The Republic of Thieves

me, I’m sweet for an idiot.”

“Did we … did I hurt you, just now?”

“I wouldn’t say hurt, exactly.” She tightened her embrace reassuringly for an instant. “It was … strange. But it wasn’t bad.”

There was a muffled thump from one of the nearby rooms, followed by some sort of passionate outburst that quickly subsided.

“That could be us when we’ve rested a bit,” she said. “Believe me, I have every intention of practicing until we get this right.”

They lay there for a while, muttering sweet inanities, letting the minutes unroll in delectable languor. Sabetha’s hands had just begun roaming again, testing Locke’s returning ardor, when the room’s secret door slid open barely an inch. Someone moved against the dim light of the hall, and Locke’s heart pounded.

“Get dressed,” hissed Calo.

“What the hell,” said Sabetha. “This isn’t funny!”

“Damn right it’s not. It’s bad.”

“What can possibly—?”

“Don’t ask questions. If you trust me and want to live, get your bloody clothes on. We need you both, this instant.”

Locke’s relief at not seeing Boulidazi outside the little chamber was instantly squelched by the cold dead gravity of Calo’s voice. A serious Sanza was one hell of an ill omen. Locke found his clothes with the most extreme haste, and still Sabetha beat him out into the hall.

12

NO ONE else was in the hall as they emerged, though the noise of revelry continued unabated from the direction of the common room. Calo, visibly on edge, led them the short distance to Jenora’s chamber door. Locke’s sense of dread grew as Calo knocked softly in a three-two-one pattern.

It was Galdo who answered, ushered them in, and slammed the door shut behind them. The scene within the room made Locke’s knees feel as though they’d dissolved, and he found himself grabbing Sabetha to stay upright.

Jenora was huddled in a corner beside an overturned cot, wide-eyed and shuddering, her tunic torn open at the neck. Jean crouched next to her, hands on her shoulders.

Gennaro Boulidazi lay crumpled against the opposite wall, his imposing frame strangely deflated, his face pale. A pair of seamstress’ shears, their plain handles roughened and stained by Jenora’s long hours of work, was deeply embedded in a spreading red stain on the baron’s right breast.

As Locke stared in horror, Boulidazi moaned softly, shuffled his legs, and coughed more blood onto his tunic. Dull and helpless as the baron seemed, mortal as his wound had to be, for the moment he was still very much alive. 

CHAPTER NINE: THE FIVE-YEAR GAME: REASONABLE DOUBT

1

“WHAT LOCKE IS,” said Sabetha, “is the man about to cook my dinner.”

“Surely you both saw further than that,” said Patience.

“It’s no affair of yours.” Sabetha slipped out of Locke’s arms, dangerously tense, her air of cautious respect banished. “Locke might answer to you, but I don’t. Best think on how my principals might respond if you use your magic to keep me from dragging you out of this house.”

“Take care when throwing rules at a rule-maker, my dear,” said Patience. “Provoke me outside the bounds of the five-year game and I’m free to respond as I will. And you are quite outside the bounds of the game this evening, aren’t you? Because if you’re not, you’d be perilously close to the one thing you both agreed—”

“Shove your collusion somewhere dark and painful,” said Locke, setting his hands on Sabetha’s shoulders. “You know we weren’t talking business when you appeared. Only a snoop could have such flawless dramatic timing. Why the hell are you here?”

“A matter of conscience.”

“Really?” said Locke. “Yours? You keep alluding to its existence. Somehow I’m not convinced.”

“This interruption is entirely your own fault!” The archedama stabbed a finger in Locke’s direction. “I gave you the clearest, fairest possible warning! I told you to set aside your personal business. To get to work, not to wooing. And what have you done?”

“What have we both done?” said Sabetha. She folded her arms, but Locke could still feel that simmering tension, as familiar to him as her voice or her scent. He tightened his grip, doubting that she had his experience with physically attacking magi. She didn’t relax, but she gave his hand a brief, reassuring squeeze. “Enlighten us, Archedama. And I do mean us.”

“This reckless pursuit of your old romance,” said Patience. “Set it aside. Go back to your appointed tasks. Don’t make me carry out this obligation, Sabetha. Locke is my responsibility now, and there are things about him that you don’t understand. Things you don’t need to understand, if you would only stop here.”

“Stop what? My life?”

“I see I’m wasting breath. Remember that I made the offer, for what it’s worth.” Patience gestured casually, and the balcony doors slid shut behind her. “Locke, you see, is unique. But I’m not merely affirming his egotism. If you would continue pursuing him you have the right to know his true nature.”

“He’s no stranger to me,” said Sabetha.

“He’s a stranger to everyone.” Patience fixed her disconcertingly dark eyes on Locke. “Himself most of all.”

“Enough cryptic bullshit,” Locke growled. “Get to the meat of whatever—”

“Twenty-three years ago,” Patience interrupted him sharply, “the Black Whisper fell on Camorr. Hundreds died, but the quarantine and the canals saved the city. Once the plague burned itself out, you walked out of old Catchfire, recognized by no one. Home unknown, age unknown, parents and friends unknown.”

“Yes, I do bloody well remember that,” said Locke.

“Take it as evidence. Reflect on it.”

“Here’s something you can reflect on, you—”

“I know why you have no real memories of the time before the plague.” Again Patience parried his words with her peremptory tone. “I know why you have no recollection of your father. In fact, I know why you make up stories about how you took the name Lamora. You tell some it came from a sausage vendor. You tell others it was a kindly old sailor.”

“You … you told me it was a sailor,” said Sabetha.

“Look,” said Locke, a serpentine chill creeping up and down his spine, “look, I’ll explain, I just … Patience, how the hell can you possibly know that?”

“Not one instance of the surname Lamora has ever been recorded in a Camorri census. Not in any century since the imperial collapse. You’ll find that we had good cause to check. You brought the name with you out of Catchfire, wholly formed in your mind, though you never knew where from. I do.”