The Republic of Thieves

“At your service, Master Lazari.”

“Food for five hungry fat men, in the private gallery, as soon as possible.”

“I gave some orders when I saw you walk in.”

“Bless you. Master Callas will want coffee, too. Hot enough to strip paint. Did you have any problems while we were away? Security trouble?”

“Your people caught half a dozen folks trying to break in. Sent them off with bad headaches. They also tell me we’re being watched from several points around the neighborhood.”

“We’ll tend to that soon enough.” Locke beckoned for Jean to follow, and the two of them passed through the crowd of afternoon businessfolk and traders, exchanging friendly nods with Deep Roots supporters barely remembered from the night of Nikoros’ party. In moments they were up in the party’s private gallery, temporarily alone.

“Is there an actual plan running around in your head?” wheezed Jean.

“Crap sparks until something catches fire.” Locke settled into a high-backed chair and brushed dust from his filthy tunic. “Noise and action to keep Sabetha guessing while we cook up a real scheme. We start with childish pranks and escalate steadily. Gods, I wish we had some proper urchins, some Right People that knew what they were doing.”

Camorri outlaws had never thought very highly of their fraternal associates in other cities, but Karthain was the least-regarded of all. Locke hadn’t once heard of a Karthani gang that had any reach, any of the savage pride or inventiveness that Camorri, Verrari, or even Lashani crews took for granted.

“It’s the Presence,” said Jean. “The Bondsmagi have these people tamed.”

Food and coffee were the first of the commanded resources to arrive. Locke scarfed down meat and bread; neither lingered long enough before his eyes or in his mouth for full identification. Jean sipped coffee and ate a roll, almost daintily, with obvious discomfort.

A few moments later, a dark-skinned woman with neat gray hair came up the stairs carrying a leather bag.

“I’m Scholar Triassa,” she said, frowning at Jean. “And that nose tells quite a story.”

While she began her examination, tactfully saying nothing about the fact that Locke and Jean smelled like goats, Nikoros and half a dozen scribes and assistants came up the stairs.

“Good,” said Locke, gulping a last bite of food. “It’s time to give those Black Iris gits a taste of some friendly piss-artistry. Whet your quills. Scribe everything down exactly. Give your notes to Nikoros when we’re finished, and he’ll handle the actual work assignments.

“I want a letter drafted immediately to the chief constable of Lashain, whoever that is. Tell them that four horses stolen from an armored carriage service bound for Lashain have been located in the stables at the Sign of the Black Iris in Karthain. Each horse has a clearly visible brand on its neck. These horses were received as stolen property and not reported to the Karthani authorities. Sign it ‘a friend’ and get it to the very next ship crossing the Amathel with mail.”

Jean chuckled, then grunted as Scholar Triassa continued her work. Locke paced back and forth as he spoke.

“Tomorrow I’ll secure an addition to party funds. I want a thousand ducats handed out to trustworthy Deep Roots members in increments of five to twenty ducats apiece. I want them all to go out this week and place bets, with anyone taking them, on the Deep Roots winning the election. I want a sudden surge of Deep Roots confidence, so the opposition can have a good hard worry about the possibility that we know something they don’t.

“I want another thousand spent on cakes and wine, rigged up in baskets with green ribbons. Complimentary baskets go to the houses of tradesfolk, merchants, alchemists, scribes, physikers—anyone respectable that isn’t already part of the Deep Roots family. Let’s go wooing new voters.”

“That might, uh, cause a problem with some of the, uh, senior party members,” said Nikoros. “Traditionally we’re very choosy about new members. We have private salons, by invitation. We don’t, uh, sweep the streets for recruits.”

Locke poured a mug of coffee and took a long sip. And for those refined tastes, you idiots have been crowded out hard in the last two elections, he thought.

“Am I in charge here, Nikoros?”

“Oh, uh, gods yes, absolutely sir. I didn’t mean to imply anything other—”

“We will sweep the streets for recruits if it comes to that. I’ll put a bag of gold in the hands of any brick-witted cross-eyed sheepfucker who can mark a parchment. Anytime you want to question me, remind yourself that the opposition doesn’t share your delicate gods-damned traditions. All they care about is winning.”

“Er, of course.”

“The baskets go out. No demands, no obligations, not yet. We just want people thinking kindly of us. Arm- twisting comes later.

“More quietly,” he continued, “hunt down our party members with debts, troubles in court, that sort of thing. Give me a list of their little problems and we’ll send people out to fix them. In exchange, we’ll own their asses and set them toiling.

“Now, conversely. Black Iris party members with weaknesses. Debts, affairs, scandals, addictions, legal entanglements. I want that list! I want to scratch every wound, pour vinegar in every cut, pluck every low-hanging fruit. Constant, total harassment, seizing any opportunity they give us, starting before the sun rises again.”

“As you wish,” said Nikoros.

“To that end … I need a trustworthy alchemist. I need a wagon … a few dozen small animal cages … as many live snakes as we can get our hands on.”

“Live snakes?” said one of the scribes. “You mean—”

“Yeah,” said Locke. “They’ve got scales, they slither around—snakes. Keep up. We only want ’em if they’re not venomous! That means barn serpents, brown marshies, belt snakes. Anything else you have in these parts that fits the bill. Use mercenaries, boys, girls, anyone.… Offer a suitable bounty, but keep it gods-damned quiet. I don’t want word of this little project going too far. Drop the cages in the cellar and keep the snakes there until further notice. How’s Master Callas’ nose?”

“Badly set,” said the physiker. “I gather from your rather forthright aroma that you gentlemen have been unable to rest for several days.”

“Woefully correct,” said Locke.

“It’ll have to be rebroken. It’s plain this isn’t your first such injury, Master Callas, and you’re developing a breathing obstruction.”

“Then do it,” said Jean.

“I’ll need two cups of brandy, some assistants, and some rope.”

“No time for all that,” growled Jean, “and I want my head clear for work. Just do it here and now.”

“Your pardon, Master Callas, but I don’t relish the thought of a man your size lashing out at me—”

“Scholar,” said Locke, “this building is more likely to collapse than my friend is to lose control of himself.”

“I’m doubling my fee,” said the woman sternly.

“And I’m tripling it,” said Jean. “Go on, snap the damn thing to where it ought to be. I’ve had worse, and I’ve had it without warning.”

Triassa placed her hands carefully, as though Jean’s head were a clay sculpture and she meant to pinch the nose off and start over. She applied pressure with one smooth motion; Jean remained still but did indulge in a long, deep, appropriately theatrical groan. The sound of whatever was moving or breaking inside the nose itself made Locke shudder as though his privates had just been dipped in ice water, and a collective gasp arose from the scribes.

“Perhaps just one small brandy,” rasped Jean, barely moving his lips. Tears ran down his cheeks. Locke pointed at one of the scribes; the woman nodded and hurried out of the gallery.

Triassa deftly set Jean’s nose in cream-colored alchemical plasters and wrapped linen around his head. “Keep this in place,” she said. “You’ve danced this dance before, so don’t do anything foolish. Brace your head