The Republic of Thieves

I agree with you. I owe Patience so much; do you think I’d turn on her for anything less than a truly existential question? Please heed me, Archedama. If you bring this before the Sky Chamber without preparation it will not go well. You must attack from a position of real strength. And to do that … I daresay that we must take unprecedented measures.

Surely you can’t be suggesting—

Never. No blood must be shed, at least not without provocation. But you must assert force. You must … take control of Patience and some of her supporters, for a little while. They count on the balance of power being overwhelmingly in their favor. If you demonstrate that it is otherwise, you can then introduce the question into a genuinely receptive environment. Only that can guarantee the honest discussion this situation demands.

What you suggest could still be construed as a coup.

Only a little one. The old man smiled wryly, and passed the sensation on in his thoughts. And only for a little while. Our very future is at stake. If we let the five-year game play itself out, let Patience and her supporters stay distracted, then … then with my guidance you can move instantly, decisively. The very night it ends. If we take the other arch-magi into custody, we demonstrate power. If we then release them unharmed, we demonstrate good intentions. Then, and only then, do I believe the circumstances will be right for us to confront the mess that Patience has made, and the secrets she’s unearthed.

The night of the election, then.

Yes. The night of the election.

If you really can serve as our eyes, I promise you I’ll find capable hands to do the work.

Archedama Foresight was gone from his mind without a further sentiment, as was her way. Relieved, he rubbed his hands together to calm their shaking.

It was done, then. It was as it must be, and for the good of all his kind, he reminded himself. He’d had a long and comfortable life on account of his rings. Surely if anyone could bear the strain and the burden of what was to come, it was him.

The air of the silent room suddenly seemed to chill against his skin. Coldmarrow decided that he needed a drink very, very badly. 

INTERLUDE: AN INCONVENIENT PATRON

1

“JOVANNO,” SAID LOCKE. “Did you—”

“It was me,” said Jenora, hoarsely. “He tried … he tried …”

“He tried to tear her gods-damned clothes off,” said Jean, putting his arms around Jenora. “He was on the ground before I got here.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt him, but … he’s drunk,” said Jenora. “He put his hands on my neck. He was choking me.…”

Locke crouched warily over Boulidazi and slid the baron’s knife from its sheath. The heaving, bleeding man made no effort to stop him. Locke had seen bloody lung-cuts before, from duels at Capa Barsavi’s court. This was near-certain death, but it wouldn’t be quick. Boulidazi could have the strength to do them real harm for some time yet. So why wasn’t he fighting back now? His gaze was distant, his pupils unnaturally wide. Blood bubbled around the makeshift weapon still jutting from his chest, and this seemed to be causing him startled bemusement, not mortal panic.

“He’s not just drunk,” said Locke. “It must be whatever you gave him.”

“Shit,” said Sabetha, slumping against the door. “This is all my fault.”

“The hell are you talking about?” said Jean.

“Boulidazi’s drink,” said Calo. “We put something in it. To keep him away from … Verena and Lucaza.”

“Shit,” repeated Sabetha, and the look on her face was too much for Locke to bear.

“Here now,” he said, “half this gods-damned company has been drunk for weeks. The twins have been out of their minds on anything that comes in a bottle or a cask. When did they ever try to rape anyone?” Locke jabbed a finger at Boulidazi. “This is his fucking fault, nobody else’s!”

“He’s right,” said Calo, setting a hand on Jenora’s wrist. “You did a Camorri thing. You did the right thing.”

“The right thing?” Jenora brushed Calo off and took Jean’s hands. “I’ve hung myself. I’ve spilled noble blood.”

“It’s not murder yet,” said Galdo.

“It doesn’t matter if he lives or dies,” said Jenora. “They’ll kill me for this. They’ll kill as many of us as they can, but me for sure.”

“It was clear self-defense,” growled Jean. “We’ll get a dozen witnesses. We’ll get the whole damn company; we’ll rehearse the story perfectly—”

“And they’ll kill her,” said Sabetha. “She’s right. It won’t matter if we have a hundred witnesses, Jovanno. She’s a nightskin commoner and we’re foreign players, and now we’re all party to wiping out the last heir of an Esparan noble house. If we get caught they’ll grind us into paste and plow us into the fields.”

“As my brother pointed out,” said Galdo, “we don’t have a corpse yet.”

“Yes we do,” said Locke quietly. His hands moved with a decisive steadiness that surprised his head. He removed Boulidazi’s dirty waist sash and gagged the baron with it. The wounded man struggled for air, but still didn’t seem to grasp what was happening to him.

“Gods, what are you doing?” said Jenora.

“What’s required,” said Locke, coldly exhilarated as his oldest reflexes, his Camorri instincts, shoved aside his muddled feelings of forbearance and pity. “If he breathes a word of this to anyone we’re doomed.”

“Oh, gods,” whispered Jenora.

“I’ll be happy to do it,” said Jean.

“No,” said Locke. He’d demanded this necessity; Chains would expect him to not pass the burden. His hands trembled as he unbuckled the baron’s thin leather belt and wound it around his hands. Then the thought of Jean, Sabetha, and the Sanzas dangling from an Esparan gibbet flashed into his mind, and his hands were as steady as temple stones. He slipped the belt over Boulidazi’s neck.

“Wait!” said Sabetha. She knelt in front of Boulidazi, who must now look tragically ridiculous, Locke realized, with the shears buried in his chest, his own sash gagging him, and a slender teenager applying a belt to his windpipe. “You can’t crimp his neck.”

“Watch me,” said Locke through gritted teeth.

“A man can be stabbed for a lot of reasons,” said Sabetha. “But if he’s pricked and strangled, it won’t look accidental.”

Her movements were tender as she grasped the shears. Her eyes were pitiless as the night ocean.

“Just hold him for me,” she whispered.

Locke unwound his hands from the belt and grabbed Boulidazi by his thick upper arms. Sabetha gave Jenora’s shears a hard shove, upward and inward. Boulidazi groaned and jerked in Locke’s arms, but without real force. Even at the moment of his death, he was locked away from the reality of it.

Boulidazi slumped, his legs jerking more and more feebly until at last he was still. Sabetha settled back on her knees, exhaled unsteadily, and held out her blood-slick right hand as though unsure how to clean it. Locke loosened the baron’s sash and passed it to her, then eased Boulidazi’s dead weight to the ground. If they could handle him carefully, Locke thought they could keep most of the blood within him, or at least upon him.

Jenora put her face against one of Jean’s arms.