The Republic of Thieves

attendants and sycophants in her wake. Her triple-brimmed hat was topped with a replica of one of Karthain’s Eldren bridges, the towers sculpted from hardened leather, each one flying a tiny green flag. Dexa smoked from a double-bowled pipe, puffing streams of gray-and-emerald smoke from her nose. “Well, my boys, once we’ve gnawed all the meat off the bones of an election it all comes down to this! Count the votes, then count the tears.”

“No tears in your district,” said Locke. “If I’m wrong I’ll buy a hat like yours and eat it.”

“I’d like to see that. But I’d prefer to keep my seat.” Dexa exhaled streamers of jasmine-scented green and spicy gray past Locke. “Will you gentlemen be near the stage? Ringside seats as the returns come in?”

“Somewhere less hectic,” said Locke. “We’ll watch from one of the private galleries, after we’ve had a spin around the floor. Got to make sure everyone’s got their spine straight and their waistcoat buttoned.”

“Very fatherly of you. Well, then, until the cat’s skinned, my regards to our fellow travelers.”

True to Locke’s word, he and Jean bounced around the crowd, shaking hands and patting backs, laughing at bad jokes and offering some of their own, spouting reasoned and logical-sounding analysis on demand. Most of it was bullshit fried in glibness with a side of whatever the listener yearned to hear. What does it matter? thought Locke. One way or another, they were vanishing from Karthain’s political scene tonight and would never be held accountable.

Vast basins of punch made from pale white and bruise-purple wines were being stirred to foam by clockwork paddle mechanisms, operated by impeccably dressed children walking slowly inside gilded treadwheels. Attractive attendants of both sexes worked behind velvet ropes to fill goblets and hand them out. Locke and Jean armed themselves with punch, along with steaming buns stuffed with brined pork and dark vinegar sauce.

Jean spotted Nikoros hovering miserably on the periphery of a pack of Deep Roots notables and pointed him out to Locke. Via Lupa had shaved, which mostly served to highlight his unhealthy pallor and the fresh lines on his visibly leaner face. Unexpected pity stung Locke’s heart. Here was no triumphant traitor, but someone thoroughly roasted on the rack of misery.

Well, what was the use of being able to lie with impunity if you couldn’t use it to take a weight off the shoulders of such a plainly unhappy bastard?

“Look, Nikoros,” said Locke, pressing his untouched goblet of punch into the Karthani’s hand. He spoke softly, for Nikoros alone. “I think it’s time for me to say that I know what it’s like, being pressed by something that rules your conscience against your will.”

“Ah, M-master Lazari, I don’t … that is, what do you mean?”

“What I’m trying to tell you,” said Locke, “is that I know. And I have known for some time.”

“You … know?” Nikoros’ eyebrows went up so far and fast Locke was surprised not to see them go sailing off like catapult stones. “You knew?”

“Of course I did,” said Locke, soothingly. “It’s my job to know things, isn’t it? Only thing I couldn’t figure out is what the lever was. It’s obvious that you’re not exactly a willing turncoat.”

“Gods! I, uh, it was my alchemist. My … dust alchemist. Receiving it’s as bad as selling it. I got caught, and this woman … well, I eventually f-figured out who she must be. I’m sorry. She offered me a deal. Otherwise I lose everything. Ten years on a penance barge, then exile.”

“Hell of a thing,” said Locke. “I’d try to avoid that too, if I could.”

“I’ll resign after tonight,” muttered Nikoros. “I’d wager I’ve, ah, done more damage to the Deep Roots than any committee member in our g-gods-damned history.”

“Nikoros, you haven’t been listening to me,” said Locke. “I told you I knew.”

“But how does that—”

“You’ve been my agent more than theirs. Delivering exactly what I wanted the Black Iris to hear from a source they considered impeccable.”

“But … but I’m certain some of what I had to give them was … it was real, and it was damaging to us!”

“Naturally,” said Locke. “They wouldn’t have listened to you if you hadn’t delivered real goods most of the time. I wrote the real stuff off as the price of feeding them the crucial bullshit. So don’t resign a damn thing. If the Black Iris lose tonight, it’s because you were in a position to serve as my weapon against them. Will that help you sleep a little better at night?”

“I, uh, I hardly know what I should say.” The loosening of the lines of tension on his face was immediate and obvious.

“Don’t say anything. Just drain that goblet and enjoy the show. This conversation will stay our little secret. Have a good long life, Nikoros. I doubt you’ll ever see us again.”

“Unless our employers want to bring us back for the next round, five years hence,” muttered Jean as they walked away.

“Maybe if they all want to end up in a fucking coma like the shit-bucket with the bird,” said Locke.

“And not that I’m against trying to settle the poor fellow down, but how do you think Nikoros will feel about himself if the Black Iris win?”

“Gods damn it, I was just trying to do what I could for the wretched bastard. At least now he can believe I chose to use him as a calculated risk. Come on; let’s find this Sable Chamber and get out of the public eye.”

2

SIX STAIRCASES and three conversations with only partially helpful attendants later, they found Sabetha waiting for them in a balcony room overlooking the south side of the Grand Salon. Some long-dead nobleman stared eerily from a wall fresco, gazing out at a scrollworked metal screen that allowed a fine view of the crowd and the stage below.

Sabetha wore another ensemble more in the fashion of a riding outfit than a ball gown, a tight red velvet jacket with slashed sleeves over a dress of black silk panels embroidered in scarlet astronomical signs. Locke pieced them together in his head and realized she was wearing a sunrise and moonrise chart for this very day, month, and calendar year.

“Like it?” she said, spreading her arms. “In accordance with the instructions of my principals, I did my bit to spend every last copper they gave me.”

“Dutiful to authority, that’s you every time,” said Locke. She offered her hand, and he wasn’t shy in kissing it. The trio made themselves comfortable at a little table provisioned with almond cakes, brandy, and four red crystal snifters. Locke took the lead and seized the bottle.

“A glass poured to air for absent friends,” he said as he filled the fourth snifter and pushed it aside. “May the lessons they taught us give everyone a hell of a show tonight.”

“Here’s to living long enough to appreciate whatever happens,” said Jean.

“Here’s to politics,” said Sabetha. “Let’s never hop in bed with it again.”

They touched glasses and drank. The stuff had a pale caramel color and washed Locke’s throat with sweet, welcome heat. Not an alchemical brandy, but one of the old-fashioned western styles with hints of peach and walnut woven into its vapors.

“Here comes the verdict,” said Sabetha.

Down on the floor the crowd parted for a troop of bluecoats, escorting somberly dressed officials carrying wooden chests and huge brass speaking trumpets like blossoming tulips. These trumpets were secured to projections on the stage, and the wooden chests were set down behind them. A petite woman with thick gray curls cut short at the neck stepped up to one of the speaking trumpets.

“First Magistrate Sedelkis,” said Sabetha. “Arbiter of the Change. Come election season, she’s like a temporary fourteenth god.”

“No representative from the magi?” said Locke. “They don’t even send a plate of fruit and a kind note?”

“I understand they vouchsafe this ceremony,” said Sabetha, “so gods help anyone who tries to adjust the tallies. But they’ll never let themselves be seen.”