The Republic of Thieves

of his mood, soon snapped.

“Gods’ piss, you gangling twit, the love’s the whole matter of the play! Who the hell wants to pay good money to see a tragic love story if the lovers handle each other like fine porcelain? Bert! Chantal! Educate this idiot.”

Husband and wife came forward eagerly upon realizing they weren’t to share the rebuke. Chantal swooned into Bertrand’s arms, and he turned toward Locke and Sabetha.

“Exaggerate,” he said, “and lean. Leaning’s what makes a good embrace, kid. Stage kissing you’ve got down. When she’s in your arms, tilt her a bit. Take her off her feet. It looks good to the audience. Quickest way to show passion that even the drunks at the far back can see. Isn’t that right, jewel?”

“Oh, Bert, you couldn’t explain swimming to a fish. But you’ve always been one for doing, hmmm?” Giggling and poking playfully at one another, the two of them nonetheless managed to rapidly correct the flaws in Locke’s pretend girl-embracing technique. Even Moncraine grunted satisfaction, and Locke found himself suddenly able to be arm to arm, chest to chest, cheek to cheek with Sabetha without Boulidazi raising the slightest objection. Yet anyone who has ever pretend-held an intensely desirable other person will know how little it assuages the longing for genuine contact, genuine surrender, and so even this improvement was no balm to Locke’s mood or desires.

Thus the situation carried on, gaining momentum like a cart nudged off the top of a hill. The crowds at Gloriano’s grew larger and more boisterous. Calo and Galdo indulged their appetite for dice and cards, closely watched by the others to ensure they didn’t indulge their appetite for never losing. Jean and Jenora churned out costume after costume, restored theatrical weapons to full polish, and spun minor miracles out of dusty scraps. The daily rehearsals became tighter, scripts and notes were discarded, costume and prop trials were made. At last, one evening as the bronze disk of the sun slid westward, Moncraine summoned the company to the stage.

“Can’t say for sure that we’re getting any better,” he growled, “but at least we’re no longer getting any worse. I think it’s time we gave public notice. My lord Boulidazi, you and the stakeholders must consent.”

“I do,” said the baron. Alondo, Jenora, and Sylvanus nodded.

“Gods save us,” said Moncraine. “What this means, dear Camorri, is that we hire our bit players and spear-carriers. Then we announce the times of our shows, and if we don’t manage to put them on, we’re bloody liable. To the ditch-tenders, the beer- and breadmongers, the cushion furnishers, the envoy of ceremonies, and the countess herself, gods forbid.”

“I presume we’ll need some handbills?” said Jean.

“Handbills? Who reads? Put those up in most neighborhoods and the good citizens would use them for ass-wiping. We send criers around the poor districts, notes to the nicest. Maybe just a few handbills around the trade streets, but in the main we keep the oldest of old fashions.”

“What’s that, then?” said Galdo.

8

“ARE YOU tired of life itself?” yelled Galdo, attempting to strike the most dynamic pose possible while perched atop a weathered market stall barrel. “Are you dull to spectacle? Are you deaf to the timeless poetry of Caellius Lucarno, master wordsmith of the Therin Throne?”

A light warm rain was pattering down around him, rippling the mud of the market square, where dozens of Esparans were hawking food, junk, or services from under tarps in various states of repair. It seemed only natural to Galdo that after endless days of merciless sun the sky should close up and start pissing the instant he went out trying to look impressive.

“Because even if you are—” said Calo, who stood on the ground beside his brother.

“Fuck off,” yelled the nearest merchant.

“EVEN IF YOU ARE,” shouted Calo, “you will not be able to resist the romance, the excitement, the grand dazzling festival of forthright astonishments that awaits you when the Moncraine-Boulidazi Company mounts its exclusive presentation of the legendary—”

“—the daring,” shouted Galdo.

“—the bloody and heart-wrenching REPUBLIC OF THIEVES, this coming Count’s Day and Penance Day —”

Galdo had to admit that the state of full sobriety, while in most considerations far less interesting than any degree of inebriation, did at least lend itself to the better employment of reflexes. The irate merchant hurled a turnip, which Calo plucked out of the air just before it struck his head. He tossed it up to Galdo, who leapt off the barrel, somersaulted in midair, caught the turnip, and landed with arms outflung in a flourish.

“Turnips can’t stop the Moncraine-Boulidazi Company!” he shouted.

“I’ve got potatoes too,” yelled the merchant.

“Count’s Day! Penance Day! Limited engagements,” hollered Calo. “At the Old Pearl! Don’t miss the most stupendously exciting sensation that has ever graced your lives! The dead will live and breathe and speak again! True love, flashing blades, treachery of the heart, and the secrets of an imperial dynasty, all yours, but if you miss it now you miss it forever!”

Another turnip was hurled in their direction, and both twins dodged it easily.

“You missed us now and you’ll miss us forever,” shouted Galdo. He turned to his brother and lowered his voice. “All the same, we’ve got eight stops left. Maybe we’ve favored these dullards long enough.”

“Too right,” said Calo. The twins bowed to the general indifference of the market square and hurried off into the rain. “Where next?”

“Jalaan River Gate,” said Galdo. “That’ll be a welcoming and patient crowd for sure, fresh off the road with mud up their ass-cracks.”

“Yeah,” said Calo. “Gods, where would this gang be without us to do all the actual miserable footwork for it?”

“We got the aptitude, we get the chores. Bright side, though, would you rather be doing the bookkeeping?”

“Fuck no. Wouldn’t mind doing the bookkeeper’s assistant.”

“Hey now, prior claim.”

“Oh, I know. Good on tubby for sewing her up. I was starting to worry about him,” said Calo.

“That leaves red and the genius. Still cause for worry there.”

“How hard is it to fling yourselves at one another and let all the really excited bits just sort themselves out?”

“It’s not the doing, I think; it’s that our beloved patron barely lets Sabetha out of his sight. Hell’s own chaperone.”

“Think we should lend a hand?”

“Hey, I’ll cut the prick’s throat if you’ll dig the hole,” said Galdo. “But that would ruin all this dancing and singing we’re doing on the company’s behalf.”

“You must’ve kept your brains in your hair before you scraped it off, roundhead. I wasn’t talking about doing Boulidazi. More of dropping a useful hint in Sabetha’s ear.”

9

“IT WILL be a better turnout than I expected,” said Jasmer, hunched over a cracked mug of brandy and rainwater.

“What a generous allowance.” Baron Boulidazi sat across from Moncraine at a back corner table in Mistress Gloriano’s common room. “It’s better than you ever had any right to expect, you damned fool.”