The Gentleman Bastard Series 3-Book Bundle: The Lies of Locke Lamora, Red Seas Under Red Skies, The Republic of Thieves (231 page)

“Bert!” shouted Chantal.

“Heavens,” said Jenora.

Locke realized he was holding something, and he glanced down to discover that Jean
had somehow tossed his precious optics into his hands while separating him from Bertrand.

Jean was a round-bellied, quietly dignified boy of about sixteen. Even his current
crop of carefully hoarded stubble failed to lend his aspect any real menace. Bertrand
had at least a decade on him, not to mention six inches and twenty pounds, and he
looked like he could tear a side of beef in half on a whim. What happened next surprised
even Locke.

Punch was traded for punch. Jean and Bertrand rolled around, a furious tangle of arms
and legs, swiping and swatting and straining. The advantage shifted every few seconds.
Jean got his hands around Bertrand’s throat, only to find the older man hammering
at his ribs. Bertrand pinned Jean beneath him, yet the boy somehow kicked his legs
aside and pulled him back to the ground.

“Gods above,” said Chantal. “Stop! Stop it, already! We can talk about this!”

Jean attempted to hold an arm across Bertrand’s neck, and Bertrand responded with
something fast and clever that flung Jean forward over his shoulder. When he tried
to press his advantage, however, Jean did something equally fast and clever that threw
Bert into a wall. The two combatants wrestled again, desperately forming and breaking
grips on one another, until at last Jean slipped free and rolled clear. This was a
mistake; the older man used the space between them to swing a wild haymaker that clipped
Jean across the chin and finally dropped him.

A moment later, Bertrand wobbled and fell on his face, just as used up as his younger
antagonist.

“Chantal,” said Moncraine, “I would have been happy to tell you that the role of Amadine
was beyond negotiation, for several reasons.
And hot staggering shit, you
cannot
expect me to believe that boy can do all that and work a thimble, too!”

Jenora and the Gentlemen Bastards gathered around Jean, while Alondo, Chantal, and
Moncraine saw to Bert. Both the fighters regained their senses soon enough, and were
eased up into sitting positions against the inn wall.

“Optics,” coughed Jean. When Locke handed them over, he settled them carefully on
his nose and sighed with relief.

“Smoke,” muttered Bertrand. Chantal handed him a sheaf of rolled tobacco and flicked
a bit of twist-match to light it. Once she’d done this, Bert tore the cigar in two,
lit the cold half from the red embers of the other, and passed it over to Jean. The
boy nodded his thanks, and the two combatants smoked in peace for a few moments while
everyone else watched, dumbfounded.

“You play handball, kid?” said Bertrand. His voice was deep, his Verrari accent thick.

“Certainly,” said Jean.

“Come play with my side on Penance Day afternoons. We play for ale money, two coppins
a man to buy in.”

“Love to,” said Jean. “Just don’t take any more swings at my friends.”

“Sure, kid,” said Bertrand. He waved a finger at Locke. “And
you
don’t talk about my wife like that.”

“Then tell your wife not to insult Verena,” said Locke.

“Hey there, skinny, we both speak Therin.” Chantal poked Locke sharply in the chest.
“You got something to tell me, tell me yourself.”

“Fine,” said Locke, matching gazes with Chantal. “Don’t insult Verena—”

“Excuse me,” said Sabetha, pushing Locke aside without humor or delicacy. “Did I turn
invisible or something? I’m not hiding behind
him
, Chantal.”

Locke winced at the unkind emphasis on
him
.

“You want to fight your own fights, bitchling?” said Chantal. “Good. Anytime you want
a real education, you try and throw a—”

“ENOUGH,” hollered Moncraine in a shake-the-rafters voice, pushing the two women apart.
“Gods
damn
you all for shit-witted wastrels! Bring yourselves to order or I’ll go punch another
nobleman, I swear it on my balls and bones!”

“Chantal, sweetness,” said Bertrand, blowing smoke, “when
Jasmer’s
the voice of reason you might have to admit it’s time to calm down.”

“Verena’s Amadine,” said Jasmer. “That’s the way it is! You can have Penthra or you
can have Fetching Maid Number Four and shake your tits all summer for Basanti.”

Chantal glowered, then offered a hand to Sabetha. “Peace, then. I just hope that when
you’re onstage the sun shines out of your backside, girl.”

Sabetha shook with Chantal. “When I’m finished, you won’t be able to imagine anyone
else as Amadine ever again.”

