The Republic of Thieves (71 page)

“You know its quality. You’ve been on us like a bloody leech all through rehearsal.”

“I don’t just need it to be good,” said Boulidazi. “I want it smooth. Flawless. No incidents, no foul-ups, no miscues.”

“You can’t escape miscues,” said Moncraine. “If the piece is good they just flow right past; nobody gives a—”

“
I
give a damn.” Boulidazi was genuinely in his cups, Locke saw. “This is my bloody company now, as much as it is yours, and my reputation hanging in the wind. Fail me and you’ll regret the day you first saw the sun.”

“With every will to please my gracious lord,” said Moncraine acidly, “if it was as easy as simply
commanding
someone to get it right, there wouldn’t be any bad plays. Or paintings, or songs, or—”

“Fuck up and I’ll have your legs broken,” said Boulidazi. “How’s that for motivation?”

“I was already quite adequately motivated,” said Jasmer, rising to his feet. “I believe I’ll withdraw, my lord, as your heady company quite overwhelms my peasant sensibilities.”

Jasmer moved off into the crowd to mingle with Sylvanus and Chantal. The new bit players and the inn’s usual crowd of wastrels and parasites were making a joyous noise unto the wine and ale jugs. Mistress Gloriano fueled the carousing with fresh liquor like a blacksmith shoveling coal into a smelting furnace.

“Andrassus, you goat,” yelled Jasmer, “how’s tonight’s wine?”

“Undistinguished,” burped Sylvanus. “If it hasn’t improved by the seventh or eighth cup I might have to resort to sterner forms of self-abuse.”

Baron Boulidazi rose unsteadily, glowering, ignoring Locke. By
chance Sabetha had just come up behind him as she wound her outwardly cheerful path through the tumult, hostess-like. The cup in her hands was as artfully decorative as Locke’s.

“Verena,” said the baron in a low voice, “surely you’ve done your duty to the company this evening. Let me grant you some of the comforts you’re used to, to rest yourself before the show. A proper hot bath, a fine bed, ice wines, perhaps even—”

“Oh, Gennaro,” she whispered, delicately removing his hand from where it had come to rest on her upper arm, then twining her fingers through his. “You’ve been so thoughtful. Surely you know it’s bad luck to celebrate like that before a performance, hmmm? I’ll be only too happy to accept your offer
after
we’ve taken our last bows.”

It was just about the best possible deflection under the circumstances, thought Locke, but it was also alarming. She’d committed herself now to being alone with him, no later than the day after next, when their second show was finished. After weeks of flirtation and half-promises, Boulidazi could only respond badly to further excuses.

“Oh, let it be so,” said the baron. “Let me take you away from these damned people and live as we should, even for a day or two. It’s your company that’s kept me down here incognito, not any love of correcting Moncraine. And when this is finished, I want you … that is, I want you to think on what you want next. Imagine the role you desire. I’ll have Moncraine stage it for you, anything you like—”

“You do know just what to say to a lady,” said Sabetha, laying a finger over his lips and very effectively shutting him up. “I’ll reflect on your offer. On all your offers, Gennaro. I think our desires for the future may be understood to be in close agreement.”

“Are you sure,” said Boulidazi, plainly dealing with the sudden rush of blood to somewhere less conversationally useful than his brain, “absolutely sure, that tonight you wouldn’t—”

“I wouldn’t,” she said, sweetly but firmly. “We’ve two long days ahead of us and so much time to spend as we wish afterward. Let’s not put the cart before the horse. Or should that be
stallion
, hmmmm?”

“Right,” he said. “Right. As you … as you wish, always. And yet—”

Locke forced himself to cease listening as Boulidazi burbled a fresh stream of love-struck inanities. The baron’s predictable refusal to accept Sabetha’s polite-speak invitation to piss off for the evening meant
that she’d be tending him until she was too tired to do anything but collapse, sour and exhausted, sometime after midnight. Every halting step Locke had taken with Sabetha, every precious moment of understanding they’d clawed out of one another was again being wasted. Locke stared fixedly at his drink, wondering if it was time to quit playacting and throw back a few.

“Ahoy there, Lucaza,” said Calo, swooping out of nowhere to seize Locke by the arms. He spoke rather loudly: “We’re short a thrower for a game of Fuck-the-Next-Fellow.”

