The Republic of Thieves

number, and few are called to join our ranks. Consider carefully whether you would offer yourselves for the third and final oath, the oath of service. Let those who would not desire this join their fellows at the sides of the chamber. Let those who would stand for choosing remain where they are.”

The crowd of postulants cleared out rapidly. Some hesitated, but most had looks of perfect contentment on their faces, including Jean and the Sanzas. Locke pondered silently … did he truly want this? Did it feel right? Weren’t there supposed to be signs, omens, some sort of guidance one way or another? Maybe it would be best just to step aside—

He suddenly realized that the only person still standing on the floor beside him was Sabetha.

There was no hesitation in her manner—arms folded, chin slightly up, she stood as though ready to physically fight anyone who questioned her feelings. She was staring sideways at Locke, expectantly.

Was this the sign? What would she think of him if he turned away from this chance? The thought of failing to match Sabetha’s courage while standing right in front of her was like a knife in his guts. He squared his shoulders and nodded at Chains.

“Two bold souls,” said Chains quietly. “Kneel and bow your heads in silence. We three shall pray for guidance.”

Locke went down to his knees, folded his hands, and closed his eyes. Crooked Warden, don’t let me make some sort of awful mistake in front of Sabetha, he thought; then he realized that praying on the matter of his own problems at a moment like this might well be blasphemous. Shit, was his next thought, and that of course was even worse.

He struggled to keep his mind respectfully blank, and listened to the murmur of adult voices. Chains and his peers conferred privately for some time. At last Locke heard footsteps approaching.

“One will be chosen,” said the female priest, “and must answer directly. The chance, if refused, will never be offered again.”

“Small things guide us in this,” said the long-haired garrista. “Signs from the past. The evidence of your deeds. Subtle omens.”

“But the Benefactor doesn’t make difficult decisions for us,” said the woman. “We pray that our choice will serve his interests, and thus our own.”

“Locke Lamora,” said Father Chains softly, setting his hands on Locke’s shoulders. “You are called to the service of the Thirteenth Prince of Earth and Heaven, whose name is guarded. How do you answer his call?”

Wide-eyed with shock, Locke glanced at Chains, and then at Sabetha. “I …” he whispered, then cleared his throat and spoke more clearly. “I … I must. I do.”

Cheers broke out in the vault, but the look on Sabetha’s face at that instant cut coldly through Locke’s excitement. It was a look he knew only too well, a look he’d practiced himself—the game face, the perfect blank, a neutral mask meant to hide hotter emotions.

Given her earlier attitude, Locke had no difficulty guessing what those hotter emotions must be.

CHAPTER FOUR: ACROSS THE AMATHEL

1

EVERYTHING THAT WAS wrong came to a crescendo at once: Locke’s screams, Jean’s crippling vertigo, and the surging black candle flames, filling the cabin with their ghastly grave-water un-light.

There was a bone-rattling vibration in the hot air, a sensation that something vast and unseen was rushing past at high speed. Then the black flames died, casting the room into real darkness. Locke’s screams trailed off into hoarse sobs.

Jean’s strength failed. Pressed down by nausea that felt like a weighted harness, he tumbled forward, and his chin hit the deck hard enough to bring back memories of his less successful alley brawls. He resolved to rest for just a handful of heartbeats; heartbeats became breaths became minutes.

Another of Patience’s cohorts pushed the cabin door open at last and came down the steps with a lantern. By that wobbling yellow light, Jean was able to take in the scene.

Patience and Coldmarrow were still standing, still conscious, but clutching one another for support. The two younger Bondsmagi were on the floor, though whether alive or dead Jean couldn’t muster the will to care.

“Archedama!” said the newcomer with the lantern.

Patience brushed the woman off with a shaky wave.

Jean rose to one knee, groaning. The nausea was still like ten hangovers wrapped around a boot to the head, but the thought that Patience was upright stung his pride enough to lend him strength. He blinked, still feeling a prickly inflammation at the edges of his eyes, and coughed. The candelabrum was charred black and wreathed in vile-smelling smoke. The woman with the lantern flung the stern windows open, and blessedly fresh lake air displaced some of the miasma.

Another few moments passed, and Jean finally stumbled to his feet. Standing beside Coldmarrow, he clung to the table and shook Locke’s left arm.

Locke moaned and arched his back, to Jean’s immense relief. The ink and dreamsteel ran off Locke’s pale skin in a hundred black-and-silver rivulets, forming a complete mess, but at least he was breathing. Jean noticed that Locke’s fingers were curled tightly in against his palms, and he carefully eased them apart.

“Did it work?” Jean muttered. When neither of the magi responded, Jean touched Patience on the shoulder. “Patience, can you—”

“It was close,” she said. She opened her eyes slowly, wincing. “Stragos’ alchemist knew his business.”

“But Locke’s all right?”

“Of course he’s not all right.” She extricated herself from the silver thread that bound her to Coldmarrow. “Look at him. All we can promise is that he’s no longer poisoned.”

Jean’s nausea subsided as the night breeze filled the room. He wiped some of the silvery-black detritus from under Locke’s chin and felt the fluttering pulse in his neck.

“Jean,” Locke whispered. “You look like hell.”

“Well, you look like you lost a fight with a drunken ink merchant!”

“Jean,” said Locke, more sharply. He seized Jean’s left forearm. “Jean, gods, this is real. Oh, gods, I thought … I saw—”

“Easy now,” said Jean. “You’re safe.”

“I …” Locke’s eyes lost their focus, and his head sank.

“Damnation,” muttered Patience. She wiped more of the black-and-silver mess from Locke’s face and touched his forehead. “He’s so far gone.”

“What’s wrong now?” said Jean.

“What you and I just endured,” said Patience, “was a fraction of the shock he had to bear. His body is strained to its mortal limits.”

“So what do you do about it? More magic?”

“My arts can’t heal. He needs nourishment. He needs to be stuffed with food until he can’t hold another scrap. We’ve made arrangements.”

Coldmarrow groaned, but nodded and staggered out of the cabin.

He returned carrying a tray. This bore a stack of towels, a pitcher of water, and several plates heaped with food. He set the tray on the table just above Locke’s head, then cleaned Locke’s face and chest with the towels. Jean took a pinch of baked meat from the tray, pulled Locke’s chin down, and stuffed it into his mouth.