The Gentleman Bastard Series 3-Book Bundle: The Lies of Locke Lamora, Red Seas Under Red Skies, The Republic of Thieves (256 page)

“Everyone knows your deep attachment to the civic health of Karthain goes back quite
a few minutes,” said Locke.

“There it is! Nearly on time.” Sabetha pointed down to the water, where a canopied
pleasure barge emerged from under the Skyvault
Span. A long black constabulary launch was lashed alongside the barge, and bluecoats
with lanterns and truncheons were swarming it. “That’s the
Plain Delight
. Belongs to a friend of one of your Deep Roots Konseillors, I believe. I also believe
that the reliquary shelves in its hold will be back in the hands of their proper owner
before the sun comes up. Any particular comments?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny that you’re a sneaky, sneaky bitch,” said Locke.

“You’re my favorite audience.” Sabetha leaned in and kissed him again, then broke
off with a grin. “Sable Chamber, tomorrow evening. I can’t wait to see you. And I’ll
have a discreet escape route prepared, since I think a lot of irate Deep Roots supporters
are going to be looking for you once the ballots are counted.”

THE NEXT SOUND
in the room was that of Donker attempting to fling himself at the door, only to be
caught and pulled back by the combined efforts of Alondo and the Sanza twins.

“Gods damn it, you brick-skulled hostler,” Jasmer growled. “If the rest of us have
to suffer through this farce, then so do you!”

“What’s the name of this hireling of Boulidazi’s?” said Locke.

“Nerissa Malloria,” said Jasmer. “Used to be a lieutenant in the countess’ guard.
Now she’s sort of a mercenary. Hard as witchwood and cold as Aza Guilla’s cunt-plumbing.”

“Where’s she meant to take the money after the play?” said Locke.

“The hell should I know, boy?” Jasmer ran his hands slowly over his rough stubble.
“His lordship might’ve been screwing me, but it wasn’t the sort of affair where we
had pillow talk afterward, know what I mean?”

“I’d bet my life he’d have told her to bring the money to his countinghouse,” said
Jenora. “It’s at the Court of Cranes, not far from his manor.”

“No retrieving it from there,” said Sabetha. “I’ll have to work up
another note in Boulidazi’s hand and send her somewhere more private.”

“She will still expect to deliver the money to
him
,” yelled Moncraine. “And she’ll expect a signed receipt, and she will rather expect
him to have a PULSE when he signs it!”

“Well, she’s not working for the countess now,” said Sabetha. “She’s not an agent
of the law. She’s Boulidazi’s by hire, and she’ll bend to his eccentricities. All
we need to do is contrive some that will make her leave the money and go away satisfied.”

“Well, Amadine, Queen of the Shadows, what do you suggest?” Jasmer waved his hands
in elaborately mystical gestures. “Magic? Pity I’m only a sorcerer onstage!”

“Enough!” shouted Locke. “The sand is running into the bottom of our glass, and no
fooling. Leave the details of the money switch to us, Jasmer. This company needs to
move to the Pearl in good order, and all of you need to act as though the play is
the only care you have in the world. Stout hearts and brave faces! Out!”

The Moncraine-Boulidazi Company shuffled from the room in mingled states of shock,
hangover, and grim resolve. The Sanza twins followed; it had been Sabetha’s suggestion
that after the meeting they lurk conspicuously, leaving as few opportunities as possible
for anyone to slip away.

“Any ideas toward parting this Malloria from the money?” whispered Sabetha.

“I’ve got one notion,” said Locke. “But you might not appreciate it. We’d need you
to play the giggling strumpet again.”

“I’d rather do that than hang!”

“Then we need to find out what the best bathhouse in the city is, and ensure that
Baron Boulidazi has a reservation there after the play is finished.” Locke rubbed
his eyes and sighed. “And please remember that I did warn you. I think this is going
to work, but it’s not going to have more than a scrap of dignity.”

“
DEMOISELLE GALLANTE
, I don’t understand!” Brego looked uncomfortable in finer-than-usual clothes, and
he gestured with
clenched fists as he spoke. “Where the devils has he got off to? Why won’t he simply—”

“Brego, please,” said Sabetha. “I know where his lordship is meant to be
later
. As for the present, you know as much as I! Didn’t his notes give you instructions?”

