The Gentleman Bastard Series 3-Book Bundle: The Lies of Locke Lamora, Red Seas Under Red Skies, The Republic of Thieves (174 page)

It was an admirable system, considered in itself, unless of course you happened to
be part of that outer edge—the small, the eccentric, the friendless. In their case,
life in Shades’ Hill was like a boot to the face at every hour of every day.

Locke Lamora was five or six or seven years old. Nobody knew for certain, or cared
to know. He was unusually small, undeniably eccentric, and perpetually friendless.
Even when he shuffled along inside a great smelly mass of orphans, one among dozens,
he walked alone and he damn well knew it.

MEETING TIME
. A bad time under the Hill. The shifting stream of orphans surrounded Locke like
an unfamiliar forest, concealing trouble everywhere.

The first rule to surviving in this state was to avoid attention. As the murmuring
army of orphans headed toward the great vault at the center of Shades’ Hill, where
the Thiefmaker had called them, Locke flicked his glance left and right. The trick
was to spot known bullies at a safe distance without making actual eye contact (nothing
worse, the mistake of mistakes) and then, ever so casually, move to place neutral
children between himself and each threat until it passed.

The second rule was to avoid responding when the first rule proved insufficient, as
it too often did.

The crowd parted behind him. Like all prey animals, Locke had a honed instinct for
approaching harm. He had enough time to wince preemptively, and then came the blow,
sharp and hard, right between his shoulder blades. Locke smacked into the tunnel wall
and barely managed to stay on his feet.

Familiar laughter followed the blow. It was Gregor Foss, years older and two stone
heavier, as far beyond Locke’s powers of reprisal as the duke of Camorr.

“Gods, Lamora, what a weak and clumsy little cuss you are.” Gregor put a hand on the
back of Locke’s head and pushed him along, still in full contact with the moist dirt
wall, until his forehead bounced painfully off one of the old wooden tunnel supports.
“Got no strength to stay on your own feet. Hell, if you tried to bugger a cockroach,
the roach’d spin you round and do you up the ass instead.”

Everyone nearby laughed, a few from genuine amusement, the rest from fear of being
seen not laughing. Locke kept stumbling forward, seething but silent, as though it
were a perfectly natural state of affairs to have a face covered with dirt and a throbbing
bump on the forehead. Gregor shoved him once more, but without vigor, then snorted
and pushed ahead through the crowd.

Play dead. Pretend not to care. That was the way to keep a few moments of humiliation
from becoming hours or days of pain, to keep bruises from becoming broken bones or
worse.

The river of orphans was flowing to a rare grand gathering, nearly all the Hill, and
in the main vault the air was already heavier and staler than usual. The Thiefmaker
sat in his high-backed chair, his head barely visible above the press of children,
while his oldest subjects carved paths through the crowd to take their accustomed
places near him. Locke sought a far wall and pressed up against it, doing his best
impression of a shadow. There, with the welcome comfort of a guarded back, he touched
his forehead and indulged in a momentary pout. His fingers were slippery with blood
when he took them away.

After a few moments, the influx of orphans trickled to a halt, and the Thiefmaker
cleared his throat.

It was a Penance Day in the seventy-seventh Year of Sendovani, a hanging day, and
outside the dingy caves below Shades’ Hill the duke of Camorr’s people were knotting
nooses under a bright spring sky.

“
IT
’
S LAMENTABLE
business,” said the Thiefmaker. “That’s what it is. To have some of our own brothers
and sisters snatched into the unforgiving arms of the duke’s justice. Damned deplorable
that they were slackards enough to get caught! Alas. As I have always been at pains
to remind you, loves, ours is a delicate trade, not at all appreciated by those we
practice upon.”

Locke wiped the dirt from his face. It was likely that his tunic sleeve deposited
more grime than it removed, but the ritual of putting himself in order was calming.
While he tended to himself the master of the Hill spoke on.

“Sad day, my loves, a proper tragedy. But when the milk’s gone bad you might as well
look forward to cheese, hmm? Oh yes! Opportunity! It’s unseasonal fine hanging weather
out there. That means crowds with spending purses, and their eyes are going to be
fixed on the
spectacle
, aren’t they?”

With two crooked fingers (broken of old, and badly healed) he did a pantomime of a
man stepping off an edge and plunging forward. At the end of the plunge the fingers
kicked spasmodically and some of the older children giggled. Someone in the middle
of the orphan army sobbed, but the Thiefmaker paid them no heed.

