The Republic of Thieves (61 page)

“Good, good,” he muttered. “Debts, lots of debts. Eager little gamblers, our Black Iris friends … Who’d be holding most of these?”

“Most of the debts that aren’t between gentlefolk would involve Fifthson Lucidus, over in the Vel Verda.… Well, he owns the chance houses in the Vel Verda, but he lives somewhere on Isas Merreau.”

“Lovely,” said Locke. “A little duke of the dice-dens. He’s not a big player in either political party, is he?”

“Doesn’t give a damn about the elections, as far as I know.”

“Better and better,” said Locke. “Exactly the sort of man Master Callas and I should see in the small hours of the night, like dutiful physikers paying a house call.”

“Physikers?”

“Absolutely. We want him firmly convinced that if he disregards our advice his health is apt to suffer. Now, where’s my alchemist and my constable?”

“Coming, Master Lazari, coming.…”

THE MOONS
were shy in just the way thieves prefer, hidden behind clouds like black wool, and the brisk south wind carried the scents of lake water and forge smoke. Banked-down furnaces were faint smudges of red and orange nestled among the shadows of the Isle of Hammers, and the view from the window of Fifthson Lucidus’ third-story bedroom captured it all nicely.

Locke took a moment to properly appreciate the tableau before he turned and woke Lucidus with a slap to the face.

“Mmmmmph,” said the heavyset Karthani. His exclamation was muffled by Jean, who, standing behind his bed, slapped one hand over his mouth and hauled him to a sitting position with the other.

“Shhhh,” said Locke, who sat down at Lucidus’ feet. He adjusted the aperture of his dark-lantern to throw a thin beam directly on the bearded and bleary-eyed fellow, whose face wore the sort of extra years that came out of a wine bottle. “Your first thought will be to struggle, so I’d like you to think about
where
and
how deep
I can cut you while leaving you perfectly capable of conversation.”

He unsheathed a long, freshly polished steel blade, and was sure to catch the lantern light with it before he slapped Lucidus’ legs with the flat of the weapon.

“Your second thought,” said Locke, who wore an improvised gray linen mask, “will be to summon that big man who’s supposed to be watching your front door. I’m afraid we’ve put him to sleep for a bit. So now my associate will take his hand off your mouth, and you’ll mind your tone of voice.”

“Who the hell are you?” whispered Lucidus.

“
What
we are is the important thing. We’re
better than you
. There’s no defense you can dream up and no hole you can hide in that will keep us from doing this to you anytime we please.”

“What … what do you want?”

“Take a good look at these names.” Locke sheathed the blade and pulled out a torn sheet of parchment with a short list on it. The names had been culled from the larger list provided by Nikoros. They weren’t merely opposition voters, but components of varying importance in the Black Iris political machine. “Some of these men and women owe you money, yes?”

“Yes,” said Lucidus, squinting at the parchment. “Yes … most of them, in fact.”

“Good,” said Locke. “Because you’re about to have some money problems, understand? You’re going to call in your markers on all of these fine citizens.”

“Wait just a— Hggggrrrrkkk—”

This last exclamation was a result of Jean reasserting his presence, without prompting from Locke, via the careful application of a forearm to Lucidus’ windpipe.

“I’m not soliciting
opinions
,” said Locke, gesturing for Jean to ease up. “I’m giving orders. Yank the leash on these people or bad luck follows. Chance houses
burn down
. Nice homes like this
burn down
. The tendons in your legs get slashed. Understood?”

“Yes … yes …”

“About those money issues.” Locke held up a purse, stuffed near bursting with about ten pounds of coins, and Lucidus’ eyes went wide. “A hidden floor panel? Seriously? I was learning how to spot that sort of thing when I was six. You squeeze these people hard, get it? Collect the debts. Do your best and you’ll get this purse back, plus a hundred ducats. That’s nothing to scoff at, is it?”

“N-no …”

“Fuck it up,” said Locke, lowering his voice to a growl, “and this money vanishes. Try to cross me, and I’ll carve you like a festival roast. Get to work tomorrow, and don’t worry about looking for us. When we want to talk again we’ll find you.”

“
NOW TELL
us,” said Jean, staring down at a detailed map of Karthain with all of its avenues and islands, “which districts are usually considered an absolute lock for either party?”

