The Republic of Thieves

informal noble reception. “Have you ever been there?”

“To Camorr? No, no. I’ve always wanted to visit, but I’ve never had the privilege.”

“Lord Boulidazi,” said Sabetha, “may I present my cousin, the Honorable Lucaza Botallio?”

“Your cousin, eh?” said Boulidazi, nodding as Locke bowed his head. The Esparan lord offered his hand. As they shook, Locke noted that Boulidazi was solidly built, much the same size as Alondo’s hostler cousin, and he didn’t hold back the strength in his grip.

“Thank you for receiving us,” said Locke. “We would have both sent our cards, but only Verena is carrying one, I’m afraid.”

“Oh? You weren’t robbed or anything, I suppose? Is that why you’ve come dressed as you are? Forgive my mentioning it.”

“No, we haven’t been mistreated,” said Sabetha. “And there’s nothing to forgive; we’re not traveling in our usual capacity. We’re incognito, with just a bodyguard and a pair of servants, though we’ve left them behind for the moment.”

“Incognito,” said Boulidazi. “Are you in some sort of danger?”

“Not in the slightest,” said Sabetha with a laugh. She then turned and feigned surprise (Locke was confident that only long familiarity allowed him to spot the fact that it was a willful change) at the sight of a saber resting in its scabbard on a witchwood display shelf. “Is that what I think it is?”

“What, exactly, do you think it is?” said Boulidazi, and it seemed to Locke that he was a touch more curt than before.

“Surely it’s a DiVorus? The seal on the hilt—”

“It is,” said Boulidazi, instantly losing his tone of impatience. “One of his later blades, but still—”

“I trained with a DiVorus,” said Sabetha, poising one hand above the hilt of the saber. “The Voillantebona rapier. Don’t get me wrong; it wasn’t mine. My instructor’s. I still remember the balance, and the patterns in the steel … your hilt looks honorably stained. I assume you practice with it?”

“Often,” said Boulidazi. “This one’s called Drakovelus. It’s been in my family for three generations. It suits my style—not the fastest on the floor, but when I do move I can put a bit of strength behind it.”

“The saber rewards a sturdy handler,” said Sabetha.

“We’re neglecting your cousin,” said Boulidazi. “Forgive me, Lucaza, please don’t allow my enthusiasms to shove you aside from the conversation.”

“Not at all, Lord Boulidazi. I’ve had my years with the fencing masters, of course, but Verena’s the connoisseur in the family.”

Boulidazi’s heavy servant returned and whispered into the baron’s ear. Locke silently counted to ten before the servant finished. The big man withdrew again, and the baron stared at Locke.

“You know, I just now recall,” he said. “Botallio … isn’t that one of the Five Towers clans?”

“Of course,” said Sabetha.

“And yet you give your address as the Isla Zantara,” said Boulidazi.

“I’m fond of Grandfather,” said Sabetha. “But surely you can understand how someone my age might prefer a little manor of her own.”

“And your grandfather …” said Boulidazi expectantly.

“Don Enrico Botallio.”

“Better known as Count Blackspear?” said Boulidazi, still cautiously.

“Verena’s father is Blackspear’s eldest son,” said Locke. “I’m the son of his youngest.”

“Oh? I believe I might have heard something of your father, Lucaza,” said the baron. “I do hope that he’s well?”

Locke felt a surge of relief that they’d pretended to be from a family Sabetha had knowledge of. Boulidazi obviously had access to some sort of directory of Camorri peers. Locke allowed himself to look crestfallen for just an instant, and then put on an obviously forced smile.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I must inform you that my father died several years ago.”

“Oh,” said Boulidazi, visibly relaxing. “Forgive me. I must have been thinking of someone else. But why didn’t the pair of you simply give the name of the count when you—”

“Noble cousin,” said Sabetha, shifting instantly into her excellent Throne Therin, “the name of Blackspear commands instant attention in Camorr, but surely you wouldn’t think us so vulgar as to try and awe you with it in Espara, as the freshest of acquaintances, as guests in your house?”

“Oh—vulgar, oh no, never!” said Boulidazi in the same language. Anyone of breeding was expected to endure years of tutelage in it, and he’d clearly done his time in the purgatory of conjugation and tenses. “I didn’t mean that I expected anything uncouth of you!”

“Lord Boulidazi,” said Locke, returning the conversation to plain Therin, “we’re the ones who should be apologizing, for imposing ourselves upon you in our present state. We have our reasons, but you needn’t regret being cautious.”

“I’m glad you understand,” said the baron. “Tymon!”

The large servant, who must have been lurking just past the door, stepped inside.

“It’s all right, Tymon,” said the baron. “I think our guests will be staying for a while. Let’s have some chairs.”

“Of course, my lord,” said the servant, relaxing out of his cold and intimidating aspect as easily as removing a hat.

“I hope you don’t mind if we talk in here,” said Boulidazi. “My parents … well, it was just last year. I can’t really think of the study as my room quite yet.”

“I know how it is,” said Locke. “You inherit the memories of a house as well as its stones. I didn’t touch anything in my father’s library for months.”

“I suppose I should call you Don and Dona Botallio, then?” said the baron.

“Only if you want to flatter us,” said Locke with a smile.

“While Grandfather still holds the title,” said Sabetha, “my father, as direct heir, is called Don. But since we’re two steps removed, we are, at present, just a pair of Honorables.”

Tymon returned, along with the shoe-towelers, and three high-backed chairs were set down next to the billiards table.

Boulidazi seemed reasonably convinced of their authenticity now, and Locke felt a pang of mingled awe and anxiety. Here was a lord of the city, capable of putting them in prison (or worse) with a word, opening to their false-facing like any common shopkeeper, guard, or functionary. Chains was right. Their training had given them a remarkable freedom of action.

Still, it seemed wise to seal the affair as tightly as possible.

“Gods above,” said Locke. “What a boor I’ve been! Lord Boulidazi, forgive me. Is it usual in Espara to give a consideration to house servants—damn!”

Locke pulled out his purse and made what he thought was an excellent show of stumbling toward the withdrawing Tymon. He fell against the billiards table, and a stream of clinking gold and silver just happened to scatter across the felt surface.

“Are you all right?” The baron was at Locke’s side in an instant, helping him up, and Locke was satisfied that Boulidazi had a full view of the coins.

“Fine, thank you. I’m such a clumsy ass. You can see all the grace in the family wound up on Verena’s side.” Locke swept the coins back into the purse. “Sorry about your game.”

“It was just a solitary diversion,” said Boulidazi, as he helped Sabetha into a chair. “And yes, on holidays, we do give gratuities to the help, but there’s a little ceremony and some temple nonsense. You needn’t worry about it.”

“Well, we’re obliged to you,” said Locke, relieved that he could escape without surrendering any of the flash bag funds. All Boulidazi had to do was believe that money was no real object to them.

“Now,” said Sabetha, “I suppose you’d like to find out why we’ve come to you.”

“Of course,” said Boulidazi. “But first, why not tell me what it would please you to be called, if not Dona