The Republic of Thieves (36 page)

“Gods’ truth,” said Locke, turning back to the stranger. “I don’t care who you are, I am tired of talking to you fucking people under circumstances like—”

Before he finished his sentence, he threw a punch. Without betraying any surprise or concern, the mage caught Locke’s fist in one of his gloved hands and struck back, straight to Locke’s midsection. The strength bled from his legs and he went down gasping. The mage retained his hold on Locke’s hand and used it to wrench him around, until he was on his knees facing away from his antagonist.

“Just breathe through the pain,” said the mage, casually. “Even for you, that was arrogant. You’re no threat to anyone in your condition.”

“T-t-Tivoli,” Locke gasped. “Tivoli!”

“Grow up.” The mage knelt behind him, put his left hand on Locke’s jaw, and set the other in a choking hold. Locke kicked and struggled, but the man effortlessly maintained control of Locke’s head and tightened the grip. “She can’t hear you, either.”

“Patience,” hissed Locke. “Patience … will … nggghk …”

“This conversation is never going to be any concern of hers. She isn’t hovering over you like a little cloud. She has people like
me
to do that for her.”

“Ngggh … ygggh … fghkingggh … bastarrrgh!”

“Yes,” said the mage, loosening his choke at last. Locke coughed and sucked air into his burning lungs. “Yes, I do want for manners, don’t I? And you’re such a gentle saint-like fellow yourself. Are you ready to listen?”

Locke, relieved to be breathing again and deeply ashamed of his weakened state, said nothing.

“The message is this,” continued the mage, taking silence for acquiescence. “We want the contest to be genuine. We want to see you
work
for six weeks. If you make peace with that woman and contrive some sort of dumb-show—”

“Patience already warned me,” coughed Locke. “Gods above, you must’ve known that, you tedious piece of shit!”

“It’s one thing to be told, it’s another thing to understand. You’ve got a real entanglement with the woman on the other side. We’d have to be idiots not to allow that you might be tempted.”

“I’ve already promised—”

“Your promises aren’t worth a dead man’s spit, Camorri. So here’s something tangible. Make any arrangement with your redheaded friend to fix this contest, in either direction, and we’ll kill her.”

“You son of a— You can’t—”

“Of course we can. Just as soon as the election is over. We’ll take our time while you watch.”

“The other mages—”

“You think they give a damn about her? The Falconer’s friends? They hired her to vex
you
. Once the five-year game is over, they’ll be no protection.”

Locke attempted to stumble to his feet, and after a moment the
mage yanked him up by the back of his coat. Locke turned, glared, and made a show of dusting himself off.

“It’s no use giving me the evil eye, Lamora. Take the warning to heart. You should be flattered that we understand how useless half-measures are with you.”

“Flattered,” said Locke. “Oh, yeah.
Flattered
. That’s exactly the word that was on the tip of my tongue. Thanks.”

“The woman is a hostage to your good behavior. You don’t get another reminder. And don’t bother telling Patience about this, either. You’d suffer for it.”

“That all?”

“That’s all the conversation I have in me, friend.”

“Then wake Jean up.”

“He’ll stop daydreaming once I’ve gone.”

“Too chickenshit to say this sort of thing in front of him?”

“Hasn’t it occurred to you,” said the mage, “that the
last
thing your partner needs is another one of my kind proving just how helpless he is while he’s awake to bear the disgrace?”

“I …”

“I’m not without my sympathies, Lamora. They just don’t necessarily reside with
you
. Now mind the job we hired you for.”

With a wave of his hand he was gone. Locke swung his arms around the empty air where the mage had been standing, then patted the nearby wall, then checked to make sure the door was still tightly closed. He gave a grunt of disgusted resignation and massaged his neck.

“Locke? Did you say something?”

Jean was back on his feet, looking hale.

“Uh, no, Jean, I’m sorry. I just … uh, coughed.”

“Are you all right?” Jean peered at him over the rims of his optics. “You’re sweating like mad. Did something happen?”

“It’s just … nothing.” Gods above, the red-coated bastard was right. Jean didn’t need another reminder of how casually the magi could make a puppet of him. With Locke barely started on the path to recovery, he needed all of Jean’s confidence and energy, without distraction. “I’m sure it’s just all this walking about. I’ll get used to it again soon enough.”

