The Republic of Thieves

“They call him the Spider. His people get work that’s too delicate for the yellowjackets. They’re spies, assassins, false-facers. Dangerous folk, as dangerous as any of the Right People.”

“Why were they at the house?”

“Bad luck is much too comforting a possibility. I believe my information about the necklace was a poisoned tip.”

“But then … holy shit, but that means we have an informer!”

“It is a vile sin for that word to come lightly off the lips of our kind.” Chains whirled, and Locke stumbled backward in surprise. Chains’ face was grimmer than Locke had ever seen it, and he waved a finger to emphasize his words. “It’s the worst thing one Right Person can say or think of another. Before you accuse, you’d damn well better know. Drop that word carelessly and you’d best be armed, understand?”

“Y-yes. Sorry.”

“My man at Meraggio’s is solid.” Chains turned, and with Locke at his heels hurried down the street again. “My children are beyond reproach, all of you.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“I know. That means the information itself was bait for a trap. They probably didn’t even know who’d bite. They set a line and waited for a fish.”

“Why would they care?”

“It’s in their interest,” grumbled Chains. “Thieves with contacts at Meraggio’s, thieves willing to work in a nice quiet place like the Razona … that sort of person merits scrutiny. Or stepping on.”

Locke held on to Chains’ sleeve as they threaded their way back into the quality neighborhoods, where the peace and calm seemed utterly surreal to Locke, given the disturbance he and Sabetha had raised so recently. At last Chains guided Locke into the low, well-kept gardens behind a row of three-story homes. He pointed to the next house over, and the two of them crouched behind a crumbling stone wall to observe the scene.

Half-visible past the edge of the house was a carriage without livery, guarded by at least two men. The lights in the house were on, but all the windows, save one, were covered by curtains behind thick mosaic glass. The lone exception was on the rear wall, where an orange glow was coming from under a second-story window that had been cracked open.

“Is she in there?” whispered Locke.

“She is. That open window.”

“How do we get her out?”

“We don’t.”

“But … we’re here … you brought me here—”

“Locke.” Chains set a hand on Locke’s right shoulder. “She’s tied down in that room up there. They have four men inside and two out front with the carriage. Duke’s men, above every law. You and I can’t fight them.”

“Then why did you bring me here?”

Chains reached inside his tunic, snapped the cord that held a small object around his neck, and held the object out to Locke. It was a glass vial, about the size of Locke’s smallest finger.

“Take this,” Chains said. “You’re small enough to climb the vines on that back wall, reach the window, and then—”

“No.” The realization of what that vial meant made Locke want to throw up. “No, no, no!”

“Listen, boy, listen! Time is wasting. We can’t get her out. They’ll start asking her questions soon. You know how they do that? Hot irons. Knives. When they’re finished they’ll know everything about you, me, Calo, Galdo. What we do and where we work. We’ll never be safe in Camorr again, and our own kind will be as hot for our blood as the duke’s people.”

“No, she’s clever, she’ll—”

“We’re not made of iron, boy.” Chains grabbed Locke’s right hand, squeezed it firmly, and placed the warm glass vial against his palm. “We’re flesh and blood, and if they hurt us long enough we’ll say anything they want us to say.”

Chains gently bent Locke’s fingers in over the vial, then lifted his own hands away slowly.

“She’ll know what to do,” he said.

“I can’t,” said Locke, fresh tears starting down his cheeks. “I can’t. Please.”

“Then they’ll torture her,” said Chains quietly. “You know she’ll fight them as long as she can. So they’ll do it for hours. Maybe days. They’ll break her bones. They’ll peel her skin. And you’re the only one who can get up to that window. You … trip over your tongue around her. You like her, don’t you?”

“Yes,” said Locke, staring into the darkness, trying desperately to think of anything bolder, cleverer, braver than climbing to that window and handing a beautiful girl a vial with which she would kill herself.

He had nothing.

“Not fair,” he sobbed. “Not fair, not fair.”

“We can’t get her out, Locke.” The gentleness and sorrow in Chains’ voice caught Locke’s attention in a way that scolding or commanding could not have. “What happens now is up to you. If you can’t get to her, she’ll live. For a while. And she’ll be in hell. But if you can get to that window … if you can just pass the vial to her …”

Locke nodded, and hated himself for nodding.

“Brave lad,” whispered Chains. “Don’t wait. Go. Fast and quiet as a breeze.”

It was no great feat to steal across thirty feet of dark garden, to find hand- and footholds in the lush vines at the rear of the house, to scuttle upward. But the moments it took felt like hours, and by the time Locke was poised beside the second-story window he was shaking so badly that he was sure anyone in the house could hear it.

By the grace of the Crooked Warden there were no shouts of alarm, no windows slamming open, no armed men charging into the garden. Ever so carefully, he set his eyes level with the two-inch gap at the bottom of the open window, and moved his head to the right just far enough to peek into the room.

Locke swallowed a sob when he saw Sabetha, seated in a heavy, high-backed chair, facing away from him. Beside her, some sort of cabinet— No. It was a man in a long black coat, a huge man. Locke ducked back out of sight. Gods, Chains was right about at least one thing. They couldn’t fight a brute like that, with or without a house full of other men to aid him.

“I’m not an enemy, you know.” The man had a deep, precise voice with the barest hint of a strange accent. “We want so little from you. You must realize that your friends can’t save you. Not from us.”

There was a long silence. The man sighed.

“You might think that we couldn’t do the things I suggested earlier. Not to a pretty little girl. But you’re as good as hung now. Makes it easy on the conscience. Sooner or later, you’ll talk. Even if you have to talk through your screams.

“I’ll, ah, leave you alone for a bit. Let you think. But think hard, girl. We’re only patient as long as we have orders to be.”

There was a slamming sound, a heavy door being shut, and then a slight metallic clank; the man had turned a key behind him.

Now it was time. Time to slip into the room, pass the vial over, and escape as quickly as possible. And then Sabetha would kill herself, and Locke would … would …

“Fuck this,” he whispered to himself.

Locke pushed at the window, widening the opening at its bottom. Windows that slid up and down were a relatively new and expensive development in Camorr, so rare that even Locke knew they were special. Whatever mechanism raised and lowered this one was well-oiled, and it rose with little resistance. Sabetha turned her head toward the noise as Locke slid over the windowsill and flopped inside. Her eyes were wide with surprise.

“Hi,” whispered Locke, less dramatically than he might have hoped. He stood up from the inch-deep carpet and examined Sabetha’s chair. His heart sank. It was glossy hardwood, taller than the window, and likely weighed more than he did. Furthermore, while Sabetha’s arms were free, she was shackled at the ankles.