The Republic of Thieves

“Our friend is … next to penniless.”

“Yet obviously he has allies,” said Salvard warmly, extending his arms toward Locke and Sabetha, “who can be relied upon to take up his interests. My fee schedules are quite elastic. Anything else?”

“He’s the owner and manager of a theatrical troupe.”

Salvard lost his smile. He took a long pull on his left-hand pipe, set it down, then smoked its counterpart. He alternated pipes several times, staring at Locke and Sabetha. Finally, he said, “So, we’re talking about Jasmer Moncraine, then?”

“You know him?” said Locke.

“I should have guessed his identity sooner from the particulars, save for the fact that you genuinely seemed to want him back. That put me off the true scent. What’s your interest in his cause?”

“We’re actors, engaged by him for the summer,” said Sabetha. “We’ve only just arrived in the city.”

“My condolences. I have one piece of relevant advice.”

“Anything,” said Sabetha.

“Many men in low trades adapt to the loss of a hand and wear hooks. In Jasmer’s case, his vanity will never allow it. If you’re still in Espara next summer as his stump heals, get him a simple leather cap for it, and —”

“We need him back now,” said Sabetha. “We need him out of custody.”

“Well, you won’t get him, not through the workings of anyone in my profession. Now, now, my dear, it pains me to see that look on your face as much as it pains me to refuse work, so let me explain. My happy fortune is your hard luck. You must have heard of Amilio Basanti.”

“Actually, no,” said Locke.

“You truly are fresh off the wagon, aren’t you? Basanti is the impresario of the city’s other major company of actors, the stable and successful one. In a fortnight, Demoiselle Amilyn Basanti, his youngest sister, will become Mistress Amilyn Salvard.”

“Oh,” said Sabetha.

“If I were to become an advocate for the very rival my future brother-by-bonding loathes so famously, well, surely you can see that the effect upon my marital relations could only be … chilling.”

“Can you recommend someone who wouldn’t be at cross-purposes?” said Locke.

“There are five other solicitors-at-law in Espara,” said Salvard, “and none of them will touch the case. You must understand, if I weren’t taking a bride I’d argue it for pleasure. I enjoy annoying magistrates, and I handle even the lowest and most difficult clients. No offense. My peers, however, prefer to win their cases, and this one cannot be won.”

“But those excuses you just came up with—”

“Could mitigate the situation, perhaps. Surely you understand that those of elevated blood don’t keep laws on the books that would require them to take abuse from their inferiors. I wouldn’t cite law; I’d beg for mercy! I’d spin yarns about destitute friends and children. But since I’m not going to do those things, Moncraine’s trial will last about as long as this conversation.”

“Do we have any other options?” said Locke.

“Apply to Basanti’s troupe,” said Salvard gently. “At the Columbine’s Petal, up in Grayside. That’s where they drink. I could mention you to Amilyn. They’d find work for you, even if it’s just carrying spears. Don’t tie yourselves to Moncraine.”

“That’s kind of you,” said Sabetha, “but if we’d wanted to be part of the scenery we could have stayed at home. In Moncraine’s company we can have our pick of roles. In a settled troupe we’ll be at the end of a long line.”

Salvard again smoked his pipes in alternating fashion, then rubbed his eyes. “I suppose I can’t fault ambition, even if it’s bound to end in tears. But there’s no way Moncraine’s slipping the hook, children. Not unless one of two miracles occurs.”

“Miracles,” said Locke. “We’re in the market for those. What are they?”

“First, Countess Antonia could issue a pardon. She can do anything she pleases. But she won’t save him. Moncraine’s far from her good graces. Anyway, she’s more interested in the advice of her wine steward than her privy council these days.”

“What else?” said Locke.

“The noble that Moncraine attacked could grant a personal pardon by declining to make a complaint before a magistrate. The case would be dismissed. However, I’m sure you can imagine how keen bluebloods are to show weakness in front of their peers.”

“Yeah,” said Locke. “Hells. Can we even talk to Moncraine?”

“There I can offer some cheer,” said Salvard. “Anyone with a blood or trade connection to a prisoner can have one audience before a trial. Claim it whenever you like, just don’t try to give him anything. You’ll share his sentence if you’re caught.”

“An audience,” said Locke. “Good. Uh … where?”

“At the heart of Espara, atop the Legion Steps, look for the black stone tower with the moat and the hundred terribly serious guards. Can’t miss it, even in the rain.”

3

A THOUSAND dead soldiers loomed out of the mist beneath the gathering night as Locke and Sabetha climbed the heights of the Legion Steps.

The marble marchers, cracked and weathered from their vigil of six hundred years, wore the armor of Therin Throne legionnaires. Locke recognized the costume from paintings and manuscripts he’d seen in Camorr. He even recalled a bit of their story—that some emperor or another, dissatisfied with Espara’s lack of prominent Elderglass monuments, had commissioned a work of human art to grace the center of the city.

Each statue was said to be a likeness of an actual soldier from a then-living legion, and it was part of their melancholy fascination that they were not posed in martial triumph, but with heads down and shields slung, as they might have been seen trudging along the roads that had once knit the fallen empire together. Now they marched in place, rank on rank forever, in columns evenly spread across the two-hundred-yard arc of the stairs.

“We’ve got to find his accuser and arrange to have him forgiven,” said Locke.

“It’s the only chance we seem to have left,” said Sabetha.

“Gods, I wish we had more money,” said Locke. “Going visiting in society on scraps of a pittance won’t be easy.”

“Tempted to go back on your plan to avoid thieving?”

“Yes,” said Locke. “I won’t do it, though.”

“Just so long as you’re tempted,” she said, smiling.

“Honesty doesn’t suit any of us,” said Locke.

“I know. Isn’t it strange? I keep asking myself how people can stand to live like this.”

What Salvard had called a “moat” around the tower of dark stone was actually more of a gaping jagged- sided pit, at least thirty feet deep, into which drainage channels were directing streams of gray water. The only way across was a covered, elevated bridge with a well-lit guardhouse for a mouth. As Locke and Sabetha approached, a quartet of guards fanned out across the entrance.

Locke picked up immediately on the importance of what these guards weren’t carrying. They had no batons, no polearms. Those were weapons that could be used gently if the wielder wished. These guards carried only swords, which had a more straightforward employment.

“Stand fast,” said a weathered woman, just shy of middle age, her neck and face thick with scars. All the guards had the look of hard service. The Weeping Tower was no joke, Locke realized. Trying to bribe or suborn one of these old hounds would be suicide. “Name your business.”

“Good evening,” said Sabetha, instantly adopting a poise that was assertive but not imperious. Locke had