“Well, then, let’s have Nikoros take us to our lodgings,” said Jean.
“We’ve got clothes; we’re in funds. Let’s see to your comfort before we start the good fight on behalf of Patience and her cohorts.”

“Right,” said Locke, reaching for the lever that would open the cell door. “Last people in the world I’d want to disappoint.”

“
NIKOROS, WHO
the hell votes in this place, anyway?” asked Locke as the carriage bobbed and weaved its way across one of the Elderglass suspension bridges, headed northwest for somewhere Nikoros had called the Palanta District.

“Well, there’s, uh, three ways to earn the right. You can show title to property worth at least sixty ducats. You can serve in the constabulary for twenty-five years. Or you can be enfranchised for a lump sum of one hundred and fifty, at any time except the actual day of an election.”

“Hmmm,” said Locke. “Sounds like an eminently corruptible process. That might be useful. So how many people in Karthain, and how many can vote?”

“About seventy thousand in the city,” said Nikoros, who was sitting awkwardly indeed, protecting the stack of parcels with one hand and gently waving a still-drying sheet of parchment with the other. “Five thousand with voting rights, more or less. I’ll have more precise figures as the election goes on.”

“That’s what, about two hundred and fifty voters per Konseil seat?” said Jean. “Or am I wrong?”

“Close enough. You’re allowed to choose one of the two final candidates in whatever district you live in. Ballots are in writing and you’ve got to be able to sign your name, too.”

“So, as far as voting goes, we’re not really looking at one big fight, but nineteen smaller ones.”

“Indeed. I, ah, if I may, I believe this list is dry—”

Jean took it. He scanned the columns of chicken-scratch handwriting (no wonder Nikoros had a long-standing relationship with a trustworthy scribe), a short list of businesses, and a longer list of names. “These people make the Black Iris party tick?”

“Our counterparts, yes. They call themselves the Trust. We always refer to ourselves as the Committee.”

“When can we meet this Committee?” said Jean.

“Well, actually, I had hoped you wouldn’t mind a bit of a get-together this evening. Just the Committee and select Deep Roots supporters—”

“How many?”

“Not above a hundred and fifty.”

“Gods below,” said Locke. “I suppose we’ll have to do it sooner or later, though. Where did you want to hold this mess?”

“At your lodgings. Josten’s Comprehensive Accommodations. I’m eager for you to see it. It’s the best place in the city, our temple for Deep Roots affairs.”

A temple it could have been, given its size. They pulled up before Josten’s just as the sun was reaching its mild zenith in a sky that was gradually graying over with clouds. Porters scrambled from the building’s shaded front entrance and took packages under Nikoros’ direction. Jean hopped out of the carriage before Locke did, and studied the structure.

It was a sprawling, gabled, three-story affair with at least nine visible chimneys and several dozen windows. A dozen carriages could have lined up before it with room to spare.

“Hell of an inn,” said Locke as his shoes hit the cobbles.

“Not just an inn,” said Nikoros. “A fine dining establishment, a complete bar, a coffeehouse. Paradise on earth for merchants and traders with party sympathies. A quarter of the city’s commerce gets hashed out here.”

The interior lived up to Nikoros’ enthusiasm. At least five dozen men and women drank and conversed at long tables amidst solid, darkly varnished wooden pillars. An entire clothier’s shop worth of hats and coats hung from nearly every surface, and waiters in black jackets and breeches bustled about with the haste of siege engineers preparing an attack. To Jean’s eye the place looked like Meraggio’s turned inside-out, with the dining and drinking made a centerpiece of business affairs rather than a concealed luxury.

“Up there,” said Nikoros, gesturing toward raised galleries with polished brass rails, “you’ll find the reserved sections. One for the biggest syndicates, the ones I write for. Another for the scribes and solicitors;
they pay the house a ransom to stay close to the action. And there’s a gallery for Deep Roots business.”

Jean sensed a number of eyes upon him, and although Nikoros drew waves and nods from onlookers, it was obvious that the two Gentlemen Bastards had become objects of curiosity merely by walking in with him. Jean sighed inwardly, thinking that a back-door entrance might have been wiser, but the die was cast. If Sabetha hadn’t already known they were loose on the streets of Karthain, it was inconceivable that at least one person here wasn’t in her employ, watching for their arrival.

Behind the well-furnished bar on the far side of the room was a tall black man, thin as a hat rack, wearing a more expensive version of the waiter’s uniform under a billowing white cravat and leather apron. The instant he caught sight of Nikoros, he set down the ledger he was reading and crossed the room, dodging waiters.