Bertrand whistled and grinned. “Ha! That’s good. Give my wife a couple of days to
grow on you, Verena. She’ll make you like her.”

“I’ve had a lot of opportunities in my life to learn tolerance,” said Sabetha with
a thin smile.

“Now, if you’re Amadine,” said Bertrand, “who’s Aurin? Who gets to do all that kissing
and mooning and staring, eh?”

Locke’s heart seemed to skip a beat.

“That’s what we were in the business of figuring out when you showed up,” said Moncraine.
He rubbed his forehead and sighed. “I suppose I might as well make my decision. I’ll
hedge our bets. Lucaza, you’ll be Ferrin.”

“I would love to … wait,
what
?” said Locke.

“You heard me. Aurin’s a role that needs more nuance. I want Alondo to handle it.”

“But—”

“That’s all,” said Jasmer. “That’s it for today. No further discussion. And gods help
me, I can quote the company charter as well as Jenora can. Next one of you that lays
a
finger
on anyone else here gets docked. Wages, shares, work time—I don’t give a damn. I’ll
spank you like an angry father. Now, go!”

“
PENTHRA
,”
MUTTERED
Jean, reading aloud from the script in his hands, “a fallen noblewoman of Therim
Pel. Amadine’s boon companion.”

“I’ve read the bloody character list, Jean.” Locke and Jean sat in the corner of Mistress
Gloriano’s common room farthest from the bar, where Bertrand, Jasmer, Alondo, Chantal,
and Sylvanus were drinking up a significant portion of the company’s future profits.
Dinner was just past. “Wait, are you trying to ignore me?”

“Yes.” Jean closed his copy of the play with a sigh. “My ribs ache, I got thrown out
of the play, I’m now a bookkeeping stevedore, and you’re plumbing new depths of tedium
with your moping.”

“But I—”

“Seriously, if you want to kiss her onstage so badly just speak to Jasmer.”

“He doesn’t want to talk about it.” Locke sipped his cup of warm dark ale, barely
tasting it. “Says it’s an artistic decision and therefore not subject to debate.”

“Then talk to Alondo.”

“He acts for a living. Why would he give up the plum role?”

“I don’t know, because you tricked him? Because you convinced him? Rumor has it you
took some lessons in being tricky and convincing.”

“Yeah, but … he’s a decent enough fellow. It’s not like yanking Jasmer around. Feels
wrong.”

“Then listen here, my friend. I’m not an oracle and I’m not going to turn into one
no matter how long you sit there crying in your beer. You know I used to think that
the Sanzas were the biggest annoyance around? I was wrong. Until you and Sabetha get
your shit together, they’re the least of all possible evils.”

“She’s just so gods-damned inscrutable.”

“You were talking to her before, right?”

“Yeah. It was going well. Now it’s all strange.”

“Have you considered extreme, desperate measures like talking to her again?”

“Yeah, but, well …”

“You’ve
yeah-but
your way to this point,” said Jean. “You’re going to
yeah-but
this mess until it’s time to go home, and I don’t doubt you’ll
yeah-but
her out of your life. Quit circling at a distance. Go talk to her, for Preva’s sake.”

“Where is she?”

“She sneaks up to the roof when the rest of us are down here making idiots of ourselves.”

“She won’t … I dunno, it’s not that it’s—”

“Reach between your legs,” growled Jean, “and find some balls, or you do
not
get to speak to me on the subject of her for the rest of the summer.”

“I’m sorry,” said Locke. “I just hate the thought of screwing things up worse than
they are. You know I’ve got talents in that direction.”

“Ha. Indeed. Try being direct and honest. I can’t give you any more specific advice.
When the hell have
I
ever charmed my way under anyone’s dress, hmm? All I know is that if you and Sabetha
don’t reach some understanding we’re all going to regret it. But you most of all.”

“You’re right.” Locke took a deep, steadying breath. “You’re right!”

“Pretty routinely,” sighed Jean. “Are you going?”

“Absolutely.”

“Not with that beer, you’re not. Give it over.” Locke did so with an absentminded
air, and Jean drained the cup in one gulp.

“Okay,” he said. “Go! Before your so-called better judgment has a chance to wake back
up. Wait, that’s not the way up. Where the hell are you going?”

“Just back to the bar,” said Locke. “I have a bright idea.”

LANGUID, THICK-AIRED
evening had come down on Espara, and the city lights were flicking to life beneath
a sky the color of harvest grapes. Mistress Gloriano’s crooked gables concealed a
little balcony, westward-facing, where two people could sit side by side, assuming
they were on good terms. Locke eased the balcony hatch open carefully, peered out,
and found Sabetha staring directly at him with eyebrows raised. She lowered her copy
of
The Republic of Thieves
.

