The Gentleman Bastard Series 3-Book Bundle: The Lies of Locke Lamora, Red Seas Under Red Skies, The Republic of Thieves (242 page)

“So I really was your first.”

“Was it that obvious? Would you have known, even if I hadn’t said?”

“Enthusiasm is the first step,” she said. “Artfulness comes later.”

“I hope I didn’t disappoint you.”

“I’m not displeased, Jovanno. Hells, having a lover that’s new to the dance means
you can train him properly. Give me a few nights and I’ll have you whipped into proper
form.”

“The Asino brothers … they always, well, they always invited me to go with them when
they went out. To buy it, you know.”

“There’s no shame in doing that. And there’s no shame in not having done it. But those
two are
hounds
, Jovanno. Any woman could smell it a mile away. Sometimes a run with the hounds is
just what
you’re in the mood for, but in the end they’ll always roll around in muck and shit
on your floor.”

“Oh, they’ve got an endearing side,” said Jean. “It comes out once a month, when the
first moon is full. They’re like backwards werewolves.”

“Well,” she said, “when I take someone into my bed, I prefer brains and balls in more
equal proportion.”

“I like the sound of that. Hey, there’s a … sorry, beneath your legs, did we …?”

“Ah. My apprentice, allow me to introduce you to the concept of the wet spot.”

“Is that uncomfortable?”

“Well, it’s not what I’d call ideal. Hey, what are you—”

With an enthusiastic excess of groping and giggling, he applied his strength to shifting
their positions. In a few moments, he’d pushed her to the dry side of the bed and
taken her former place.

“Mmmm. Jovanno, you have a gallant streak. Another smoke?”

“Absolutely.”

They were just finishing carefully lighting the second bowl when the door burst open.

“Jovanno,” shouted Locke, “it’s the Asino brothers, you wouldn’t believe what they
oh my gods holy shit!
”

He stared for a second or two, then whirled away and faced out into the hall.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize—”

“The idiot twins,” said Jean, “are they in trouble?”

“No,” said Locke, with less than believable haste. “No, no, no. Actually, it’s not
important at all. We’ve got it handled. You, uh, you just … hell, I can sleep in the
common room, you two just forget I exist. Sorry. Have, uh, have a good time!”

“We are,” said Jenora, calmly exhaling a line of smoke.

“Great! Well! Excellent! Just … going now!”

“He’s down off the roof a lot sooner than I would have thought,” said Jenora once
the door was closed again.

“Yeah,” said Jean, frowning. “Something must have happened. Whatever the Asinos did—”

“Your friends,” said Jenora. “They sort of look to you to hold them together when
there’s trouble, don’t they?”

“Well, that’s a pretty flattering way of putting it, but—”

“Let ’em fend for themselves for a night,” she whispered. “Now we’ll have privacy.
If Verena wants to sort Lucaza out she can always take him to my room.”

“She can,” said Jean. “She sure as hell
can
. So, uh, is it too soon to start hearing about this artfulness you mentioned?”

“
LONG SUMMER
of the Therin Throne,” shouted Calo, arms outflung to encompass the inn-yard, “ordained
time for building and growing, while earth and sky are generous. These years for princely
Aurin lie fallow as a field, plowed and yet unseeded with
valorrrrrruurrrrrrrgh—
”

Calo lurched to his knees and ended what had been a fine, vigorous declamation by
vomiting. Locke, watching from the shade of a wall, put his hands to his forehead
and groaned.

“Gods above,” said Moncraine, “I’ve seen songbirds with more iron in their gullets
than you Camorri. One dance with the Ash Bastard and you’re acting like you’ve been
killed in the wars. Understudy!”

Galdo, his complexion a shade green in its own right, seemed uninterested for once
in making sport of Calo’s discomfort. He stepped forward and placed his hands on his
brother’s shoulders.

“I can do it … . I’m fine …” panted Calo. He spat and wobbled to his feet.

“Like hell, idiot,” said Galdo. “Here’s a thought. Let’s do it together.”

“What do you mean?”

“Toss it back and forth.” Galdo faced Moncraine, and spoke with the precise tone and
volume of his twin before the stumble: “Swords unblooded hang in scabbards unworn,
and, sun-like in its dispensations, the imperial court sheds grandeur on the world.”

