The Republic of Thieves

properly. Give me a few nights and I’ll have you whipped into proper form.”

“The Asino brothers … they always, well, they always invited me to go with them when they went out. To buy it, you know.”

“There’s no shame in doing that. And there’s no shame in not having done it. But those two are hounds, Jovanno. Any woman could smell it a mile away. Sometimes a run with the hounds is just what you’re in the mood for, but in the end they’ll always roll around in muck and shit on your floor.”

“Oh, they’ve got an endearing side,” said Jean. “It comes out once a month, when the first moon is full. They’re like backwards werewolves.”

“Well,” she said, “when I take someone into my bed, I prefer brains and balls in more equal proportion.”

“I like the sound of that. Hey, there’s a … sorry, beneath your legs, did we …?”

“Ah. My apprentice, allow me to introduce you to the concept of the wet spot.”

“Is that uncomfortable?”

“Well, it’s not what I’d call ideal. Hey, what are you—”

With an enthusiastic excess of groping and giggling, he applied his strength to shifting their positions. In a few moments, he’d pushed her to the dry side of the bed and taken her former place.

“Mmmm. Jovanno, you have a gallant streak. Another smoke?”

“Absolutely.”

They were just finishing carefully lighting the second bowl when the door burst open.

“Jovanno,” shouted Locke, “it’s the Asino brothers, you wouldn’t believe what they oh my gods holy shit!”

He stared for a second or two, then whirled away and faced out into the hall.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize—”

“The idiot twins,” said Jean, “are they in trouble?”

“No,” said Locke, with less than believable haste. “No, no, no. Actually, it’s not important at all. We’ve got it handled. You, uh, you just … hell, I can sleep in the common room, you two just forget I exist. Sorry. Have, uh, have a good time!”

“We are,” said Jenora, calmly exhaling a line of smoke.

“Great! Well! Excellent! Just … going now!”

“He’s down off the roof a lot sooner than I would have thought,” said Jenora once the door was closed again.

“Yeah,” said Jean, frowning. “Something must have happened. Whatever the Asinos did—”

“Your friends,” said Jenora. “They sort of look to you to hold them together when there’s trouble, don’t they?”

“Well, that’s a pretty flattering way of putting it, but—”

“Let ’em fend for themselves for a night,” she whispered. “Now we’ll have privacy. If Verena wants to sort Lucaza out she can always take him to my room.”

“She can,” said Jean. “She sure as hell can. So, uh, is it too soon to start hearing about this artfulness you mentioned?”

3

“LONG SUMMER of the Therin Throne,” shouted Calo, arms outflung to encompass the inn-yard, “ordained time for building and growing, while earth and sky are generous. These years for princely Aurin lie fallow as a field, plowed and yet unseeded with valorrrrrruurrrrrrrgh—”

Calo lurched to his knees and ended what had been a fine, vigorous declamation by vomiting. Locke, watching from the shade of a wall, put his hands to his forehead and groaned.

“Gods above,” said Moncraine, “I’ve seen songbirds with more iron in their gullets than you Camorri. One dance with the Ash Bastard and you’re acting like you’ve been killed in the wars. Understudy!”

Galdo, his complexion a shade green in its own right, seemed uninterested for once in making sport of Calo’s discomfort. He stepped forward and placed his hands on his brother’s shoulders.

“I can do it … . I’m fine …” panted Calo. He spat and wobbled to his feet.

“Like hell, idiot,” said Galdo. “Here’s a thought. Let’s do it together.”

“What do you mean?”

“Toss it back and forth.” Galdo faced Moncraine, and spoke with the precise tone and volume of his twin before the stumble: “Swords unblooded hang in scabbards unworn, and, sun-like in its dispensations, the imperial court sheds grandeur on the world.”

“Sweet summer of the Therin Throne,” said Calo, interrupting smoothly, conquering his wobbly knees and willing the hoarseness from his throat. “Some that live as beggars within would scorn to live as dukes without, such an empire it is, and some wear stolen splendor with the dignity of right-born kings! Below the streets the skulkers, the cozeners, the vagabonds of fortune raise bold business in catacomb kingdoms unknown to honest daylight.”

“If thieves pretend to eminence,” said Galdo, “and meet in eager regiments, defying rightful law and crown, is it not suiting to the temper of the age? So high the tides of fortune rise beneath the Therin Throne, its outlaws pay tribute with matching insolence!”

“Matching insolents,” said Moncraine. “That’d be you Asinos. Hold, everyone, hold. This is all very pretty. Why don’t we just dispense with the notion of parts altogether? We can stand onstage in a group and chant the lines for all the roles. Hells, we can even hold hands to keep our spirits up while it rains rocks and vegetables on us.”

“I rather liked it,” said Chantal.

“As if I gave a—”

“She’s right, Moncraine.” Sylvanus stirred, emerging from the shade as well as his usual torporous morning fuddle. “How often do you see a pair of twins onstage? We should make something of it. We’ve got precious little spectacle as it stands.”

“When we’re in want of spectacle, Andrassus, I’ll start walking around without my breeches.”

“You useless Syresti coxcomb! Think on it—twins for a chorus. Something never seen before, to let the peons know they’re not watching Old Father Dullard’s Piss-Weak Boredom Revival, but a proper something from the Moncraine Company!”

“Actually, it’s the Moncraine-Boulidazi Company these days,” said Chantal.

“Anytime you want to return to being an ambulatory pair of tits, turncoat, you can mince straight back to Basanti and ask how many lusty maids are still on offer.” Locke noticed that Moncraine’s shoulders sagged despite his tone of voice. However the impresario might ridicule Sylvanus, the old lush had occasional sway over him. “Ah, gods, past the third or fourth row of groundlings, who can tell they’re twins, anyway?”

“It’s what they do with their voices,” said Alondo. “You have to admit it’s good, when they’re not pitching vomit everywhere.”

“We’ve got to do something about their hair,” said Moncraine.

“Glue a wig on baldy,” said Calo.

“Hold the fop down and shave him,” muttered Galdo.

“Hats,” said Sabetha in a politely commanding tone. “They can both wear hats. It’s a question of costuming.”

“And that would require the attention of the costumers,” rumbled Moncraine. “I’m sure they’re off somewhere attending to clothes at this very instant, but whether they’re taking them off or putting them on is the question.”

“Moncraine!” A stout middle-aged Therin strolled into the inn-yard. He had no chin to speak of, and long hair so ill-kept it looked as though a brown hawk had perched on the back of his head and clung there until it died. “Jasmer, you lucky bastard, I didn’t believe ’em when they said you were off the hook. How many cocks did you