The Republic of Thieves

What’s guaranteed to repulse the good voters of Karthain?”

“Rather depends on how much vulgarity you’re willing to countenance, dear boy.” Dexa drew in a long breath of smoke while she pondered. “Thirdson Jovindus, that’s their lad for the Palanta District. He’s got what you might call an open-door policy for the contents of his breeches, but he’s also just dashing enough to carry it off.”

“Seconddaughter Viracois stands for them in Plaza Gandolo,” said Epitalus. “She’s clean as fresh plaster.”

“Hmmm.” Locke tapped his knuckles against the map table. “Clean just means we can paint whatever we like on her. But let’s not do it directly. Master Callas and I will arrange a crew. Scary people on a tight leash. They’ll visit some of our fence-sitters in Plaza Gandolo, and they’ll make threats. Vote for Viracois and the Black Iris or bad things happen to your nice homes, your pretty gardens, your expensive carriages.…”

“Well, I don’t mean to tell you your business, Master Lazari,” said Epitalus, “but shouldn’t we be frightening voters into our own corner?”

“I don’t want them frightened. I want them annoyed. Come now, Epitalus, how would you feel if a pack of half-copper hoods barged into your foyer and tried to put a scare into you? Swells aren’t used to being pushed around. They’ll resent it like hell. They’ll mutter about it to all their friends, and they’ll be at the head of the line to vote against the Black Iris out of spite.”

“My, my,” said Epitalus. “There may be something in that. And what about Jovindus?”

“I’ll come up with something suitable for him, too. Let the pot simmer awhile.” Locke tapped the side of his head. “Where’s Nikoros?”

“Coming, sirs, coming!” Long black plait bobbing behind him, Nikoros jogged up the gallery stairs and passed a set of papers to Jean. “Fresh as the weather, all the reports you asked for, and something, ah, unfortunate—”

“Unfortunate?” Jean flipped through the papers until he found one that caught his eye. The furrows in his forehead deepened as he read, and when he finished he drew Locke aside.

“What is it?”

“The official constabulary report on the arrest of Fifthson Lucidus of the Isas Merreau,” said Jean.

“What?”

“It says that acting on a tip from the Lashani legate, a party of constables paid Lucidus a visit and discovered a team of stolen Lashani carriage horses in his private stable, identifiable by their brands—”

“Cockless sons of Jeremite shit-jugglers!” Locke seized the report and scanned it. “That sneaky bitch. That beautiful, sneaky bitch. She just can’t let us feel good about ourselves, not even for a few days. Oh, look, out of concern for the diplomatic aspect of the situation, they’re holding Lucidus in solitary confinement until after the election!”

“Indeed.”

“Some of the Black Iris chicks must have complained to their mother hen about the big bad debt collector. So much for that scheme.”

“We should come back hard and fast.”

“Agreed.” Locke closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. “Keep pushing everyone on that list of vulnerabilities. Send courtesans and handsome lads after all the Black Iris people with wandering eyes. Make sure the gamblers get invitations to high-stakes games. Scatter temptations all around the ones with nasty habits. Pluck the weaknesses of the flesh like harp strings, all of ’em, from every direction.”

“I suppose there’s money in the bank itching to be spent,” sighed Jean.

“That’s right. We’ll spend it down to the dust under the last scrap of copper. Then we’ll sweep up the dust and see what we can get for it.”

“Um, one thing more, sirs,” said Nikoros. “Josten tells me that we’ve got watchers on the surrounding rooftops again.”

“Leave that with me,” said Jean. “We gave fair warning. This time I’ll make some work for the physikers.”

13

COOL GRAY veils of drizzle and fog draped the neighborhood when Jean went out, an hour after midnight, to pay a call on the new neighbors. He moved up to the rooftops as slowly and cautiously as possible, using routes he’d noted on the previous excursion. In this weather there were no drunks or lovers to stumble over, and he was confident that he crept along as silently as he ever had in his life.

His first target was obvious—so obvious that Jean watched for nearly a quarter of an hour, straining his senses to spot the ambush or the trap that had to be there. The watcher sat (sat!) in a collapsible wood-and- leather chair beside a parapet, wrapped in a cloak and blanket. If not for the fact that the seated figure moved from time to time, Jean would have sworn it had to be a decoy.

The tiniest speck of light lit the shadows beside the chair, revealing a spread of gear and comforts, including bottles of wine, a silk parasol, and several different spyglasses. It had to be a joke, or a trap … and yet there was simply nobody else around. He took the opening. It was child’s play to sneak up behind the seated watcher and clap a hand over their mouth.

“Scream and I’ll break your arms,” hissed Jean. The watcher gave a start, but it was plain in an instant that this small-framed and weak body was incapable of serious resistance. Puzzled, Jean scrabbled for the light source, which turned out to be a dark-lantern with the aperture drawn to its narrowest setting. Jean eased it open another few clicks and held it up to his captive.

Gods, it was an old woman. A very old woman, seventy or more, and it wasn’t one of Sabetha’s makeup jobs, either. This woman was genuinely light and frail, her face a valley of lines, one eye gray as the overcast sky. The other one, however, fixed on him with mischievous vitality.

“Oh, hello, dear,” she whispered as he withdrew his hand. “I won’t be screaming, I promise. You gave me a start, though she warned me you’d be up sooner or later.”

“She?”

“My employer, dear.”

“So you admit that you’re—”

“A spy. Oh yes.” The old woman chuckled. A dry and not entirely healthy sound. “A spyfully spying spy. Settled up here all cozy to see what I can see. Which isn’t much, more’s the pity. That’s why I’ve got all the lovely spyglasses. Now, what are you going to do with me, dear? Are you going to beat the hell out of me?”

“Wha … no!”

“Pick me up and throw me off the roof? Tie me up and leave me here for a few hours? Kick my teeth out?”

“Gods, woman, of course not!”

“Oh, that’s exactly what she told me,” beamed the old woman. “She said you weren’t the sort of fellow who’d raise his hand to a helpless old woman. Which, let’s be honest, is what time has made of me.”

Jean lowered his head against the cold stone of the parapet and groaned.

“Oh, come now, son, it’s not a thing to be ashamed of, having scruples.”

“Are all of her new spies as … um …”

“Old as myself? Oh, there’s no harm in saying it. Yes, dear, you’re hemmed in by old women. All of us wrapped up in our blankets, clutching our parasols. We’ve got apartments to use, and people to fetch us things, but we’re doing the watching from now on. Unless you beat us up.”

“Come now,” said Jean. “You know I won’t.”

“Yes, I do.”

“I don’t suppose I could ask you very politely to get down off this roof and go away?”

“Oh, gods no. Apologies, dear, but the money I’m seeing for this … well, I don’t think I can live long enough for money to ever be a problem again.”

“I could make you a better deal.”