The Gentleman Bastard Series 3-Book Bundle: The Lies of Locke Lamora, Red Seas Under Red Skies, The Republic of Thieves (243 page)

“We are all wretches at our ragged court, and none therefore a poorer contrast.” Sabetha’s
voice was effortlessly regal as she glided into the scene, out of what would eventually
be the shadows of the actual stage. Not even the distraction of Boulidazi could truly
dampen Locke’s pleasure at watching Sabetha vanish into the role she’d so coveted.

“Grace like fire’s heat, I am made ashamed of my tribute,” said Calo, sinking to his
knees. “You are Amadine, called Queen Beneath the Stones, or I was never born. My
gift deserves not the name, for such a beauty. It pales, and with it my pride. I beg
a second chance, to steal a more worthy courtesy!”

“Indeed, his offering is slight as a passing fancy,” said Bertrand. “Be assured of
my love, bright Amadine, and take my tribute first.”

“Unkind Valedon, this is no race with lines to cross before all others. Stand easy.
Surely a moment’s wait can little harm your preparations.”

Bertrand bowed and took a step back.

“I am Amadine, called many things,” said Sabetha, gesturing for Calo to rise. “There
is no honor more worthy than this, your gift of friendship. I see you are new among
us.”

“Many years a thief, mistress, but far too many passed before kind fortune brought
me to your company. Oh, let me trade this bauble for something more fitting, or gladly
hang for trying.”

“Never speak of such an evil,” said Sabetha. “And never speak of shame, but give what
you have.”

Calo pretended to hesitantly pass something over, and Sabetha mimed holding it up
between thumb and forefinger.

“A speck of a silver ring,” scoffed Bertrand. “Careworn as a scullion’s hands.”

“I more proudly take a speck from a man with empty pockets,” said Sabetha, “than riches
from a man whose purse stays heavy. What good thing might not be coined from this
courtesy? It shall become bread and wine, and clothing, and sharp steel. It shall
harden the sinews of our fellowship, and for that I hold it dear. You are welcome
to our band, brother.”

“Gods willing, I shall never leave it!”

“Gods willing.” Sabetha held out her other hand and Calo kissed it. She turned to
Bert. “Now, Valedon, let’s know your heart. Some months you’ve spent among us, yet
aloof, a proud and solitary sort.”

“Proud and solitary as yourself, artful Amadine, though I admit my poor fellowship.
Here’s the remedy! Oh, how I’ve strained my talents to produce a worthy gift!”

“A bracelet,” said Chantal as her husband pretended to display it with a flourish.
“Black sapphires set in gold.”

“As suits a queen of shadows,” said Bertrand. “Pray it please you. I beg you wear
it, even once, though you later strike it to a royal ransom of coins.”

“Great weight to grace a single wrist. Our thanks, Valedon; your obscure character
is made clear. How did you come by this treasure?”

“Three days and nights of pains,” said Bertrand, “watching a great house, until I
saw my chance for the seizing.”

“Will you wear it first, to show me its workings?”

“Why, the clasp is simple, gracious Amadine. Give me your hand, I shall anoint it.”

“I would see this treasure on your wrist, ere it touches mine. Or has your deep regard
run shallow?”

“This beauty is not meant for such an unworthy display!”

“Unworthy indeed.” At a gesture from Sabetha, Chantal seized Bertrand and feigned
holding a blade to his neck.

“Ladies, please, how have I offended?”

“Your face is a parchment,” said Sabetha, “with treason there written plain. You dread
the bauble’s touch, and the venom of its coiled needle!” She mimed snatching the bracelet
and unfolding it for all to see. “You think us dullards, that by this infant’s stratagem
you might have my life? My spies advised me of your falseness.”

“I swear that when I stole the bracelet, I knew not what lay within!”

“Stole? Should I not know a thief by every scar and callus of the trade? I have them
all, Valedon, familiar as children. Your hands are dough and your sinews slack. This
bracelet you had as a gift from your masters.”

Calo and Galdo did their best impression of a general outcry in the crowd, and seized
Bertrand by the arms.

“I see now my deception was foredoomed,” he whispered. “Clasp the bracelet to my wrist
and let justice be done.”

“Hasty dispatch is mercy undeserved. You’ll have your bracelet back, miscarried murderer,
after reflection. Bind him! Heat a crucible, and therein cast this scorpion bauble.
Past his traitor’s lips, pour the molten slurry of his instrument. Aye, gild his guts
with melted treasure, then leave him on the street for his masters to ponder.”