“Welcome, sirs, welcome, to Josten’s Comprehensive, the Hall Inclusive!” The man bowed at the waist before Locke and Jean. “Diligence Josten, gentlemen, master of the house. You’re expected. How can I make your life easier?”

“I’d do public murder for a cup of coffee,” said Jean.

“You’ve come to the only house in Karthain with coffee worth murdering for. We have seven distinct blends, from the aromatic Syresti dry to the thick—”

“I’ll take the kind I don’t have to think about.”

“The very best kind of all.” Josten snapped his fingers, and a nearby waiter hurried off. “Now, your rooms. They’re in the west wing, second floor, a pair of joined suites, and I’ll have your things—”

“Yes, yes,” said Locke. “Forgive me, I require a moment.” He grabbed Jean and Nikoros by their lapels and dragged them into a private huddle.

“This innkeeper,” whispered Locke, “how far can we trust him, Nikoros?”

“He’s been Deep Roots since this place was three bricks and some postholes in the mud. Gods above, Lazari, he’s as likely to turn as I am.”

“What makes you think we trust you?”

“I … I—”

“Take a breath, I’m kidding.” Locke patted Nikoros on the back and smiled. “If you’re wrong, of course, we’re buggered as all hell. Josten! My dear fellow. Yes, have our junk sent to our rooms, I’m sure they’re perfect, with just the right number of walls and ceilings. I’ll count them later. You know why we’re here?”

“Why, to help us kick the Black Iris in the teeth for a change. And to enjoy your coffee.”

A waiter appeared at Jean’s side, offering a steaming mug on a brass tray. Jean took it and swallowed half of it in one gulp, shuddering with pleasure as the heat cascaded down his battle-hardened gullet.

“Oh yes,” he said. “That’s the stuff. Sweet liquid death. With just a hint of ginger.”

“Okanti beans,” said Josten. “My family once grew them on the home islands, before we came north.”

“Feeling human again?” said Locke.

“This brew could make a dead eunuch piss lightning,” said Jean. He tossed back the second half of the cup. “You want to go up and rest?”

“Gods, no,” said Locke. “Time is precious, security’s nonexistent, and our collective ass is hanging in the wind just begging a certain someone to put an arrow right between the cheeks. Josten, I’ve got to make cruel use of you, I’m afraid.”

“Name any requirement. I’ll meet it eye to eye.”

“Good man, but you’ll learn soon enough not to say that sort of thing to me until I’ve finished speaking. And then you’ll probably learn not to say nice things at all. Your waiters, porters, and the like, have you hired any new ones in the last week?”

“Five or six.”

“Get their names on paper. Get that paper to Master Callas here.” Locke jerked a thumb at Jean. “Instruct your most trusted employees to watch your newest hirelings at all times. Don’t
do
anything, but get full reports of their activities. On paper.”

“And get that paper to Master Callas?”

“Right you are. Next, consider every door in the entire structure that you routinely keep locked. Excepting the guest rooms, of course.
Have all the locks changed, every last one. Do it tomorrow, during business hours. Nikoros will reimburse you from party funds.”

“I—” said Nikoros.

“Nikoros, your job this afternoon is to say
yes
to anything that comes out of my mouth. The more you rehearse this, the sooner it’ll become a smooth mechanical process allowing no time for painful reflection. Can you practice for me?”

“Yes.”

“You’re a natural. Anyway, Josten, get locksmiths down here tomorrow even if you have to promise them a month’s pay. Make sure your fresh hirelings don’t get new keys. Arrange to make it look like the locksmiths have simply run out. Tell them they’ll get theirs in a few days. We’ll see if any of them do anything interesting as a result. Clear so far?”

Josten nodded and tapped his right temple with one finger.

“Next, get a metalsmith to bang up some simple neck chains for all of your employees. Dignified but cheap. Gilded iron, nothing anyone would want to pawn. This is important. We don’t want some enterprising spy throwing together an outfit to mimic one of your waiters so they can lurk about. Anyone on duty wears a chain. Anyone working without a chain gets hauled in back for an impolite conversation.
Nobody
takes their chain with them when they leave, or they’re fired. Got it? Chains get handed in to you and your most trusted associates, and donned again when it’s time to start a new shift.