“But I don’t want to throw dice—”

“Nonsense,” said Calo, pulling him away from Sabetha and Boulidazi. “You’re just standing here mooning when you could be losing coins like a proper lad. Come, you’re rolling with us.”

“But … but—”

His sputtering achieved nothing. Calo relieved him of his wine and drank it in two gulps. He then dragged Locke on a zigzag path through the crowd, down a side passage and up the narrow stairs near Sabetha and Jenora’s room.

“What the hell are you—”

“Biggest favor of your life, half-wit,” said Calo. The long-haired Sanza kicked the wall, and to Locke’s surprise that section of wood paneling slid backward with a click. “Trust me. In the box.”

Calo’s shove sent Locke sprawling into the confines of a hidden room, perhaps four feet high and seven feet long. A layer of blankets softened his landing, and the space was lit by the pale red glow of a tiny alchemical lamp set atop a stack of small wine casks. The secret panel slid shut behind him.

Befuddled, Locke glanced around, taking in the very few interesting features of the tiny space. “Fucking Sanzas,” he muttered.

“I should think not,” said Sabetha an instant later as the panel snapped open again. She closed it as quickly as possible behind her and flopped down on the blankets with a relieved sigh.

“Oh gods,” said Locke, “this was all your—”

“The twins told me about this place. Seems Mistress Gloriano’s done some smuggling in her time. Calo accidentally opened it when he tripped against the wall one night.”

“What are we going to do about that damned baron?”

“Nothing,” said Sabetha. “He doesn’t exist.”

“My throat disagrees.”

She grabbed him by the tunic, and there was nothing playful or hesitant in the way she planted her lips on his neck.

“Your throat’s my concern,” she whispered. “And there’s nothing outside this room. Not now, not for as long as we’re in here.”

“Your absence will be as obvious to Boulidazi as if someone had stolen his breeches,” said Locke.

“Ordinarily. That’s why I made sure I handed him his last drink while we were toasting.”

“You didn’t!”

“I did.” Her smirk struck Locke as extremely becoming. “Something mild, to muddle his thoughts. Soon enough he won’t want to do anything except go to bed, and for once the miserable ass and I share a notion.”

“But if he—”

“I already told you he doesn’t exist.” She took his head in her hands and spread her fingers through his hair. “I’m tired of everyone else getting what they want except us. Coming and going as they please, sleeping where they please, while you and I live from interruption to interruption.” She brushed the faintest hint of a kiss against his lips, and then a longer one, and by the time she started on the third Locke was in serious danger of forgetting his own name.

“So you really did choose to be charmed at last, hmm?” he managed to whisper.

“No.” She jabbed him in the chest, playfully but firmly. “I’m not here because you finessed me, dunce. You were right, on the roof that night. We want what we want. We don’t need to justify it. And when we can take it, we should. I want you. And I am
taking
you.”

Her next kiss told him that she meant to be finished with talking for some time.

GLORIANO
’
S INN-ROOM
wobbled around Gennaro Boulidazi as though mounted on an impossibly huge gimbal, and the lights and colors of the room had begun to run together like watercolors painted
in the rain. The dull pressure in his skull meant he’d gone well past the horizon of smart indulgence, but how was that possible? Gloriano’s swill had snuck up on him. The thought gave him more vague amusement than alarm. Very little ever alarmed him.

Verena, now, she was at least causing him consternation. The alluring bitch! Plainly she
wanted
him, but if not for the fact that she was so bloody young he would have sworn she was deliberately leading him on for frustration’s sake. She had to be skittish, of course. Still a virgin. Well, he could fix that.
Gods
, could he fix that.

The very thought made images of his desire swim in his head, mingling with the already muddled scene around him. Seventeen at the oldest, body tight and firm as a dancer’s, with the blood of a Camorri family that went all the way back to the old empire. She was his to shape in every way. With his parents in their graves he was his own matchmaker, his own judge and counsel. If he couldn’t or wouldn’t seize a prize as sweet as Verena he ought to cut his balls off and let the house of Boulidazi fall! So she couldn’t go onstage in Camorr? Piss on Camorr. In Espara she could do as she pleased, at least until she started bearing children.