“I beg you—”

The last plea of the unfortunate Valedon was drowned out by the noise of Calo once
again throwing up. Bert and Chantal hopped backward, minding their feet, while Galdo
put a hand to his mouth and went pale.

“Ha,” shouted Boulidazi. “Ha! I think one of your twins has something to feel guilty
about, Moncraine.”

“Very sorry, my lord,” moaned Calo.

“Perhaps you should try living virtuously for a few days, my friends.” Boulidazi rose
and stretched. “Well done, despite the sudden ending. Indeed! Especially you ladies.
By the gods, I think we’ve got something here. In fact, I’m going to join you at the
Pearl for the rest of your rehearsals.”

The sudden pain between Locke’s temples was a match for the expression on Moncraine’s
face.

“
WE
’
LL FIND
our chance to be alone,” Sabetha whispered to him more than once in the days that
followed, but such chances seemed to deliberately fling themselves out of the way
as the rehearsals wore on.

The Old Pearl was a testament to the generosity of the long-dead count who’d left
it to the city. Though hardly a patch on the Eldren notion of longevity, the theater
had been built to be taken for granted for centuries. Its walls and raised galleries
were white marble, now weathered a mellow gray, and its stage was built from alchemically
lacquered hardwood that might last nearly as long.

The circular courtyard was open to the sky, and though awning poles were in place
to offer potential shelter from sun and rain, the awnings themselves were absent.
According to Jenora, such comforts for the groundling crowd, like sanitary ditches,
were one of the “free” theater’s hidden expenses that the countess had no interest
in bearing herself.

There was no denying that the place was far more suitable than Mistress Gloriano’s
inn-yard. The Pearl had a surplus of dignity to lend, even to their more ragged rehearsals,
and what might have seemed silly pantomime twenty feet from a stable was somehow ennobled
in the shadow of silent marble galleries.

Still, every new advantage seemed to come with a complication for a sibling. Each
day began too early, with hungover company members packing unfinished costumes, props,
and sundries into the wagon provided by the Camorri. The walk to the Pearl was two
miles, and at the close of each day’s rehearsal they would have to stuff everything
back into their wagon and reverse the journey. They were permitted to rehearse at
the Pearl, not reside there, and the city watch would turn them out like vagabonds
if they showed any sign of spending a night. Precious hours were therefore gnawed
away by travel.

Although Locke and Sabetha avoided the worst of the debauches that were a nightly
ritual (Mistress Gloriano, for all her loud moralizing, seemed incapable of refusing
service to any drunkard who could
still manage to roll a coin in her direction), there was little freedom or leisure
to be found at the inn. For one thing, there was the simple press of time, and sleep
was a precious commodity after long rehearsals and tedious trudging. For another,
there was Boulidazi.

True to his word, the young baron became a company fixture, “disguised” in common
clothing, and while Locke went to bed each night more exhausted than he’d been since
his months as a farmer, Boulidazi seemed to have the stamina of ten mules. Word got
around, somehow, that the Moncraine Company had come back to life with a slumming
lord at the heart of its court, so opportunists, curiosity-seekers, and unemployed
actors joined the taproom mess every evening, driving Moncraine to distraction.

Boulidazi, however, was never distracted. His eyes were fixed on Sabetha.

“
CALAMAXES, OLD
counsel,” said Sylvanus Olivios Andrassus, squatting on a folding stool in character
as His Paramount Majesty Salerius II, Emperor of All Therins. “Not a bright day passes
but you find some cloud to throw before Our sun.”

“Majesty.” Jasmer sketched a bow, expressing more tolerance than awe. “It is of sons
I wish to speak. Princely Aurin has reached a hungry age, and wants employment.”

“Employment? He’s heir to Our throne, that’s his trade.”

“He wants distinction, Majesty. A blade unblooded and waiting to be drawn, is Aurin.”

“You take liberties, spell-sayer. Say you that birth to the blood royal sufficeth
not to mark his merit?”

“Your pardon, Sovereign. By my soul, Aurin is worthy heir to worthy line. I say only
that he longs to match attainment to inheritance, as the father did, and stir this
stately court with new triumph.”

“He,” mused Sylvanus, “and dear ambitious Ferrin.”

“Rightly and loyally ambitious,” said Jasmer. “Have you not been served in your own
course by friends and generals?”