“Yes, of course they did, but I’m uneasy! I’m charged with m’lord’s personal safety,
and I wish that I could—”

“Brego!” Sabetha was suddenly cold and stern. “You surprise me. If you have clear
directions from the Baron Boulidazi, why are you in difficulty about following them?”

“I … I suppose I have no, ah, difficulty, Demoiselle.”

“Good. My own duties are about to become rather overwhelming.” Sabetha kissed her
fingers and touched them to Brego’s cheek. “Be a dear and look to your business. You’ll
see what our lord is playing at soon enough.”

The company had left the yard of Gloriano’s, arrayed in some semblance of a spectacle.
Three black horses had been loaned by Boulidazi, caparisoned in his family colors,
red and silver. Sabetha sat the first, sidesaddle, and Chantal walked beside her holding
the reins. Behind them came Andrassus, tended by Donker, and Moncraine, tended by
Alondo. The players on horseback wore their costumes, and Alondo wore a hooded mantle
and a linen mask that left only his eyes bare. A cruel thing in the heat, but it couldn’t
be helped.

The wagon, driven by Jean and Jenora, had also been draped in red and silver and was
piled high with props and clothing. At the very bottom of the pile, shrouded and well-dusted
with scents and pomanders, lay the corpse of the company’s patron. Galdo walked in
the rear, juggling stingingly hot alchemical balls that spewed red smoke, while Locke
and Bert led the column waving red pennants.

Brego hurried off to his duties as Calo, perched adroitly atop the rear of the wagon,
began to shout:

Calo sprang backward from the cart, turned in the air, and landed on his feet, neatly
taking up the juggling of the smoke balls, which Galdo passed to him without a break
in their rhythm. Galdo then vaulted into Calo’s spot and proclaimed:

“At LAST, dear friends, at LAST, the Moncraine-Boulidazi Company returns in triumph
to the OLD PEARL! Come see! There’s a place for YOU this afternoon! Don’t find yourself
bereft! Don’t end the day mocked by your friends and turned out of your lover’s bed
as a simpleton! Hear the legendary Jasmer Moncraine, ESPARA’S GREATEST! LIVING! THESPIAN!
See the beautiful Demoiselle Verena Gallante, THE THIEF OF EVERY HEART! Behold the
luscious Chantal Couza, the woman who will MAKE YOUR DREAMS HER HOME!”

So they continued, in this vein and in close variations, as the procession wound its
way through the humid streets of Espara. The sun blazed behind thinning white ramparts
of cloud, promising a fantastic afternoon’s light for the play, but little mercy for
those who would strut the stage.

A BOLD
green Esparan banner fluttered from the pole beside the Old Pearl, and the theater
was surrounded by noise and tumult. Alondo had explained to Locke, a few days before,
how a major play attracted an ad hoc market of mountebanks, charlatans, lunatics,
minstrels, and small-time merchants, though only those that made proper arrangements
with the company and the envoy of ceremonies would be allowed within ten yards of
the theater walls.

“Are you smarter than my chicken?” cried a weathered, wild-haired woman holding a
nonplussed bird over her head. At her feet was a wooden board covered with numbers
and arcane symbols. “Lay your bets! Test your wits against a trained fowl! One coppin
a try! Are you smarter than my chicken? You might be in for a surprise!”

Alas, Locke found no time to dwell on the question. The Moncraine-Boulidazi procession
had to move on. Beyond the chicken woman moved the expected beer vendors with wooden
cups chained to kegs,
the trenchmen with shovels and buckets, the jugglers both clumsy and talented. There
were harpists, shawm-players, drummers, and fiddlers, all wearing cloth bands around
their heads with pieces of paper fluttering in them, showing that they had paid the
street musicians’ tax. There were pot-menders, cobblers, and low tailors with their
tools arrayed on cloths or folding tables.

“Sacrilege! Sacrilege! Ghost-bringers and grave-robbers! May the gods stop your voices!
May the gods turn your audience from the gates!” A wiry, brown-robed man whose face
and arms bore the telltale scars of self-mortification approached the procession.
“Salerius lived! Aurin and Amadine lived! You stir their unquiet spirits with your
profane impersonations! You mock the dead, and their ghosts shall have their way with
Espara! May the gods—”

Whatever the man desired from the gods was lost as Bertrand shoved him back into the
crowd, most of whom seemed to share Bert’s opinion of the denouncer; the man was not
soon allowed to regain his feet, and the company passed on.

