The Republic of Thieves

What do we tell the rest of the troupe about this?”

“Why do we tell the rest of the troupe about this?” said Jenora.

“I’m not best pleased to say it, but we’ve got to bring them in,” said Sabetha. “They’ll be everywhere, in and amongst the props and costumes. If we don’t have their cooperation, we’re sunk.”

“How do we make them cooperate?” said Jean.

“Make them complicit,” said Sabetha. “Make sure they understand it’s their necks in the noose as well, because it is.”

“Singua solus,” said Galdo.

“Just the thing.” Sabetha put one ear against the door and listened carefully for a moment. “Singua solus.”

“What’s that?” said Jenora.

“It’s an old Camorri tradition for when a bunch of people are planning something stupid,” said Locke. “Actually, we have a lot of traditions for that. You’ll find out.”

“Giacomo, Castellano,” said Sabetha, “how drunk are you?”

“Nowhere near drunk enough,” said Calo.

“We’ve been in here long enough,” said Sabetha, “so you two get down to the common room and round up all the company members. Slap their drinks out of their hands if you have to. Get them off to bed. We need them as right and rested as possible when we spring this surprise on them.”

“Take drinks away from Jasmer and Sylvanus,” sighed Galdo. “Right. And while we’re at it, we’ll run off to Karthain and learn sorcery from the—”

“Get,” said Sabetha. “I’ll peek outside first in case Brego’s still lurking.”

It was another ominous sign of the depths of the waters they were swimming in that neither of the Sanzas had any further quips or complaints. Sabetha eased the door open, scanned the hallway, and nodded. The twins slipped out in a flash.

“Jenora,” said Sabetha, “in the company’s papers, do you have anything signed by Boulidazi? Anything he scrawled on?”

“Why, yes … yes.” She pointed at a leather portfolio in a far corner. “All the papers assigning his shares in the company, and some notes of instruction. He is … was literate. He liked to make a show of it.”

“I know.” Sabetha snatched up the portfolio and tossed it onto the bed next to Jean and Jenora. “Sift through it and get those papers for me. I don’t have much time to practice, but I should be able to scribble something close to his hand. He’s supposed to be drunk anyway. And … exhausted.”

“It seems the dead can speak,” said Locke, embarrassed he hadn’t thought of forging notes from the baron himself.

“Well enough to get rid of Brego,” said Sabetha. “And modify the baron’s instructions to his household so they don’t expect him until long after the play tomorrow night. Now, Jenora—are your pomanders with the other props?”

“Yes.”

“Thank the gods for small favors. All we have to do, then, is move him once and get him perfumed, and we should be safe enough until we assemble the company tomorrow.”

Locke nodded. It was three doors down to the room where the good props were being kept. Assuming Jean helped, they could heave even a sack of muscle like Boulidazi that far in seconds. But what a crucial few seconds! Locke took up a tattered blanket from the bed to use as a shroud.

Jean seemed to follow his thoughts. He hugged Jenora, and whispered something in her ear.

“No,” she said. “No, I’ll not be made a child on account of that … that fucking pig. Let me help you.” With Jean’s aid, she stumbled shakily to her feet and made an effort to straighten her torn tunic.

A few moments later they made the move. Jenora led the way, with Locke and Jean hauling the shrouded corpse, and Sabetha covering the rear, light-footed and wide-eyed. The sounds of shouting and carousing echoed from the common room. Jean bore Boulidazi’s weight with ease, but Locke was straining and red-faced by the time Jenora swung the prop-room door open for them.

Another instant and it was done. Locke tore the blanket from the corpse and wadded it up before it could soak up too much blood. Boulidazi lay there with the strange limpness of the freshly dead, like a sand-filled mannequin with a dumbstruck expression on its face.

“One of us has to stay,” said Locke, reluctantly. “This is too dangerous to leave lying around unguarded. One of us has to bar the door and spend the night.”

“Look,” said Jean, “I would, but—”

“I understand.” Locke stifled a groan as he realized there was only one candidate for the job he proposed. “You should be with Jenora. Get out of here, both of you.”

Jean squeezed his shoulder. Jenora, carefully avoiding even brushing against the baron’s corpse, reached past Locke and drew a battered alchemical globe out of a pile of cloth scraps. She shook it to kindle a dim light, then handed it to him. In a moment she and Jean were gone.

“Thank you,” whispered Sabetha. The sympathy and admiration in her eyes were too much for Locke to bear. He turned away and scowled at Boulidazi’s corpse, then found himself unable to resist as Sabetha drew him back for a brief, tight embrace. She touched her lips to his for the length of a heartbeat.

“I’ve got notes to write,” she said, “but you haven’t escaped. This is just a postponement. We’ll have another chance. Another another chance.”

He wanted to say something clever and reassuring, but he felt distinctly wrung dry of wit, and managed only a forlorn wave before she slid the door quietly shut. Locke bolted it with a sigh.

Finding Jenora’s supply of rose dust and pomanders took only a few moments, as most of the costumes and junk in the room had been organized for easy packing. Locke gagged and stifled a sneeze as he shook a few puffs of sweet-scented alchemical powder onto the baron’s body.

“Pleased with yourself now, shitbag?” Locke whispered. His anger grew, and with a snarl he kicked Boulidazi’s corpse, raising another faint puff of rose dust. “Even dead you’re still fucking with my intimate affairs!”

Locke put his back to a wall and slowly sank down, feeling the strength ebb from his legs along with his fury. What a place to spend a night! A dozen phantasma masks stared down at him from the walls. A dozen imaginary dead forming a court for one very real corpse.

Locke closed his eyes and tried to blot the image of the death-masks from his mind. Under the cloying odor of roses, he could still make out the faintest scent of Sabetha, clinging to his lips, hair, and skin.

Groaning, he settled in for the worst night of so-called rest he’d had in years.

3

“WHAT IN all the shit-heaped hells have you yanked us out of bed for, Camorri?”

Jasmer Moncraine looked rather trampled at the tenth hour of the following morning. Sylvanus was only a certain percentage of a human being, Donker seemed to be silently praying for death, and Bert and Chantal were using one another as buttresses. Only Alondo, of all the night’s ardent revelers, seemed to be mostly intact.

The company was gathered in Mistress Gloriano’s largest room. The Gentlemen Bastards had spent the better part of an hour chasing wastrels, prostitutes, parasites, and curiosity-seekers out of the inn. The company’s bit players had been given stern instructions to gather at the Pearl itself. With a barred door and a nearly empty building, their privacy for the next few minutes was as certain as it could be.

“Our lord and patron has done something we need to discuss,” said Sabetha. She and the other Camorri, along with Jenora, formed a wall between everyone else and the room’s table. On that table rested a shrouded and scented object.

“What’s he done, commanded us to pour rose dust down our tunics? Gods’ privates, that’s some reek,” said Moncraine.

“What we have to show you,” said Jenora, her voice quavering, “is the most important thing in the