The Republic of Thieves

“Never mind. That subject will be sufficiently confusing in its own good time. So, you like it here. You’re comfortable, you’re protected. Have I behaved badly? Treated you as you were treated in Shades’ Hill?”

“Well, no … no, not like that at all.”

“Yet none of that buys me any consideration in the matter of last night? Not one speck of trust? One tiny instant of the benefit of the doubt?”

“I, uh, well, it’s not … uh, crap.” Locke made a desperate grab for eloquence and came up with empty hands as usual. “I don’t mean … it’s not that I don’t appreciate—”

“Easy, Locke, easy. Just because you’ve been uncouth doesn’t mean you might not have a point. But hear me now—this is a small home we live in. The temple might seem marvelous compared to living and sleeping in heaps of dozens, but believe me—walls squeeze the people who live inside them, sooner or later.”

“They don’t bother me,” said Locke quickly.

“It’s not so much the walls, though, Locke, it’s the people. This will be your home for many years to come, gods willing, and you and Sabetha and the Sanzas are going to be as close as family. You’ll strike sparks off one another. I can’t have you shoving your thumb up your ass and doing your best impression of a brick wall every time you get annoyed. Crooked Warden help us, we’ve got to be ready and willing to talk, or we’re all going to wake up with cut throats sooner or later.”

“I’m … I’m sorry.”

“Don’t hang your head like a kicked puppy. Just keep it in mind. If you’re going to live here, staying civil is as much a duty as sitting the steps or washing dishes. Now, while I bask in the glow of another moral sermon delivered with the precision of a master fencer, hold your applause and let’s get back to last night. You’re upset because the situation was contrived to give you only one real means of resolving it, short of curling up into a little ball and crying yourself into a stupor.”

“Yes! It wasn’t like it would have been, if they’d been real guards. If they weren’t, you know, watching for me.”

“You’re right. If those men had been real agents of the duke, some of them might have been incompetent, or open to bribery, and they might not have taken their duty to guard a little girl very seriously. Correct?”

“Uh, yes.”

“Of course, if they’d been real agents of the duke, they might also have taken her somewhere truly impregnable, like the Palace of Patience. And instead of six there might have been twelve, or twenty, or the entire Nightglass company, prowling the streets looking to have an urgent personal conversation with you.” Chains leaned forward and poked Locke’s forehead. “That’s how luck works, lad. You can bitch all you like about how things could have been more favorable for you, but rest assured things can always be worse. Always. Understood?”

“I think so,” said Locke, with the neutral tone of a student gingerly accepting a master’s assurances on something far beyond personal verification, like the number of angels that could play handball on the edge of a rose petal.

“Well, if I can even get you thinking about it, that’s a victory of sorts, at your age. No offense.” Chains cracked his knuckles before continuing. “You, after all, have publicly vowed to never lose again, which is about as likely as me learning to crap gold bars on command.”

“But—”

“Let it be. I know your temperament, lad, and I’m too wise to try and give it more than a few sharp nudges at a time. So, the other thing. You’re upset that I lied about what needed to be done with Sabetha.”

“Well, yeah.”

“You feel something for her.”

“I … I don’t, um …”

“Quit it. This is important. You do feel something for her. There’s more to this than a little wounded pride. Can you tell me about it?”

Slowly, grudgingly, feeling as though he might be about to get up and run away, Locke somehow found the will to give Chains the barest sketch of his first encounter with Sabetha, and of her later disappearance.

“Hells,” said Chains quietly when the tale was finished. The sky and the city beneath it had darkened while Locke had stumbled through his explanation. “I can see why you snapped, having that rug pulled out from under you twice. Forgive me, Locke, I honestly didn’t know you’d grown feelings for her in Shades’ Hill.”

“It’s okay,” mumbled Locke.

“You have a crush, I think.”

“Do I?” Locke had a vague idea of what that word meant, and somehow it didn’t seem right. It didn’t seem enough.

“It’s not meant to belittle your feelings, lad. A crush can come on hot and sharp like an illness. I know exactly what it’s like. Years to go before your body will even be ready for, ah, what comes between men and women, but a crush doesn’t care. It’s got a power all its own. That’s the bad news.”

“What’s the good news?”

“Crushes fade. Sure as you and I are sitting here now. They’re like sparks thrown from a fire—hot and bright for a moment, then gone.”

Locke frowned, not at all sure he wanted to be released from his feelings for Sabetha. They were a bundle of mysteries, and every attempt to unravel them in his own mind seemed to send a pleasant warm shiver to every nerve in his body.

“Heh. You don’t believe me, or you don’t want to. Fair enough. But you’re going to be living with Sabetha day in and day out anytime one of you isn’t away for training. My guess is, she’ll be like a sister to you in a few years. Familiarity has a way of filing the sharp edges off our feelings for other people. You’ll see.”

2

TIME PASSED, days and months chaining together into years, and Jean Tannen joined the Gentlemen Bastards. In the summer of the seventy-seventh Year of Perelandro, two years after Jean’s arrival, a rare dry spell came over the city-state of Camorr, and the Angevine ran ten feet below its usual height. The canals went gray and turgid, thickening like blood in the veins of a ripening corpse.

Canal trees, those glorious affectations that usually roamed and twirled on the city’s currents with their long float-threaded roots drinking the filth around them, now bobbed in sullen masses, confined to the river and the Floating Market. Their silk-bright leaves dulled and their branches drooped; their roots hung slack in the water like the tentacles of dead sea-monsters. Day after day the Temple District was shrouded in layers of smoke, as every denomination burned anything that came to mind in sacrifices pleading for a hard, cleansing rain that wouldn’t come.

In the Cauldron and the Dregs, where the lowest of the low slept ten to a room in windowless houses, the usual steady flow of murders became a torrent. The duke’s corpse-hunters, paid as they were by the head, whistled while they fished putrefying former citizens out of barrels and cesspits. The city’s professional criminals, more conscientious than its impulsive killers, did their part for Camorr’s air by throwing the remains of their victims into the harbor by night, where the predators of the Iron Sea quietly made the offerings vanish.

In this atmosphere, in the hot summer evening heavy with smoke and the stink of a hundred distinct putrefactions, the temple roof was out of the question for meetings, so Father Chains let his five young wards gather in the dank coolness of the glass burrow’s kitchen. Their recent meals, by Chains’ orders, had been lukewarm affairs, with anything cooked brought in from stalls near the Floating Market.

They had come together that week, as a complete set, for the first time in half a year. Chains’ interwoven programs of training had taken on the complexity of an acrobat’s plate-spinning act as his young wards were shuffled back and forth between apprenticeships in assorted temples and trades, learning their habits, jargon, rituals, and trivia. These excursions were arranged by the Eyeless Priest via a remarkable network of contacts, extending well beyond Camorr and the criminal fraternity, and they were largely paid for out of the small fortune that the citizens of Camorr had charitably donated over the years.

Time had begun to work its more obvious changes on the young Gentlemen Bastards. Calo and Galdo