The Republic of Thieves

“He must have discarded it inside,” she cried. “Search the building!”

“Now, this is beyond all propriety,” said Jean. “My friend is a gentleman and a solicitor, and you insult him with these ridiculous accusations!”

“He’s a pickpocket,” said the woman. “He ran into me to steal my purse!”

“This man is a convulsive,” Jean bellowed. “He has fits half a dozen times a day! What the hell kind of pickpocket do you think he’d make? Twitching and trembling and falling over? Gods!”

“Madam,” said the guard standing over Locke, “he doesn’t have your purse, and you must admit a gentleman with, ah, twitching fever hardly seems a likely cutpurse.”

“Check his friend,” she said. “Check the big one.”

“I’ll gladly hand my coat over,” said Jean, slowly and coldly, pretending to come to a realization. “Yet I must insist that you do the same, madam.”

“Me?”

“Yes,” said Jean. “I understand what’s going on now. I marvel that I didn’t grasp it before. There is a pickpocket at work, sirs, but one wearing a lady’s dress rather than a gentleman’s breeches.”

“You foreign slime!” shouted the woman.

“Constables, no doubt you’ve been in the company of this woman since she approached you with her complaint. I’d check, if I were you, to make sure of your own purses.”

The guards patted themselves down, and the one standing over Locke gasped.

“My coin bag!” he said. “It was right here in my belt!”

“You may examine me at length,” said Jean, extending his arms with his empty palms up. “But I must insist that your more fruitful course of action would be to examine my accuser.”

The guard nearest the woman put a hand on her shoulder, mumbled apologies, and gingerly sifted her coat pockets while she screeched and struggled. After a moment, he held up a small leather coin bag and a black silk purse.

“Stitched with the initials ‘G.B.’!” he said.

“But it was missing!” she cried. “It was nowhere to be found!”

“What about my coin bag, eh?” The first guard snatched the leather purse from his partner and shook it at her. “What’s this doing in your pocket?”

“I’m bloody confused,” muttered the other guard.

“You’re meant to be,” said Jean. “Forgive me for saying so. I’ve seen this act before. Our harmless-looking friend here has been plucking purses. Clearly she meant to frame my friend for her deeds, even while plying her trade on you, sirs. Thus, when you and any other victims discovered your light pockets, you’d have a culprit already in hand, ready to soak up all the blame. I can only imagine she tried and failed to plant her purse on my friend. Perhaps age is catching up with you, madam?”

“Lying bastard,” she shouted, trying and failing to fight off the firm grip of a guard. “Lying, thieving, pocket-picking foreigner!”

“Right, you,” said the first guard, taking her other arm. “I don’t like being taken advantage of. Gentlemen, would you like to come inside with us and register your complaint as well?”

“Actually,” said Jean, “I’d like to get my friend home, if not to a physiker. I daresay this woman’s in enough trouble for having lifted your purse. I can be content with that.”

“And if you should need anything else from us,” said Nikoros, handing one of the guards a small white card, “I’m Nikoros Via Lupa, Isas Salvierro. These men are my guests.”

“Very good, sir,” said the first guard, pocketing Nikoros’ card. “Sorry for the trouble. I hope the gentleman recovers.”

“Time and fresh lake air,” said Jean, swinging Locke up and supporting him under his right arm.

“Time’s the one thing he doesn’t have,” yelled the woman as the guards dragged her toward the court offices. “And you two know it! You know it! Be seeing you, gentlemen!”

Once all three men were safely ensconced in their carriage and it was clattering away down the street, Locke returned to life and burst out laughing. “Thank you, Nikoros,” he said, wiping flecks of spittle from his chin. “That last note of respectability at the end was just what the scene needed to bring everything back down to earth.”

“I bloody well rejoice to hear it,” said Nikoros, “but what the hell just happened?”

“That woman slipped a purse into my coat when she stumbled into me. Obviously she meant to get me snared for pickpocketing,” said Locke. “I checked to see if anything was missing, but like a dolt I didn’t think to feel around for unexpected gifts. She nearly had me.”

“Who was she?”

“No idea,” said Locke. “She works for our counterpart, obviously. And she’s a jewel.… Anyone who can live to that age charming coats for a living knows their business. We’ll see her again.”

“She’ll be in a cold dark cell.”

“Oh, she’ll slip those idiots in about five minutes,” said Jean. “There’ll be arrangements. Trust us.”

“I’m ashamed to admit that I actually thought for a moment that you, uh, were genuinely ill, Lazari,” said Nikoros.

“We didn’t have any time to warn you. Pitching a fit’s a crude bit of theater, but it’s surprising how often it works.”

“How did you guess she’d lifted that guard’s purse?”

“I didn’t guess,” said Locke with an indulgent chuckle. “I borrowed it when I stumbled against him.”

“Then he passed it on to our lady friend, along with her own purse, when he stumbled against her,” said Jean.

“Gods above,” said Nikoros.

“And don’t think she didn’t realize it,” added Jean. “But there’s only so many ways you can arrange to bump tits with strangers before it starts to look fishy.”

“Ain’t we clever?” said Locke, idly examining his own pockets again. “And I’m pretty sure I still have … everything. Holy hells!”

There was a folded piece of parchment, sealed with wax, in his left inner pocket. He drew it out and stared at it.

“This wasn’t in my pocket when I came out the door,” he said. “She … she stuck me with it while I was slipping her the two purses!”

Jean gave a low whistle as Locke popped the seal and flipped the parchment open in haste. He read the contents aloud:

Messrs. Lazari and Callas

Sirs—

I trust you will excuse the unorthodox means by which this letter finds its way into your hands. Karthani post-masters, enterprising as they are, rarely deliver directly to the interior pocket of a gentleman’s coat. I present my compliments, and desire that you should call upon me at the seventh hour of this evening, at the Sign of the Black Iris, in the Vel Vespala.

Your most affectionate servant—

“Verena Gallante,” said Locke in a harsh whisper. His heart seemed to expand and fill his entire chest with its beating. “She wants to … she wants to see … oh, gods—”

He looked out the window, craning his neck furiously to see behind them, into the swirling silvery fog, where of course there was nothing meaningful to be found.

“What is it?” said Nikoros.

“That was no middle-aged stranger,” said Locke. “That was her.”

“Who?”

“The opposition,” said Locke, settling back into his seat, feeling dazed. “Our counterpart. The woman we spoke of.”

“Verena Gallante?”

“It seems that’s her present alias.”

“Oh my,” said Jean. “The initials on the silk purse … now, that was cheeky.”