The Republic of Thieves

“As you like.” Patience flexed her right hand and Jean noticed the gleam of silver thread woven between the fingers. “It seems I’ve wasted our time. Shall I expect you in Karthain when your friend is dead, Jean?”

“Hold!” said Jean. “Patience, please, give us time to talk. In private.”

Patience nodded curtly and moved the knuckles of her right hand. Light shifted on the silvery gleam of her cat’s cradle. Jean blinked, and in that instant thread and woman alike vanished into thin air.

“Great,” said Jean. “Fucking magnificent. I think you’ve finally managed to really piss her off.”

“Nice to know I still have the knack,” said Locke.

“Are you really, truly out of your gods-damned mind? She could save your life.”

“She could do a lot of things.”

“Take the chance, Locke.”

“She’s up to something.”

“What a revelation! What an amazing deduction! I’m sorry, remind me again what your other options are?”

“She wants something from me, damn it, more than she’s letting on! But she’s already got everything she can take from you, right? You said it yourself. If she’s out to get you, she’ll get you. But if she does right by you, then you’ll be in a strong position to move on.”

“It works that way for both of us.”

“I won’t be that witch’s toy,” said Locke. “Not for all the money in Karthain. She’s not human. None of them are.”

Jean glared coldly at Locke. He lay under Patience’s cloak, his wild aspect incongruous next to the fine oilcloth. A cornered animal, preparing to die, huddled under delicate material worth several years of a skilled laborer’s life. The whites of his eyes were turning pink.

“Patience was right,” Jean said quietly. “She has wasted our time. You’ll die choking on your own blood. Today, tomorrow. Doesn’t matter. And you’ll be so happy with yourself. Because somehow dying has become an achievement.”

“Jean, wait—”

“Wait, wait, wait.” The resentments and frustrations of the past few weeks seemed to boil up as Jean spoke. The old familiar temper, snapping like a rope frayed down to a single strand, the rage like a hot pressure under his skin, pulsing from his skull to his fingertips. Only it was worse than usual, because there was nothing he could hit. Zodesti, Cortessa—Jean would have snapped their bones like badly fired pottery. Patience, even—he would have gone for her throat, dared her sorcery. But with Locke he was limited to words, so he weighted them with scorn and let fly. “What the hell have I done but wait? Wait on the boat to see if you got sick. Wait here, week after week, watching you get worse. Day and night, chasing any hope this fucking city could offer, while you—”

“Jean, I am telling you, every instinct I have says this is a setup.”

“No shit. And since we know they mean to use us, why can’t we use them as well, for everything we can get out of the deal?”

“Give me up, Jean. Let me go and their fun vanishes. Then they’ll have that much less reason to play you false.”

“Oh, marvelous. Fucking masterful. You’ll be dead and they’ll be inconvenienced. Maybe even mildly disappointed. What a worthy trade! Like slashing your throat just before your opponent can take a piece in Catch-the-Duke.”

“But—”

“Shut it. Just shut it. You know, when you’re healthy, you’ll laugh the gods right in their faces. But when you’re convalescing, sweet hell, you are a miserable bastard.”

“I’ve always admitted—”

“No. You’ve never admitted this. You don’t stand still, Locke. I played along in Tal Verrar when we talked about retiring on our money, but that was bullshit and we both knew it. You don’t retire. You don’t even take holidays. You move from scheme to scheme, jumping around like a spider on a hot skillet. And when you’re forced to stand still, when you don’t have a thousand things going on to keep you distracted from your own thoughts, you actually want to die. I see that now. I’m so gods-damned slow and stupid I see it for the first time!”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You and I, in the boat, after we torched the glass burrow. After we killed Bug’s murderer. Do you remember what we talked about? What you were like? And Vel Virazzo. You tried to finish the Gray King’s work by drowning yourself in wine. Now this. You’re not just cranky when you’re ill, Locke, you have the … look, it’s called Endliktgelaben. It’s a High Vadran word. I learned about it when I was studying as an initiate of Aza Guilla. It means, ah, death-love, death-desire. It’s hard to translate. It means you have moods where you absolutely want to destroy yourself. Not as some self-pitying idle notion, either. As a certainty!”

“For Perelandro’s sake, Jean, I wouldn’t want this if I had a fucking choice!”

“You don’t want it up here,” said Jean, pointing to his own head. “You want it somewhere deeper, so deep you can’t recognize it. You think you’ve got some logical, noble excuse for showing Patience the door. But it’s really that darkness inside, trying to fuck you over once and for all. Something has you so scared you’re seeing everything backwards.”

“What is it, then? If you’re so smart, what is it?”

“I don’t know. Maybe Patience can read thoughts like a book, but I sure as hell can’t. However, I can tell you what the hell I’m scared of—being alone. Being the very last one of us standing, all because you’re a selfish, stubborn coward.”

“Not fair,” wheezed Locke.

“No, it isn’t. A lot of good people have died to bring you this far. You keep this shit up and you’ll be seeing them soon. What are you going to tell Calo and Galdo and Bug? Chains? Nazca?” Jean leaned over and all but whispered his next words down at Locke. “What are you going to tell the woman I loved? The woman who burned so you could have the slightest chance in hell of even being here in the first place?”

All the faint color left in Locke’s face had drained out; he moved his lips but seemed unable to convince any words to get that far past his throat.

“If I can get up and live with that every gods-damned day, then so can you, you son of a bitch.” Jean stepped away from the bed. “I’ll be outside. Make your choice.”

“Jean … call her back.”

“Are you just humoring me?”

“No. Please. Call Patience back.”

“Are you ashamed?”

“Yes! Yes, how couldn’t I be, you ass?”

“And you’ll do it? Whatever it takes, whatever Patience requires to keep you alive?”

“Get her back in the room. Get her back! By the gods, I need her to fix me so I can punch your guts into soup.”

“That’s the spirit. Patience!” Jean yelled, turning toward the apartment’s door. “Patience! Are you—”

“Of course.”

Jean whirled. She was already in the room, standing behind him. “I didn’t say I was going far,” she said, cutting off his question before it was spoken. “You’ll both do it?”

“Yes, we’ll—”

“There are going to be some conditions,” interrupted Locke.

“Dammit, Locke,” said Jean.

“Trust me.” Locke coughed and shifted his gaze from Jean to Patience. “First, I want it clear that our obligation to you begins and ends with this election. That’s our side of the bargain in full. No hidden surprises. No snake-bite double-dealing Bondsmage bullshit.”

“I beg your pardon?” said Patience.