“Sweet summer of the Therin Throne,” said Calo, interrupting smoothly, conquering
his wobbly knees and willing the hoarseness
from his throat. “Some that live as beggars within would scorn to live as dukes without,
such an empire it is, and some wear stolen splendor with the dignity of right-born
kings! Below the streets the skulkers, the cozeners, the vagabonds of fortune raise
bold business in catacomb kingdoms unknown to honest daylight.”

“If thieves pretend to eminence,” said Galdo, “and meet in eager regiments, defying
rightful law and crown, is it not suiting to the temper of the age? So high the tides
of fortune rise beneath the Therin Throne, its outlaws pay tribute with matching insolence!”

“Matching insolents,” said Moncraine. “That’d be you Asinos. Hold, everyone, hold.
This is all
very
pretty. Why don’t we just dispense with the notion of parts altogether? We can stand
onstage in a group and chant the lines for all the roles. Hells, we can even hold
hands to keep our spirits up while it rains rocks and vegetables on us.”

“I rather liked it,” said Chantal.

“As if I gave a—”

“She’s right, Moncraine.” Sylvanus stirred, emerging from the shade as well as his
usual torporous morning fuddle. “How often do you see a pair of twins onstage? We
should make something of it. We’ve got precious little spectacle as it stands.”

“When we’re in want of spectacle, Andrassus, I’ll start walking around without my
breeches.”

“You useless Syresti coxcomb! Think on it—twins for a chorus. Something never seen
before, to let the peons know they’re not watching Old Father Dullard’s Piss-Weak
Boredom Revival, but a proper something from the Moncraine Company!”

“Actually, it’s the Moncraine-Boulidazi Company these days,” said Chantal.

“Anytime you want to return to being an ambulatory pair of tits, turncoat, you can
mince straight back to Basanti and ask how many lusty maids are still on offer.” Locke
noticed that Moncraine’s shoulders sagged despite his tone of voice. However the impresario
might ridicule Sylvanus, the old lush had occasional sway over him. “Ah, gods, past
the third or fourth row of groundlings, who can tell they’re twins, anyway?”

“It’s what they do with their voices,” said Alondo. “You have to admit it’s good,
when they’re not pitching vomit everywhere.”

“We’ve got to do something about their hair,” said Moncraine.

“Glue a wig on baldy,” said Calo.

“Hold the fop down and shave him,” muttered Galdo.

“Hats,” said Sabetha in a politely commanding tone. “They can both wear hats. It’s
a question of costuming.”

“And that would require the attention of the costumers,” rumbled Moncraine. “I’m sure
they’re off somewhere attending to clothes at this very instant, but whether they’re
taking them off or putting them on is the question.”

“Moncraine!” A stout middle-aged Therin strolled into the inn-yard. He had no chin
to speak of, and long hair so ill-kept it looked as though a brown hawk had perched
on the back of his head and clung there until it died. “Jasmer, you lucky bastard,
I didn’t believe ’em when they said you were off the hook. How many cocks did you
have to lick to get them to slip the chains?”

“Master Calabazi,” said Moncraine, “you know a gentleman never does his own dirty
work. I simply made a lot of promises concerning your daughters. Or was it your sons?
Gods know I can’t tell them apart.”

“Ha! If you’re a gentleman, I fart incense. But you’re out, and now someone’s conjured
a wild fantasy about you playing the Pearl. Is this the show? A little one?”

“It’s not the size, but the employment,” said Moncraine, losing some of his forced
good cheer. “Why are you bothering me?”

“Well, you know what me and my lads need.”

“Speak to Jenora; she’s the woman of business.”

“Well, I thought with that fancy new owner you’ve got you might lay a surety—”

“
Patron
, Calabazi. We’ve got a noble patron, not a new owner. And you wouldn’t get a surety
if Emperor Salerius himself crawled out of his tomb to watch the show. You get paid
when the rest of us do, on performance nights.”

“It’s just that there’s some, ah, uncertainty, in your situation, and we’d like something
firmer than a heartfelt assurance we’ll be working—”

“I was in gaol for two days, you idiot; I didn’t breathe Wraithstone smoke and lose
my wits. If you want the work, you can have the usual
terms, and if you don’t, I won’t lie awake at night wondering where I’ll get three
or four half-wits to shovel shit!”

The two men moved chin to chin and continued arguing in low, impassioned tones. Locke
gestured to Alondo, who was lounging nearby, and whispered, “What’s this?”

“It’s the trenchmen, Lucaza.” Alondo yawned. “The countess might be pleased to hand
out the Old Pearl for shows, but she doesn’t pay to keep the place clean. We do. That
means empty trenches for a few hundred to piss in every night, dammed up and tended
by apes like Calabazi.”