It was deepening evening, the day after their midnight visit to the house of Fifthson Lucidus. Locke and Jean were in the private gallery with Damned Superstition Dexa and Firstson Epitalus. Nikoros, who’d been worked like a clockwork automaton for longer than Locke had intended, had passed out in a high-backed chair. Whether it was honest fatigue or alchemically induced, Locke allowed him to snore on for the time being.

“We’ve got all the right places, dear boy,” said Dexa, pointing to the southeastern portion of the map. “Isas Mellia, Thedra, and Jonquin. The Three Sisters, the old money districts. The Silverchase and Vorhala routinely come back eight-tenths Deep Roots, as well.”

“As for the opposition,” said Epitalus, “they’ve got the Isle of Hammers and the surrounding neighborhoods. Barresta, Merreau, Lacor, Agarro—shop and trade districts, you see.” Epitalus exhaled twin streams of white pipe smoke from his nostrils, and brief-lived cloud formations drifted over the illustrated city. “New men and women. Ink still wet on the receipts for their voting privileges, eh?”

“So it’s five against five,” said Locke, “and the other nine districts are in play?”

“More or less,” said Dexa. “Sentiment across the city—”

“Can go hang itself,” said Locke. “Here’s the basic plan, as much as I can reveal now. We keep most of our money out of the settled districts. We don’t have time to turn the Black Iris strongholds, and we shouldn’t have to worry about them turning ours. We’ll run some misdirection and some nice childish pranks, but most of our leverage gets thrown against the nine in the balance. How busy are you two with Konseil duties?”

“Hardly busy,” said Dexa. “We partly recess during election season. Karthain all but runs itself, barring emergencies.”

Epitalus mouthed something under his breath, and Locke was sure it was
Bless the Presence
.

“Good,” said Locke. “I’d like you two to do me a favor. Go after some undecided voters in districts outside your own. Make personal calls. Important people, the cream of the middle bunch. I’m sure you can think of a hundred candidates. Charm us votes one by one in the districts where every one of those votes will count. Does that sound agreeable?”

“With all due respect, Master Lazari,” said Epitalus, “that’s simply not how it’s done here in Karthain.”

“I doubt your counterparts in the hierarchy of the Black Iris would quibble at such a task.”

“It’s simply not how things are done where folk of
substance
are concerned,” said Dexa gently, as though explaining to a very small child that fire was hot.

“We have higher expectations than the Black Iris,” said Epitalus. “Firmer standards. We don’t scuttle about courting just anyone, Master Lazari. Surely you can see that it would make us look beggarly.”

“I doubt that any of the recipients of the solicitations I propose,” said Locke, “would be anything but deeply flattered to receive someone of your stature.”

“We don’t mean them,” said Dexa. “Rather, our fellow members of the Deep Roots. This sort of behavior could not be countenanced—”

“I see,” said Locke. “Never mind that these scruples have brought you embarrassing defeat in the last two elections. Never mind that you will apply your ‘firmer standards’ to a smaller and smaller circle of associates, with ever-shrinking influence, should you blithely allow the Black Iris to best you again.”

“Now, now, dear Master Lazari,” said Dexa. “Surely there’s no cause—”

“I am charged with winning this election,” said Locke. “To do so I will bend every custom that must be bent. If I lack your full confidence, you may have my resig—”

“Oh no,” said Epitalus, “no, please—”

Once again Locke saw the curious working of the arts of the Bondsmagi, as the ingrained prejudices of the Karthani warred with their conditioning to see him as some sort of cross between a spymaster and a prophet. It was something behind their eyes, and though it seemed to be going his way he thought it best to lay on some sweetness for added assurance.

“I would hardly ask this of you,” he said soothingly, “if I didn’t believe that I was sending you out to certain success. Your quality and grace will knock these individuals into our camp straightaway, and since you’ll be choosing them yourselves they’ll bring the Deep Roots nothing but credit. Get us a hundred or so. Winning will be worth it, I assure you.”

Dexa and Epitalus acquiesced. Not energetically, to be sure, but Locke was satisfied that their nods were sincere.

“Splendid,” he said. “Now, I’ve got a dinner eng—er, appointment. Business appointment. Something, ah, that could really work to our advantage. Master Callas will be here if you need anything.”

“I thought you were overdressed for a planning session,” said Dexa.

“What about poor Via Lupa?” said Epitalus.