“You’re all going out to watch the hangings in groups,” he said. “Let this put fear
into your hearts, loves! Indiscretion, clumsiness, want of confidence—today you’ll
see their only possible reward. To live the life the gods have given you, you must
clutch wisely, then run. Run like the hounds of hell on a sinner’s scent! That’s how
we dodge the noose. Today you’ll have a last look at some friends who could not.

“And before you return,” he said, lowering his voice, “each of you will do them one
better. Fetch back a nice bit of coin or flash, at all hazards. Empty hands get empty
bellies.”

“Has we gots to?”

The voice was a desperate whine. Locke identified the source as Tam, a fresh catch,
a lowest-of-the-low teaser who’d barely begun to learn the Shades’ Hill life. He must
have been the one sobbing, too.

“Tam, my lamb, you
gots
to do nothing,” said the Thiefmaker in a voice like moldy velvet. He reached out
and sifted through the crowd
of orphans, parting them like dirty stalks of wheat until his hand rested on Tam’s
shaven scalp. “But then, neither do I if you don’t work, right? By all means, remove
yourself from this grand excursion. A limitless supply of cold graveyard dirt awaits
you for supper.”

“But … can’t I, like, do something else?”

“Why, you could polish my good silver tea service, if only I had one.” The Thiefmaker
knelt, vanishing briefly from Locke’s sight. “Tam, this is the job I got, so it’s
the job you’re gonna do, right? Good lad. Stout lad. Why the little rivers from the
eyes? Is it just ’cause there’s the hangings involved?”

“They—they was our friends.”

“Which means only—”

“Tam, you little piss-rag, stuff your whining up your stupid ass!”

The Thiefmaker whirled, and the new speaker recoiled from a slap to the side of his
head. There was a ripple in the close-packed orphans as the unfortunate target stumbled
backward and was returned to his feet by shoves from his tittering friends. Locke
couldn’t suppress a smile. It always warmed his heart to see a bullying oldster knocked
around.

“Veslin,” said the Thiefmaker with dangerous good cheer, “do you enjoy being interrupted?”

“N-no … no, sir.”

“How pleased I am to find us of a like mind on the subject.”

“Of … course. Apologies, sir.”

The Thiefmaker’s eyes returned to Tam, and his smile, which had evaporated like steam
in sunlight a moment before, leapt back into place.

“As I was saying about our friends, our lamented friends. It’s a shame. But isn’t
it a grand show they’re putting on for us as they dangle? A ripe plum of a crowd they’re
summoning up? What sort of friends would we be if we refused to work such an opportunity?
Good ones? Bold ones?”

“No, sir,” mumbled Tam.

“Indeed. Neither good nor bold. So we’re going to seize this chance, right? And we’re
going to do them the honor of not looking away when they drop, aren’t we?”

“If … if you say so, sir.”

“I do say so.” The Thiefmaker gave Tam a perfunctory pat on the shoulder. “Get to
it. Drops start at high noon; the Masters of the Ropes are the only punctual creatures
in this bloody city. Be late to your places and you’ll have to work ten times as hard,
I promise you. Minders! Call your teasers and clutchers. Keep our fresher brothers
and sisters on short leashes.”

As the orphans dispersed and the older children called the names of their assigned
partners and subordinates, the Thiefmaker dragged Veslin over to one of the enclosure’s
dirt walls for a private word.

Locke snickered, and wondered whom he’d be partnered with for the day’s adventure.
Outside the Hill there were pockets to be picked, tricks to be played, bold larceny
to be done. Though he realized his sheer enthusiasm for theft was part of what had
made him a curiosity and an outcast, he had no more self-restraint in that regard
than he had wings on his back.

This half-life of abuse beneath Shades’ Hill was just something he had to endure between
those bright moments when he could be at work, heart pounding, running fast and hard
for safety with someone else’s valuables clutched in his hands. As far as his five
or six or seven years had taught him, ripping people off was the greatest feeling
in the whole world, and the only real freedom he had.

“
THINK YOU
can improve upon my leadership now, boy?” Despite his limited grip, the Thiefmaker
still had the arms of a grown man, and he pinned Veslin against the dirt wall like
a carpenter about to nail up a decoration. “Think I need your wit and wisdom when
I’m talking out loud?”

“No, your honor! Forgive me!”

