The Republic of Thieves

Epitalus and Dexa soon went off to tend to the business of being important. Nikoros whirled Locke and Jean around the room several times, making introductions, pointing out prodigies and curiosities, Committee members, friends, cousins, cousins of friends, and friends of cousins.

Locke had once been used to mingling with the aristocracy of Camorr, and while the upper crust of Karthain lacked for nothing in terms of wit and pomp, there seemed to be a distinct difference in character that ran deeper than mere variations of habit between east and west. It took half an hour of conversation for him to finally apprehend the nature of the contrast—the Karthani gentry lacked the martial quality that was omnipresent in the well-to-do of most other city-states.

There were no obvious battle scars, no missing arms within pinned-up jacket sleeves, no men and women with the measured step of old campaigners or the swagger of equestrians. Locke recalled that the army of Karthain had been disbanded when the magi took up their residence. For four centuries, the ominous Presence had been the city’s sole (and entirely sufficient) protection against outside interference.

Introductions and pleasantries continued. “Now, who’s that fellow over there?” said Locke, sipping at his second Austershalin brandy and water. “The one with the odd little hat.”

“The natty-hatted gentleman? Damn … his name escapes me at the moment.” Nikoros took a generous gulp of wine as though it might help; whatever aid it rendered was not instantaneous. “Sorry. But I do know his particular friend, the one at his shoulder. One of our district organizers. Firstson Cholmond. Always claims to be writing a book.”

“What sort?” said Jean.

“History. A grand historical study of the city of Karthain.”

“Gods grant him a paralyzing carriage accident,” said Jean.

“I sympathize. Most historians have always struck me as perpetrators of tedium,” said Nikoros. “He swears that his book is different. Still—”

Whatever Nikoros might have said next was lost in a general uproar. Firstson Epitalus had ascended to one of the upper galleries, and he was waving for something resembling order from the crowd, which had by now soaked up a good fraction of its own weight in liquor.

“Good evening, good evening, good evening!” yelled Epitalus. “Good evening!” And then, as though anyone in the audience might conceivably remain unenlightened as to the quality or time of day: “Good evening!”

The string quintet ceased its humming and twanging, and the general acclamation sank to a tipsy murmur.

“Welcome, dear hearts and cavaliers, devoted friends, to the seventy-ninth season of elections in our Republic of Karthain! Take a moment, I pray, to reflect with pity on how few of us remain who can remember the first.…”

Good-natured laughter rippled across the crowd.

“Even those of you still moist behind the ears should be able to recall our heroic efforts of five years past, which, despite furious opposition, preserved our strong minority of nine seats on the Konseil!”

Curiously raucous cheers echoed across the hall for some time. Locke winced. Strong minority? Was he missing out on some bit of Karthani drollery, or were they really that incapable of admitting they’d lost?

“And so, surely, the burden of defending their old gains rests heavily on our foes, and must render them eminently vulnerable to what’s coming their way this time!”

This was answered with full-throated yells, the clinking of glasses, applause, and the sound of at least one thin-blooded reveler succumbing to the influence of complimentary liquor. Fortunately, his tumble from a balcony was interrupted by a crowd of soft-bodied folks, who were deep enough in their cups to take no offense at his sudden arrival. Waiters discreetly removed the poor fellow while Epitalus went on.

“Might I beg you, therefore, to raise a glass in toast to our dear opposition, the overconfident lads and lasses across the city? What shall we wish them, eh? Confusion? Frustration?”

“They’re already confused,” yelled Damned Superstition Dexa from somewhere near the front of the crowd, “so let it be frustration!”

“Frustration to the Black Iris,” boomed Epitalus, raising his glass. The cry was echoed from every corner of the crowd, and then with one vast gulp several hundred people were in pressing need of a refill. Waiters wielding bottles in both hands waded into the fray. When Epitalus had received a fresh supply of wine, he raised his glass again.

“Karthain! Gods bless our great jewel of the west!”

This toast, too, was echoed enthusiastically, but in its wake Locke witnessed something curious. A fair number of the people around him touched their left hands to their eyes, bowed their heads, and whispered, “Bless the Presence.”

“Gods grant us all the blessing of a long-awaited victory,” said Epitalus, “as they have granted me the honor of your very kind attention. I’ll not detain you a moment longer! We have plenty of work to do in the coming six weeks, but tonight is for pleasure, and I must insist that you all pursue it vigorously!”

Epitalus descended from the elevated gallery to a round of applause that shook the rafters. The musicians started up again.

“What do you think of the old boy?” said Jean.

“He’s got a strangely sunny view of ten years of defeat,” said Locke, “but if I get killed in the next six weeks, I want him to speak at my funeral.”

“Not to piss on the good cheer,” said Jean in a much lower voice, “but did you notice that our friend Nikoros—”

“Yeah,” sighed Locke. “We’ll straighten him out later.”

The mass of well-dressed Firstsons, Secondsons, Thirddaughters, and the like returned to its previous knots of conversation and besieged the silver platters of food which were now being uncovered at the back of the hall. Performance alchemists in bright silk costumes emerged from the kitchens, some to mix drinks, others already juggling heatless fire or conjuring glowing steam in rainbows of color.

“My compliments, Nikoros,” said Locke. “Your party seems to be a smashing success. Something tells me we’re not going to be getting any bloody work done before noon tomorrow, though.”

“Oh, Josten’s your man for that,” said Nikoros. “He, ah, he mixes a hangover remedy that’ll knock the f- fumes right out of your brain! Alchemy ain’t in it. So I think we can help ourselves to another glass or two with a clear—”

It was then that Locke noticed a new murmur from the crowd near the main doors, not the low purr of drunken contentment, but a spreading signal of unease. Men and women with green ribbons parted like clouds before a rising sun, and out of the gap came a stout, curly-haired man in a pale blue coat and matching four- cornered hat. He carried a polished wooden staff about three feet long, topped with a silver figurine of a rampant lion. A tipstaff if Locke had ever seen one.

“Herald Vidalos,” said Nikoros warmly. “D-dear fellow, have you come at a fine time! You must, must take a little something against the chill! Help yourself.”

“Deepest regrets, Nikoros.” The man called Vidalos had a curiously gentle voice, and it was obvious that he was in some discomfort. “I’m afraid I’ve come on the business of the Magistrates’ Court.”

“Oh?” Nikoros stiffened. “Well, ah, perhaps I can, I can help you keep it discreet. Who do you need to see?”

“Diligence Josten.”

By now a wide circle of the floor had cleared around Vidalos. Josten pushed his way through the crowd and stepped into the open.

“What news, Vidalos?”

“Nothing that gives me any pleasure.” Vidalos touched his staff gently to Josten’s left shoulder. “Diligence Josten, I serve you before witnesses with a warrant from the Magistrates’ Court of Karthain.”

He withdrew the staff and handed the innkeeper a scroll sealed inside a case. While Josten broke the seal and unrolled the contents, Locke casually moved to stand beside him.

“What’s the trouble?” he whispered.

“By the Ten fucking Holy Names,” said Josten, running his eyes down the neat, numerous paragraphs on the scroll. “This can’t be right. All of my fees are properly paid—”