worn by Herald Vidalos, tipstaff and all.

“KIND ATTENTION, citizens and friends of Karthain,” bellowed the woman. Locke was impressed; there had to be more leather lining her lungs than his saddle. “Hear this report of the FACTS as provided and authorized by the KONSEIL! Mendacity will NOT be tolerated! Rumormongers will be subject to INCARCERATION on the PENANCE BARGES!

“Vencezla Valgasha, king of the Seven Marrows, is DEAD! He is KNOWN to have died in the city of Vintila,