The Republic of Thieves

work of art!”

“Why, thank you,” said Sabetha, giving a mock bow to the room. “I have to admit, I only got two of them off belts. Third one was lying around in a watch station. I figured I had no business turning down that sort of temptation.”

“But why didn’t you tell us what you were doing?” said Locke. “Chasing the watch on your own—”

“Have you always told everyone else what you’re up to?” said Sabetha.

“But you could have used some top-eyes, or a distraction just in case,” said Locke.

“Well, you were busy. I saw you and Jean baking your little cake.”

“You’re showing off,” said Calo. “Hoping to make an impression?”

“You think there’ll be a choosing,” said Galdo, slyly.

“Chains said there’s a chance every year,” said Sabetha. “Might as well stand out. Haven’t you two ever thought about it?”

“The full priesthood?” Calo stuck out his tongue. “Not our style. Don’t get us wrong, we love the Crooked Warden, but the two of us …”

“Just because we like to drink doesn’t mean we want to run the tavern,” finished Calo.

“What about you, Jean?” said Sabetha.

“Interesting question.” Jean took his optics off and wiped them against a tunic sleeve as he spoke. “I’d be surprised if the Crooked Warden wanted someone like me as a divine. My parents took oath to Gandolo. I like to think I’m welcome where the gods have put me, but I don’t believe I’m meant for anything like a priesthood.”

“And you, Locke?” Sabetha asked quietly.

“I, uh, guess I haven’t really thought about it.” That was a lie. Locke had always been fascinated by the hints Chains dropped about the secretive structure of the Crooked Warden’s priesthood, but he wasn’t sure what Sabetha wanted to hear from him. “I, ah, take it you have?”

“I have.” There was that smile of hers, a smile that was like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. “I want it. I want to know what Chains smirks about all the time. And I want to win it. I want to be the best—”

She was interrupted by an echoing clang from the entrance tunnel. That could only be Chains returning to the burrow from the various preparations the night would require. He rounded the corner and smiled when he saw them all gathered.

“Good, good,” he muttered. “Sanzas, the wine is being carried in by some people who’ll be less busy than yourselves. Everyone else, I trust you have your offerings?” He looked pleased at the nods he received. Locke caught the twinkle of unusual excitement in his eyes despite the dark circles beneath them. “Excellent. Then let’s have some dinner before we leave.”

“Will we need to dress up or bathe for this?” asked Sabetha.

“Oh no, my dear, no. Ours is a pragmatic sort of temple. Besides, it’s no use in trying to prettify yourselves, since you’re going to have sacks thrown over your heads. Try to act surprised. That’s the only little secret I’ll be giving away in advance.”

4

A HUSH ran through the assembled thieves as several men and women, using a collapsible wooden frame, hung curtains over the door the postulants had been carried through. Other than a few vents in the ceiling, that door was the only entrance to the room Locke could see. Guards took up positions by the curtains—serious bruisers in long leather coats, with cudgels and axes ready. Chains had explained that their purpose was to ensure the privacy of the ritual. Other guards would be out there somewhere, an entire network, lurking along every route an outsider could use to spy upon or disrupt the Orphan’s Moon rites.

There were about ten dozen people in the vault. That was a scant fraction of the people in Camorr whose lives were supposed to be ruled by the god with the hidden name, but that, according to Chains, was the nature of devotion. It was easy to mutter prayers and curses in the heat of the moment, and less convenient to skulk around in the middle of nowhere on the one night a year the dedicated actually came together.

“This is the temple of the church without temples,” said a woman in a hooded gray cloak as she stepped into the middle of the vaulted chamber. “This is the ceremony of the order without ceremonies.”

“Father of our fortunes, we consecrate this hall to your purpose; to be joined to your grace and to receive your mysteries.” This was Chains, his voice rich and resonant. He took his place by the woman’s side, wearing a similar robe. “We are thieves among thieves; our lot is shared. We are keepers of signs and passwords, here without malice or guile.”

“This is our calling and our craft, which you from love have given us.” The third speaker was the garrista who’d sworn the postulants to secrecy, now robed in gray. “Father of Shadows, who teaches us to take what we would dare to take, receive our devotions.”

“You have taught us that good fortune may be seized and shared,” said the female priest.

“Thieves prosper,” chanted the crowd.

“You have taught us the virtue and the necessity of our arts,” said Father Chains.

“The rich remember.”

“You have given us the darkness to be our shield,” said the third priest. “And taught us the blessing of fellowship.”

“We are thieves among thieves.”

“Blessed are the quick and the daring,” said Chains, moving to the front of the hall, where a block of stone had been covered with a black silk drape. “Blessed are the patient and the watchful. Blessed is the one who aids a thief, hides a thief, revenges a thief, and remembers a thief, for they shall inherit the night.”

“Inherit the night,” chanted the crowd solemnly.

“We are gathered in peace, in the eyes of our Benefactor, the Thirteenth Prince of Earth and Heaven, whose name is guarded.” The female priest spoke now, and took a place by Chains’ left hand. “This is the night he claims for his remembrance, the Orphan’s Moon.”

“Are there any among us who would swear a solemn covenant with this temple, and take the oath of joining?” said the third priest.

This was the crucial moment. Any thief, anyone even remotely connected to an unlawful existence, was welcome in this company, so long as they took the oath of secrecy. But those taking the next step, the oath of joining, would proclaim their choice of the Unnamed Thirteenth as their heavenly patron. They would certainly not be turning their backs on the other gods of the Therin pantheon, but to their patron they would owe their deepest prayers and best offerings for as long as they lived. Even children studying to become priests didn’t take formal oaths of joining until their early teens, and many people never took them at all, preferring to cultivate a loose devotion to all gods rather than a more formal obligation to one.

Nazca was the first to step forward, and behind her in a self-conscious rush came everyone else. Once the postulants had arranged themselves with as much dignity as they could manage, Chains held up his hands.

“This decision, once made, cannot be unmade. The gods are jealous of promises and will not suffer this oath to be cast aside. Be therefore sober and solemnly resolved, or stand aside. There is no shame in not being ready at this time.”

None of the postulants backed down. Chains clapped three times, and the sound echoed around the vault.

“Hail the Crooked Warden,” said the three priests in unison.

“STOP!”

A new voice boomed from the back of the chamber, and from behind the crowd of watchers came a trio of men in black robes and masks, followed by a woman in a red dress. They stormed down the aisle in the center of the vault, shoving the postulants aside, and formed a line between them and the altar.

“STOP AT ONCE!” The speaker was a man whose mask was a stylized bronze sun, with carved rays spreading from a sinister, unsmiling face. He seized Oretta, a scar-covered girl with a reputation as a knife-fighter,