“M’lord.” It was one of his men, hatchet-faced Brego, whispering in his ear, too respectful or scared to touch him. “Can I fetch a carriage for you?”

“ ’M fine,” muttered the baron, scanning the room dazedly. “Th’ gods fucking love me. Preva loves me! Just look at what she’s sent me.”

Boulidazi concentrated, fighting back against the warm haze that was slowly gathering between his senses and the world around him. Drunk actors everywhere—
his
company. And there was the mouthy seamstress, the nightskin with the papers and the answer for everything. Oh, but she was tasty despite the airs she put on, no virgin and certainly no girl. Hair like curling black silk and breasts like heavy purses under that fraying bodice. Gods, yes, she’d know what to do once her legs were spread. A man could sink right in and feel at home.

That thought stirred him to arousal, a sudden exquisite pressure. He stumbled and had to push off a random inebriate to steady himself. The poor fellow toppled to the floor, dismissed from Boulidazi’s mind even before he landed.

The seamstress! He needed to spend himself a bit, drain the urge
just enough to restore his self-control for a couple of days. Jenora would suit that use … would probably be flattered. Boulidazi watched her closely, noted her furtive whispers to the tubby Camorri, Jovanno. For some reason she’d taken the boy to her bed. Did she have any idea who Lucaza and Verena really were? Was she trying, in her own pathetic fashion, to sleep her way to better circumstances, fucking Lucaza’s man? Now, that was damned amusing.

Jenora left the inn-room just a moment later, her intended arrangements for the night obviously communicated to the boy. Jovanno, however, was dicing with Alondo and those twins. So he’d be busy for a few minutes at least. Polite Jovanno, sociable Jovanno—the boy would keep their company until the round was done. Well, tonight that would cost him first pass at some quim.

Verena would never have to know. Jenora, like all of her associates, was empty-pursed and painfully aware of it. It was the easiest thing in the world to keep a penniless woman shut up.

“I need some privacy. Jus’ a few minutes,” Boulidazi muttered to Brego. Then, summoning the dregs of his concentration, he put one unsteady foot in front of the other and moved toward the stairs Jenora had taken.

EACH KISS
was longer and fiercer than the last.

Locke’s hands shook with the hot anxiety of impatience and inexperience. There were so many things to figure out so quickly between short, desperate breaths. It was one thing to throw a girl around in dreams, where the mind can discard the inconveniences of physical reality, but real girls have weight and mass and demands that dream girls lack. First passion is a complicated dance.

Strangely, it helped that Sabetha seemed just as impatient. She held him at bay a moment while she all but tore the ribbon out of her hair, spilling it across her shoulders. She was flushed, sweaty, as awkwardly excited as he was, and through that she’d shed the imposing grace that usually made Locke feel so small and stumbling around her.
Neither
of them could be graceful at such close quarters, and Locke found that an immense relief.

The heat grew in the tiny enclosure as they wound their arms and legs together, and the shock of actually being there with her gave way at last to the explosion of pent-up longing. Their tongues met, hesitantly at first, and they shared a nervous, muffled laugh. Then they explored the new sensation together, more and more boldly. Their hands, too, seemed to come unshackled from inhibition and roamed freely.

Order and planning were forgotten. Locke found himself having done things without any realization that he’d even started them. Their clothes were shed with reckless speed, as though torn off by ghosts. It was almost like being in a fight—the same fearful exhilaration, the same sense of time disjointed into bright, hot, all-consuming flashes. His hands on her breasts … her lips against the taut muscles of his stomach … their final scramble to arrange themselves for something that neither of them understood.

Toward that
something
they fought, and fought was an apt description. However passionate they were, however deep and pure the pleasure of their connection, there was something hesitant and incomplete about their lovemaking. They were like two pieces of an unfinished craftwork, not yet trimmed and polished to slide together properly. At last, they eased apart, exhausted but not content. It was obvious to Locke that Sabetha was straining to conceal disappointment, or discomfort, or even both.

Is that it?
The thought came unbidden from whatever corner of his mind was responsible for unhelpful pessimism. Was that all?
That
was the act that turned the whole world on its ear, that made men and women crazy, that bedeviled his dreams, that made hounds of the Sanza twins?