“This whole thing is more complicated than I ever imagined.”

“Too true. And Jasmer hates the business side of business, you know? He negotiates
like he’s having his balls scraped.”

Across the inn-yard, Jasmer brought the conversation with Calabazi to a halt by raising
both palms to the ugly trenchman’s face and turning away.

“Master Moncraine!” shouted yet another newcomer, appearing from the direction of
the stables. Moncraine whirled.

“Gods’ peace, you fucking fool, can’t you see I’m work— Oh,
gods
, Baron Boulidazi, I didn’t recognize you! You’ve, ah, come in costume again.”

“Ha! I wanted to be in keeping with the spirit of our endeavors!” Boulidazi, once
again dressed in a low fashion, wore a dirty broad-brimmed hat that partly concealed
his features. “And of course, to intrude as little as possible on your affairs.”

“Of course,” said Moncraine, and Locke was certain he could hear teeth grinding even
from across the inn-yard.

“And who’s this? Anyone important?”

“Uh, I’m Paza Calabazi, uh, sir. I handle—”

“No, not important, or you’d know it’s ‘my lord.’ Go be undistinguished somewhere
else.”

“Uh … yes, my lord.”

Locke frowned as he watched Calabazi all but scuttle away. His original impression
of Boulidazi seemed more naïve than ever.

“Now, Moncraine.” The young lord gave the impresario a firm slap on the back. “I know
this inn-yard has a certain unrefined charm, but I’ve arranged for better surroundings.”

“The Old Pearl?” Moncraine made a visible effort to swallow his resentment. “Is it
ours, my lord?”

“We can rehearse there commencing tomorrow, and we’ll get two days of actual performance.
The envoy of ceremonies is a family friend. I’ll even post a man to make sure that
you’re not pestered by the Paza Calabazis of the world.”

“That’s … well, I suppose that’s very generous, my lord patron. Thank you.”

“Think nothing of it. It’s in my own interest, eh? Now, what’s the scene?”

“Uh, there’s no scene, my lord. We, ah, need a break, I think. Arguing with Calabazi—”

“Nonsense. You’re no man to be tamed by a mere argument, Moncraine.” Boulidazi mimed
a fist crashing into his own jaw, a gesture that made Moncraine plainly uncomfortable.
“What did you last practice?”

“Nothing of real consequence—”

“The scene, gods damn you.”

“Uh, six. Act one, scene six. We were just nailing down … nailing down the situation
of the chorus.”

“ ‘Vagabonds of fortune raise a bold business in catacomb kingdoms unknown to honest
daylight,’ ” said Boulidazi. “I like that one. But that means Amadine’s about to come
out for the first time. Surely you won’t stop now.”

“Well, perhaps not—”

“Yes. Perhaps not.” Boulidazi settled into the chair that Moncraine had occasionally
rested in while watching the morning’s work. “Mistress Verena, might I beg a few moments
of your Queen of Shadows?”

“Why, m’lord Boulidazi, your attention is always very welcome,” said Sabetha with
a perfect curtsy. Locke would have sworn he felt the blood congealing in his heart,
and he fought to maintain a façade of dopish complacency.

“Thieves in place for scene six,” shouted Moncraine. Bert the Crowd hurried into the
middle of the yard, and was met by Calo and Galdo, who were intended to join the spear-carriers
for several mob scenes after finishing their orations. Moncraine had promised to hire
a bevy of bit players to flesh out the crowds, but didn’t seem to want to start paying
them too early in the rehearsal process.

“Well met, my noble peers and bastards! Well met at Barefoot Court!” Chantal advanced
from her side of the inn-yard, hips swaying, arms outthrust, playing to the tiny crowd.
“What stirs, you ragged suitors, to bring you hence from drink and dice and warm attentions?”

“Allegiance, fair Penthra,” said Bertrand. “Allegiance, fair and fallen lady, for
she that claims our deep regard makes those comforts seem cold distractions.”

“Valedon, you ever were a wool-tongued devil, now here’s the air hung with silk. What
makes the change?” Chantal touched her husband playfully on the chin.

“My mistress and yours,” said Bertrand. “Her goodness puts a sting to my conscience.
I have been remiss in my tributes, and must amend my courtesies.”

“So would we all,” said Calo. “Penthra, let her come forth. She has sheltered us,
and kindled loyal fellowship, and even such poor wretches as ourselves must make obedience.”