At last, behind everything, came the simple wooden fence at the ten-yard mark, patrolled
by city constables with staves. Within the boundary, merchants prosperous enough to
afford tents had taken places against the walls of the Old Pearl. The public gate
to the theater was guarded by a flinty woman in a bloodred gambeson and wide-brimmed
hat. She kept to the shade, head constantly moving to survey the crowd, and she wore
truncheon and dirk openly on her belt. The actual money-taking was being handled by
a pair of burly hirelings.

Locke spotted Brego hurrying toward the woman, folded parchment clutched in his hands.
Locke suppressed a smile. That would be the sealed orders from “Baron Boulidazi,”
the ones diverting Malloria and her weight of precious metal from the countinghouse
to the bathhouse.

The company halted at the north side of the Pearl, where Moncraine’s half-dozen hired
players lounged under an awning. They leapt up, nearly tripping over one another in
their eagerness to be seen offering assistance with the costumes and props. As Jean
and Jenora handed things to them, carefully keeping them away from the wagon itself,
a woman approached on foot with a pair of guards at her back.

She was young, sharp-eyed and heavy, dressed in a cream jacket
and skirts trimmed with silver lace. Sun veils dangled from her four-corn cap, and
to Locke she had the air of someone used to crowds parting and doors opening before
her. Jasmer and Sylvanus confirmed Locke’s suspicions by climbing hastily from their
horses and bowing; in an instant the entire company was doing likewise.

“Master Moncraine,” said the woman. “Do rise. It is agreeable to see you and your
company gainfully employed again, if somewhat diminished in number.”

“My lady Ezrintaim. Thank you for your sentiments,” said Jasmer, straightening up
but icing his words with a thick coating of deference. “We have every hope that our
recent loss of a few supernumerary players will prove a refinement.”

“That remains to be seen. I had expected your patron to precede his company; can you
tell me where the Baron Boulidazi might be found?”

“Ah, my lady, as to that, my lord Boulidazi has not confided his present whereabouts
to me. I can assure you that he does have every intention of being present, in some
capacity, for the afternoon.”

“In
some
capacity?”

“My lady, if I may … I cannot answer for him. Save to assure you, on my honor, that
my lord is laboring, even now, to ensure that today is not merely memorable but, ah,
singular.”

“I shall of course be watching attentively from my box,” said the woman. “You will
inform your patron that he is expected, following the performance if not before.”

“Of … of course, my lady Ezrintaim.”

Moncraine bowed again, but the woman had already turned and started away. One of her
guards snapped a silk parasol open and held it between her and the sun. Moncraine
made his obeisance for another half-dozen heartbeats, then rose, stormed over to Locke,
and seized him by the collar.

“As you can see,” said Moncraine, speaking directly into Locke’s ear, “Countess Antonia’s
envoy of ceremonies now expects a personal appearance from the very, very late Lord
Boulidazi once we’ve taken our bows. What do you propose to do, thrust a hand up his
ass and work him like a puppet?”

“You will pretend to be Lord Boulidazi,” said Locke.

“
What?
”

“I’m fucking with you! Why do you keep acting as though it’s your problem? The
play
is your problem. Leave the rest to us. And take your hand off me.”

“If I end up facing the rope because of this,” said Moncraine, “I’m going to ensure
that I bring a merry fellowship along for the drop.”

Moncraine stalked off before Locke could say anything else.

“I keep asking myself,” whispered Sabetha, giving Locke’s arm a squeeze, “
are
we smarter than that woman’s chicken?”

“At the moment it’s an open question,” said Locke.

BEHIND THE
stage lay a number of corridors and small offices, as well as two large preparation
areas referred to as the attiring chambers. Stairs led to a cellar where hoists could
be used to send players up or down through trapdoors. The air smelled of sweat, smoke,
mildew, and makeup.

The attiring chambers buzzed with chatter, most of it from the hired players. Bert
and Chantal looked stern but willing, Alondo had his arm around Donker’s shoulders,
and Sylvanus was relieving a wine bottle of its contents. The twins were robing themselves
for their joint role as the Chorus; one in red with a gold-ornamented cap to represent
the imperial court, and the other in black with a silver-chased cap to represent the
court of thieves. Jean and Jenora hung white robes and
phantasma
masks on wall hooks, there to be seized and donned in a hurry by that significant
portion of the cast that wouldn’t escape the play alive.