“And sorcerers.”

“Majesty.”

“Well, it’s no fault of Ours that foes of old are lately grown so feeble!”

“Those foes would say otherwise, Majesty. You have been the architect of their sorrows.”

“Well, well. Some serpents flatter, ere they bite. So now let’s have your fangs.”

“Majesty, there is a discontent in Therim Pel that gnaws, as vermin at a house’s timbers.
The matter of the thieves.”

“Gods above! Have We not seen your spells in battle wrought, and men scythed dead
like harvest grain? Have We not seen thunder and lightning leashed to your whim? Now
you tell Us to cringe from vagabonds.”

“Not cringe, Majesty, never cringe. But attend, for here’s a sickness that’s catching.
Word I have of gatherings in great numbers, of boldness unbecoming, of deliberate
contempt for your imperial throne.”

“All thieves scorn the law, else they would not be thieves. Why cry this stale revelation?”

“Majesty, they make society beneath bright Therim Pel and name a sovereign for their
counterfeit court!”

“In jest. We too much dignify this nonsense with Our consideration.”

“Majesty, please, if you suffer scorn from base pretenders, how can it not breed by
example in higher stations? I grant that you may laugh in private—”

“You
grant
?”

“Pardon, Majesty. I submit. I counsel most earnestly. Rightly should you
think
this insolence trivial, but rightly for the sake of hard-won peace should you crush
it in its womb! Lest it spread to those whose spirits are more matched to your own.”

“Slay wastrels now or courtiers later, you say? Who, then, would be this sovereign
of thieves, and how are they grown so fearsome that your own agencies cannot weed
them?”

“A woman, majesty, a woman of worthy temper, whose thralls call her Queen of Shadows.
She guards well against my simpler servants. One of them was slain last night and
left on a street, as warning and challenge.”

“And what of spells?” Sylvanus let the word hang heavy in the air
for a moment. “By Our command, could you not slay her at leisure, swift as a cold
wind?”

“By your command,” said Jasmer, grudgingly, “she could die this instant, yet thus
would I murder opportunity.”

“What, then, do you
submit and counsel earnestly
?”

“Let Aurin and Ferrin be your instruments, Majesty. Their faces are little-known to
the lawless. Let them enter this thieves’ warren, and win this woman to their confidence,
and execute judgment on her.”

“The dust is not yet settled from the corpse of your former agent, and you would put
my son in his place?”

“Peace, Majesty. Has not princely Aurin wondrous skill at arms? Is not Ferrin iron-strong
as suits his name? I am the soul of prudence with your issue, and would set my arts
and eyes upon him from afar, though he’ll know it not. He could not be safer in his
own chambers … and he might do much good.”

“Strange conceit, to make an emperor’s son an assassin.”

“To make it known the coming lion has some fox to him, matches subtlety to strength,
and dares personal return for personal insult!”

“Aurin desires this?” said Sylvanus softly.

“He burns for a test, Majesty. The gracious gods have put one before us. I would set
him to it.”

“Long have you served Us, best and brightest of Our magi, sharpest wit and quickest
counsel. Yet should this go bad for Aurin, know for a certainty you will share his
doom, though it took all the magi of the empire to bind you.”

“Sovereign, if my counsel from its design so wretchedly strayed I would not wish to
live.”

“Then make preparation to guard with watchful spell, and We shall see it done. Bring
Aurin and Ferrin before Us.”

Locke crept out from the shade of the stage pillars and into the heat. The Pearl’s
western galleries wore shadows like masks, but the middle of the stage was at the
mercy of the late-afternoon sun. Alondo came from the opposite side, met him in front
of Jasmer and Sylvanus, and together they continued the scene.

Scene by scene, day after day, the drama unfolded in fits and starts, as though capricious
gods were toying with the lives of Salerius II and
his court. Skipping forward, reversing time, shifting parts and places, demanding
repetition of certain moments until every participant was ready to throw punches,
Jasmer Moncraine conjured the rough shape of the story and then started to carve fine.

For Locke the days became rhythmic frustration, as he and Sabetha were herded by Boulidazi,
as he dutifully applied himself to becoming a character he didn’t want to play. It
was not unlike inhabiting a role as Chains had taught him, and in other circumstances
it might have been fascinating. Yet each time he watched Alondo take Sabetha by the
hand, or shoulder, or practice stage-kisses and embraces, he learned anew how slowly
time could crawl when there was some misery to dwell on.