“Going down,” Orcrist whispered.
At the bottom of the stairs, six flights down, Orcrist relaxed and began chatting. “Got to be careful, you see, Frank,” he said. “There are people who’d pay a lot for the death of a ranking member of the Companions, so I never come by the same route twice in a row.” They were walking along another corridor now, but it was brighter and wider, and Orcrist extinguished his lantern and put it away.
“Why aren’t you armed?” asked Frank, who had noticed the absence of a sword under Orcrist’s cape.
“Oh, I’m adequately armed, never fear. Ah, and here we are.”
They stepped through a high open arch into a huge hall that Frank thought must once have been a church. The pews, if it ever did have any, had been ripped out and replaced by ranks of folding wooden chairs, but the place was still lit by eight ancient baroque chandeliers. A big, altarlike block of marble up front was currently being used as a speaker’s platform.
Frank followed Orcrist up a ramp to an overhanging structure that might have been a side-wall choir loft or a theater box. “Make yourself at home,” Orcrist told him, gesturing at the dusty chairs and music stands that littered the box. “I’ve got to count the house.” He pulled a pair of opera glasses from his pocket and began scrutinizing the crowd below. Frank sat down. His injured ear was throbbing, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
After about ten minutes Orcrist put the glasses away and turned to Frank. “I’ll be back soon,” he said. “I’ve got to give your name to the registrar and pay your first month’s dues. Don’t leave the box.” He waved and ducked out.
Frank leaned on the balcony rail, looked out over the restless throng, and soon saw Orcrist’s dark, curly hair and drab cape appear from a side door. He watched him make his way to the speaker’s stand and huddle for a moment with one of the men there. Frank’s attention was distracted then by a fight that broke out in the middle of the hall, and when he glanced back at the speaker’s stand Orcrist was gone. He was still trying to sight him when Orcrist’s voice spoke softly behind him.
“Don’t look so eager, Frank. Don’t be conspicuous.” The older man pulled a couple of chairs close to the rail. “Sit down and relax,” he said. “This may take a while.”
Frank had been expecting great things of this secret, underground meeting of thieves, but soon found himself bored. The speaker, a pudgy man named Hodges, spent the first few minutes exchanging casual jokes with members of the audience. Frank understood none of the references, though Orcrist frequently chuckled beside him. Hodges addressed everyone by their first names, and Frank felt more excluded than he had at any time in the past three days. He felt a little more at home when Hodges read the list of newly-bonded apprentices and he heard “Rovzar, Frank” read out as loudly as any of them.
What would Dad say, Frank wondered briefly, if he knew I was making a living as an art forger? He’d understand. As he once told me, while squinting against the sunlight of a cold morning, “Frankie, if it was easy, they’d have got somebody else to do it.” The meeting dragged on interminably, and just when Frank was convinced that he must fall asleep, a new figure appeared on the speaker’s platform. It was a burly old man with a close-cropped white beard, and Frank saw the other officials who were standing about bow as the old man nodded to them. “Who’s that?” Frank asked.
“I thought you were asleep,” Orcrist said. “That bearded guy? That’s Blanchard. He’s the king of the Subterranean Companions. I expected to see him here. He must have heard about the palace rebellion— it’s only something big that brings him to one of these meetings.”
Blanchard now rapped the speaker’s table with a fist. The crowd quieted much more quickly than it had for Hodges.
“My friends and colleagues,” he began in a strong, booming voice. “I’m sure many of you have noticed evidences of a concealed crisis in the Ducal Palace.” There was a pause while the more literate thieves explained the sentence to their slower-witted fellows. “Well, I am now able to tell you what’s going on. Prince Costa has formed an alliance with the Transport Company and, day before yesterday, overthrown and killed Duke Topo.” There were scattered cheers and outraged shouts. “We now have a new duke, gentlemen. It is too early to estimate the effects this change will have upon us and our operations, but I will say this: proceed with caution. The Transport spacers are no longer just drunken marks whose pockets you can pick and whose girls you can abuse. They are now our rulers. They will almost certainly function as police. Therefore I abjure you”—again there was a flurry of interpretation for the less bright thieves—“step carefully; don’t cause unnecessary trouble; and keep your eyes open.” The old man glared out at the cathedral-like hall. “I hope you ignorant bastards are paying attention. Maybe some of you remember Duke Ovidi, and how he hung a thief’s head on every merlon of the Ducal Palace. Those days, friends, may very well be upon us once more.”
On the way home from the meeting Frank’s ear began to bleed again, and he passed out on the Sheol Boulevard sidewalk. Orcrist carried him back to the apartment, changed his bandage and put him to bed.
FRANK tossed a paintbrush into a cup of turpentine and ran his hands through his unruly hair. It’s going well, he thought. He’d been trying to get this painting in line for three days and had finally mastered Bate’s style. He raised his head and stared at his still-wet painting, then turned and studied the original, hung next to it. I’ll have this canvas finished this afternoon, Frank thought, which leaves the problem of darkening it and cracking it so that it looks as old as the original. But that was purely a technical detail, and he didn’t anticipate any trouble with it.
The front door swung open and Orcrist strode in. He took off his black leather gloves and tossed them ’ onto a chair.
“By God, Frank,” he said, studying the forgery, “you have got the soul of Chandler Bate on canvas better than he did himself.”
“Thanks,” Frank said, wiping off a brush. “I’ve got to admit I’m pleased with it myself.”
“It was the philosopher Aurelius,” said Orcrist, sinking into his habitual easy chair, “who observed that ‘the universe is change.’ If he’d thought of it, he’d probably have added ‘and an art forger’s duties vary with the season.’ ”
“Ah. Are my duties about to vary?”
“As a matter of fact, they are.” Orcrist poured two glasses of sherry and handed one to Frank. “For three weeks now you’ve been working away here, and you’ve copied four paintings and eleven drawings that I’ve brought you. Where do you suppose those art works have come from?”
“Stolen from museums and private collections,” answered Frank promptly.
“Exactly. And whom do you suppose I had do the stealing?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll tell you. A cousin of mine named Bob Dill. And two nights ago he was stabbed to death by a zealous pair of guards at the Amory Gallery. They chased him all over the building, hacking at him, and finally brought him down in the Pre-Raphaelite room.” Frank was unable to guess the appropriate response to this story, so he said nothing.
“What with one thing and another,” Orcrist continued, “I find it impractical to hire another thief. The fine art market is suffering these days; Costa’s damned taxes have taken up a good deal of the money that should rightfully go to people like you and me. The market isn’t dead, you understand, just a trifle unsteady.”