“Veslin, jewel, don’t I always?” With a falsely casual gesture, the Thiefmaker brushed
aside one lapel of his threadbare coat and revealed the handle of the butcher’s cleaver
he kept hanging from his belt. The faintest hint of blade gleamed in the darkness
behind it. “I forgive. I remind. Are you reminded, boy?
Most thoroughly
reminded?”

“Indeed, sir, yes. Please …”

“Marvelous.” The Thiefmaker released Veslin, and allowed his
coat to fall over his weapon once again. “What a happy conclusion for us both, then.”

“Thank you, sir. Sorry. It’s just … Tam’s been whining all gods-damned morning. He’s
never seen anyone get the rope.”

“Once upon a time it was new to us all,” sighed the Thiefmaker. “Let the boy cry,
so long as he plucks a purse. If he won’t, hunger’s a marvelous instructor. Still,
I’m putting him and a couple other problems into a group for special oversight.”

“Problems?”

“Tam, for his delicacy. And No-Teeth.”

“Gods,” said Veslin.

“Yes, yes, the speck-brained little turd is so dim he couldn’t shit in his hands if
they were stitched to his asshole. Nonetheless, him. Tam. And one more.”

The Thiefmaker cast a significant glance at a far corner, where a sullen little boy
leaned with his arms folded across his chest, watching other orphans form their assigned
packs.

“Lamora,” whispered Veslin.

“Special oversight.” The Thiefmaker chewed nervously at the nails of his left hand.
“There’s good money to be squeezed out of that one, if he’s got someone keeping him
sensible and discreet.”

“He nearly burnt up half the bloody city, sir.”

“Only the Narrows, which mightn’t have been missed. And he took hard punishment for
that without a flinch. I consider the matter closed. What he needs is a responsible
sort to keep him in check.”

Veslin was unable to conceal his expression of disgust, and the Thiefmaker smirked.

“Not you, lad. I need you and your little ape Gregor on distraction detail. Someone
else gets made, you cover for ’em. And get back to me straightaway if anyone gets
taken.”

“Grateful, sir, very grateful.”

“You should be. Sobbing Tam … witless No-Teeth … and one of hell’s own devils in knee-breeches.
I need a bright candle to watch that crew. Go wake me up one of the Windows bunch.”

“Oh.” Veslin bit his cheek. The Windows crew, so called because they specialized in
traditional burglary, were the true elite among the orphans of Shades’ Hill. They
were spared most chores, habitually
worked in darkness, and were allowed to sleep well past noon. “They won’t like that.”

“I don’t give a damn what they like. They don’t have a job this evening anyway. Get
me a sharp one.” The Thiefmaker spat out a gnawed crescent of dirty fingernail and
wiped his fingers on his coat. “Hell, fetch me Sabetha.”

“
LAMORA
!”

The summons came at last, and from the Thiefmaker himself. Locke padded warily across
the dirt floor to where the master of the Hill sat whispering instructions to a taller
child whose back was turned to Locke.

Waiting before the Thiefmaker were two other boys. One was Tam. The other was No-Teeth,
a hapless twit whose beatings at the hands of older children had eventually given
him his nickname. A sense of foreboding scuttled into Locke’s gut.

“Here we are, then,” said the Thiefmaker. “Three bold and likely lads. You’ll be working
together on a special detail, under special authority. Meet your minder.”

The taller child turned.

She was dirty, as they all were, and though it was hard to tell by the pale silver
light of the vault’s alchemical lanterns, she looked a little tired. She wore scuffed
brown breeches, a long baggy tunic that at some distant remove had been white, and
a leather flat cap over a tight kerchief, so that not a strand of her hair was visible.

Yet she was undeniably a
she
. For the first time in Locke’s life some unpracticed animal sense crept dimly to
life to alert him to this fact. The Hill was full of girls, but never before had Locke
dwelt on the thought of
a
girl. He sucked in a breath and realized that he could feel a nervous tingling at
the tips of his fingers.

She had the advantage of at least a year and a good half-foot on him, and even tired
she had that unfeigned natural poise which, in certain girls, makes young boys feel
like something on the order of an insect beneath a heel. Locke had neither the eloquence
nor the experience to grapple with the situation in anything resembling those terms.
All he knew was that near her, of all the girls he’d seen in Shades’ Hill, he felt
touched by something mysterious and much vaster than himself.