The Republic of Thieves

and came away grateful for not losing any limbs—then dozed fitfully in their suite of rooms, alternating naps in a lounging chair with episodes of furious pacing.

As the sun set and the tiny fragments of sky visible around the window curtains turned black, men from Morenna’s delivered the beginnings of the promised wardrobe. Locke and Jean examined the new coats, vests, and breeches for concealed needles or alchemical dusts before hanging them in the massive rosewood armoires provided with the rooms.

At the eighth hour of the evening maids and porters appeared with tubs of steaming water. Locke tested each tub with a finger and, when his flesh didn’t peel from his bones, allowed that they might just be safe for their intended use.

By the time Nikoros knocked forty minutes later, the two Gentlemen Bastards were cleaned up and comfortably ensconced in clothes that fit perfectly.

“Gentlemen,” said Nikoros, who had substantially upgraded his own clothes, “I’ve brought you some useful things, I hope.”

He passed a leather portfolio to Locke, who flipped it open and found at least a hundred pages inside. Some were covered with dense scribbling that was surely Nikoros’, others with flawless script that surely wasn’t.

“Deep Roots party financial reports,” said Nikoros. “Important membership lists, plans and minutes from the last election, lists of properties and agents, matching lists for what we know of the Black Iris, copies of the city election laws—”

“Splendid,” said Locke. “And you took all the steps I discussed earlier?”

“My scribe’s still working, but everything else is seen to. If the earth should open up and swallow my offices, I swear I won’t be losing anything irreplaceable.”

“Good,” said Locke. “Want a drink? We’ve got a liquor cabi— No, wait, I haven’t examined the bottles yet, sorry.”

“I’m sure anything provided by Josten is perfectly safe,” said Nikoros, raising his eyebrows.

“It’s not Josten’s faithfulness I worry about.”

“Well, let me assure you that we don’t throw parties in Karthain for the purpose of staying dry.” He reached inside his coat and drew out two ornate silver lapel badges attached to green ribbons; an identical ornament was on his own left breast, though his was gold. “As for that, I mustn’t forget your colors.”

“The official Deep Roots plumage?” said Jean, extending a hand for his pin.

“Yes. For the party tonight, Committee members wear gold pins, Konseil members wear jade, privileged others wear silver. These will mark you as men to respect, but not men who need to be followed around and remarked upon, if you don’t wish it.”

“Good,” said Locke, decorating his lapel. “Now that we’re properly garnished, let’s serve ourselves up to the family.”

10

THE ENTIRE character of Josten’s main room had changed for the evening. The number of attendants at the street doors had doubled, and their uniforms were far more impressive. Dark green banners hung from the rafters and down the varnished pillars. Carriages could be heard coming and going constantly, and Locke caught a glimpse of several more attendants outside, holding their hands up to a party of well-dressed men without green ribbons. Clearly the party was a closed affair.… Were the men on the pavement legitimately uninformed late diners, or some sort of opposition mischief? There was no time to investigate.

A string quintet was bowing away pleasantly in one of the upper galleries, and all the visible fireplaces had huge kettles for tea and coffee bubbling before them. Curtained tables held thousands of glass bottles, and enough decanters, flutes, pitchers, and tumblers to blind every eye in the city with the force of their reflected light. Locke blinked several times and turned his attention to the men and women flowing into the room.

“This is already well more than a hundred and fifty,” he said.

“These things happen,” said Nikoros, giggling energetically as though at some private joke. “We plan with s-such restraint, but there’s so many people we can’t afford to offend!”

Locke peered at him. Nikoros had changed, somehow, in the few minutes between their room and the party. He was sweating profusely, his cheeks were flushed, his eyes darted around like little creatures trapped behind glass panes. Yet he wasn’t nervous; he was beatific. Gods!

Their straight-arrow trade insurer, their liaison to the Deep Roots upper crust, was a taker of Akkadris dust. Locke smelled the sharp pine-like odor of the stuff. Damn! Akkadris, Muse-of-Fire, the poet killer. Liquor soothed and loosened wits, but dust did the opposite, lighting fires in the mind until the dusthead shook with excitement for no discernible reason. It was an expensive and incrementally suicidal habit.

“Nikoros,” said Locke, grabbing one of his lapels, “you and I need to have a very frank discussion about —”

“Via Lupa! Via Lupa, dear boy!” A ponderous old man with a face like a seamed pink pudding bore down on them, witchwood cane tapping the floor excitedly. The man’s white eyebrows fluttered like wisps of smoke, and his lapel badge was polished jade. “Nikoros of the wolves, so called for his profit margins. Ha!”

“G-good evening, Your Honor!” Nikoros used the interruption to extricate himself from Locke’s grasp. “Oh! Gentlemen, may I present Firstson Epitalus, Konseil member for Isas Thedra for forty-five years. Some would call him the, ah, f-figurehead on our political vessel.”

“So I’m a figurehead, am I? A helpless woman splashing about without the good sense to cover my tits? Do I need to send a friend along to require an explanation of that remark, young fellow?”

“Leave the poor boy alone, First. It’s quite clear that you do have the good sense to cover your tits.” A lean, grizzled woman took Epitalus by the arm in a friendly fashion. She looked a lived-in sixty to Locke, though she had lively eyes and a mischievous smile. She, too, wore a jade badge, and as she and Epitalus burst into laughter Nikoros joined in nervously, louder than either of them.

“And allow me to also present … ah—”

It was only a momentary lapse, but the woman seized upon it eagerly.

“Oh, say the name, Nikoros, it won’t burn your tongue.”

“Ahem. Yes, ahem: Damned Superstition Dexa, Konseil member for Isas Mellia and head, ah, head of the Deep Roots Committee.”

“Damned Superstition?” said Locke, smiling despite himself.

“Which it is,” said Dexa, “though you’ll note I play firmly by the rules anyway. Hypocrisy and caution are such affectionate cousins.”

“Your Honors,” said Nikoros, “please, please allow me the p-pleasure of introducing Masters Lazari and Callas.”

Bows, handshakes, nods, and endearments were exchanged with the speed of a melee, and once all the appropriate strokes had been made, Their Honors immediately relapsed into informality.

“So you’re the gentlemen that we’ve discussed so often recently,” said Dexa. “I understand you smoked some vipers out of our midst this very afternoon.”

“Hardly vipers, Your Honor. Just a few turds our opposition threw into the road to see if we were minding our feet,” said Locke.

“Well, keep it up,” said Epitalus. “We have such confidence in you, my lads, such confidence.”

Locke nodded, and felt a flutter in his guts. These people certainly hadn’t read a single note on the fictional exploits of Lazari and Callas. Their warmth and enthusiasm had been installed by the spells of the Bondsmagi. Would it last forever, or dissolve like some passing fancy once the election was over? Could it dissolve before then, by accident? An unnerving thought.

Nikoros managed to herd their little group toward the gleaming mountains of liquor. While his heart-to- heart with Nikoros had been postponed by the circumstances, Locke did feel more comfortable once he’d secured a drink. A glass in the hand seemed as much a uniform requirement as a green ribbon on the chest for this affair.