“Hmm? Oh, Nikoros.… Let him sleep on for a bit. He’ll be up to his ass in baskets and green ribbons tomorrow.”

Locke made several pointless adjustments to his dark blue coat, and brushed imaginary dust from his black silk cravat.

“And if I don’t come back …” he muttered to Jean.

“I’ll knock the Sign of the Black Iris into its own foundation, and put Sabetha on a ship to Talisham.”

“Comforting,” Locke whispered. “Right. I’ve got to go wait for the carriage. Pin a note to Nikoros’ lapel, would you? I’m still waiting on that bloody alchemist and constable.”

THE CARRIAGE
was on time and comfortable, but Locke rode alertly, with the compartment windows open and one hand in a coat pocket. He could have instantly conjured lockpicks, a dagger, a blackjack, or a small steel pry bar, as the situation required.

However, before any need arose for the tricks in his coat, the ride came to an end beneath a warmly lit stone tower somewhere in what Locke guessed was the Silverchase District. At least a dozen well-dressed gentlefolk were visible, seemingly at ease. A footman in a red silk coat opened the carriage door for him and bowed.

“Welcome to the Oversight, Master Lazari,” said the footman as Locke stepped onto the curb. “Your party’s already waiting, if you’ll follow me.”

Allowing himself to hope that there might be an actual dinner rather than an ambush forthcoming, Locke glanced up, and was startled. Spherical brass cages anointed with alchemical lanterns circled the highest level of the tower. These were suspended by some complex mechanical apparatus and formed a sort of gleaming halo perhaps seventy feet above the ground.

As the footman led him around the tower along a hedged path, Locke heard a muted rumbling from overhead. The cage on the side directly opposite the carriage park descended smoothly and settled into a circle of pavement about five yards across. The footman seized two levers and pulled open the cage’s door, revealing the luxurious interior … and Sabetha.

She wore a buttercream gown under a jacket the color of rich dark brandy, and her hair fell loose past her shoulders. She was seated on a cushion Jereshti-fashion, legs crossed, behind a knee-high table. Dazed by the sight of her and the strangeness of their surroundings, Locke meekly entered the cage and knelt on his own cushion. The footman resealed the door, and after a moment the cage crept upward, worked by some mechanism that was no doubt obsessively oiled in deference to the delicate ears of diners.

“If you’d wanted me to be ready earlier,” he said, “I’d have been happy—”

“Oh, tsk. How could I be properly mysterious and alluring if I wasn’t calmly waiting for you when the door opened?”

“
You
could manage it, somehow.” Locke studied the cage more closely. Although the table was ringed by gauze curtains, these were presently pulled up to the ceiling and tied in place. The cage was composed of thin bars laid in a grid with spaces about an inch on a side, through which Locke had a view of northeastern Karthain under the gold-red lines of fading sunset. “They punish criminals back home with a contraption like this.”

“Well, in Karthain criminals pay for the privilege of being hoisted,” said Sabetha. “I was told that the Oversight was actually inspired by the Palace of Patience. Something about how the west gentles and perfects the ways of the east.”

“I’ve been out here for several years, and I don’t feel gentled or perfected,” said Locke.

“Indeed, you haven’t even offered to pour the wine yet,” said Sabetha with mock disdain.

“Oh, damn,” said Locke, stumbling back to his feet. There was a bottle of something airing on the table next to a trio of glasses. He did his duty gracefully, filling two glasses and offering one to her with an exaggerated bow.

“Better, but you forgot some of us,” she said, pointing to the empty glass.

“Hmmm?” Proximity to Sabetha was like sand in the gears of his mind. He imagined that he could literally feel them straining to turn as he stared at the empty glass, and then came a warm rush of shame. “Hell and castration,” he muttered as he poured again, and then: “A glass poured to air for absent friends. May the Crooked Warden bless his crooked servants. Chains, Calo, Galdo, and Bug—”

“May they laugh forever in better worlds than this,” said Sabetha, touching Locke’s glass. They both took small sips. It was a good vintage, mellow and strong, tasting of plums and bitter oranges. Locke sat on his cushion again, and they shared an awkward pause.

“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to give things a melancholy turn.”

“I know.” Locke sipped his wine again, reasoning that if it was drugged all of his hopes and assumptions were useless anyway. The miniature arsenal in his coat suddenly struck him as comical. “So, uh, do you like the flower I brought you?”