“Hi,” said Locke, much less confidently than he’d imagined he would as he’d climbed
the little passage from the second floor. “Can I, ah, share your balcony for a little
while?”

“I was going over my part.”

“You expect me to believe you don’t already have the whole thing memorized?”

It was as though she couldn’t decide whether to be pleased or exasperated. Locke knew
the expression well. After a moment, she set her book down and beckoned him out. He
sat down cross-legged, as she was, and they faced one another.

“What’s behind your back?” she said.

“A small kindness.” He showed her the wineskin and two small clay cups he’d been concealing.
“Or a bribe. Depending on how you look at it.”

“I’m not thirsty.”

“If I’d been worried about thirst, I’d have brought you water. I was worried about
knives.”

“Knives?”

“Yeah, the ones you’ve had out for a few days now. I was hoping to sort of dull the
edges.”

“Isn’t that rather knavish? Plying a girl with drink?”

“In this case it’s more like self-defense. And I did sort of think you might just …
like a cup of wine.”

“And then perhaps a second? And a third, and so on, until my inhibitions were sufficiently
elastic?”

“I didn’t deserve that.”

“Yes, well … perhaps not.”

“Gods, I forgot that anyone who wants to be nice to
you
has to get permission in advance and wear heavy armor.” Biting his lip, Locke poured
the pale wine carelessly and slid one of the cups toward her. “Look, you can pretend
it just appeared there by magic if it makes you happy.”

“Is that Anjani orange wine?”

“If it’s Anjani my ass is made of gold,” said Locke, sipping from his cup. “But it
was some kind of orange, once upon a time.”

“And what miracle are you trying to coax out of me, exactly?”

“Simple conversation? What’s happened, Sabetha? We were talking, actually talking.
It was … it was really nice. And we worked well together! But now you snap for no
reason. You find excuses to cut me
dead. You keep throwing up these walls, and even when I climb them, I find you’ve
dug moats on the other side—”

“You’re crediting me with an extraordinary degree of industry,” she said, and Locke
was delighted to see the tiniest hint of a smirk on her lips, though it vanished between
breaths. “Maybe I’m preoccupied with the play.”

“Oh look,” said Locke. “Now the moat is full of spikes. Also, I don’t believe you.”

“That’s your problem.”

“What do you have to gain by not talking to me?”

“Maybe I just don’t want to—”

“But you did,” said Locke. “You did, and we were getting somewhere. Do you really
want to spend the rest of our stay here doing this stupid dance back and forth? I
don’t.”

“It’s not so much a dance, though, is it?” she said, softly.

“No,” said Locke. “You’re the one that keeps stepping back. Why?”

“It’s not easy to explain.”

“If it was, an idiot like me would have figured the answer out already. Can I sit
beside you?”

“
That’s
putting the cart before the horse.”

“The horse is tired and needs a break. Come on, it’ll make it easier to hit me if
you don’t like what I have to say.”

After a pause that seemed to last about ten years, she turned to look out over the
city and patted the stone beside her. Locke slid over, eagerly but carefully, until
his left shoulder was touching her right. The warm wind stirred around them, and Locke
caught the faint scents of musk and sage oil from her hair. A thousand fluttering
things burst to life in his stomach and immediately found reasons to run all over
the place.

“You’re trembling,” she said, actually turning to look at him.

“You’re not exactly a statue yourself.”

“Are you going to try to make me not regret this, or are you just going to sit there
staring?”

“I like staring at you,” said Locke, shocked and pleased at his own refusal to turn
from her gaze.

“Well, I like heaving boys off rooftops. It’s not a habit I get to indulge often enough.”

“That wouldn’t get rid of me. I know how to land softly.”

“Gods
damn
it, Locke, if you’ve got something you want to say—”

“I do,” he said, steadying himself as though for the incoming swing of a wooden training
baton. “I, uh, I’m tired of talking behind my hands and dropping hints and trying
to trick some sort of reaction out of you. These are my cards on the table. I think
you’re beautiful. I feel like I’m an idiot with dirt on his face sitting next to someone
out of a painting. I think … I think I’m just plain stupid for you. I know that’s
not exactly sweet talk out of a play. Frankly, I’d kiss your shadow. I’d kiss dirt
that had your heel print in it. I
like
feeling this way. I don’t give a damn what you or anyone else thinks … this is how
it feels
every time I look at you
.