Sabetha coughed.
“I am compelled, however, to accept certain arrangements,” continued Moncraine. “Lord Boulidazi’s agreed to reconsider my, er, refusal of his patronage offer. Once Salvard has the papers ready, we’re the Moncraine-Boulidazi Company.”
“A patron,” said Mistress Gloriano in disbelief. “Does this mean we might get paid back for our—”
“Yes,” said Locke, strolling in from the inn-yard with several purses in his hands. “And here’s yours.”
“Gandolo’s privates, boy!” She caught the jingling bag Locke threw at her. “I simply don’t believe it.”
“Your countinghouse will believe it for you,” said Locke. “That’s twelve royals to square you. Lord Boulidazi is buying out Master Moncraine’s debts to relieve him of the suffering brought on by their contemplation.”
“To wind a cord about my legs so he can fly me like a kite,” said Moncraine through gritted teeth.
“To keep you from getting knifed in a gods-damned alley!” said Sabetha.
“Not that this isn’t miraculous,” said Jenora, “but those of us with shares in the company have precedence over any arrangement Boulidazi might have proposed. Noble or not, we have papers he can’t just piss on.”
“I realize that,” said Locke. “We’re not here to pry your shares out from under you. Boulidazi is giving Moncraine the funds he needs as an advance against Moncraine’s future share of the company’s profits. Your interest is protected.”
“That’s as may be,” said Jenora, “but if this company is back on a paying basis, I want another set of eyes on the books. No offense, Jasmer, but strange things can happen to profits before they reach the stakeholders.”
“The one for figures is Jovanno,” said Locke. “He’s a genius with them.”
“Hey, thanks for volunteering me,” said Jean. “I was wondering when I could stop doing interesting things and go bury myself in account ledgers.”
“I meant it as a compliment! Besides, given a choice, would you rather trust me, or the Asinos—”
“Dammit,” Jean growled. “I’ll see to the books.”
“Master Moncraine,” said Locke, “this, by the way, is my cousin, Jovanno de Barra.”
“The third of the mysterious Camorri,” said Jasmer. “And where are four and five?”
“The Asino brothers are still asleep,” said Jean. “And when they wake I expect they’ll be hungover. They crossed bottles with that thing.” He gestured at Sylvanus. “It was all I could do to keep them alive.”
“Well then,” said Moncraine, “let us yet be merciful. I’m for a bath and fresh clothes. Someone hunt down Alondo, and we’ll have our proper meeting about the play after luncheon. How’s that sound?”
“Moncraine!” The street door burst inward, propelled by a kick from an unpleasant-looking man. His expensive clothes were stained with wine, sauces, and ominous dark patches that had nothing to do with food. Half a dozen men and women followed him into the room, clearly assorted species of leg-breakers. The Right People of Espara were on the scene.
“Oh, good morning, Shepherd. Can I offer you some refresh—”
“Moncraine,” said the man called Shepherd, “you sack of dried-up whores’ cunt leather! Did you stop at a countinghouse after your escape from the Weeping Tower?”
“I haven’t had time. But—”
“At some point, Moncraine, compound interest becomes less interesting to my boss than shoving you up a dead horse’s ass and sinking you in a fucking swamp.”
“Excuse me,” said Locke, meekly.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize it was the Children’s Festival this week,” said Shepherd. “You looking for an ass-kicking or what?”
“Can I ask how much Master Moncraine owes your boss?”
“Eighteen royals, four fifths, thirty-six coppins, accurate to this very hour.”
“Thought so. There’s nineteen in this bag,” said Locke, holding out a leather purse. “From Moncraine, of course. He just likes to draw these things out, you know. For dramatic effect.”
“This a fucking joke?”
“Nineteen royals,” said Locke. “No joke.”
Shepherd slipped the purse open, ran his fingers through the coins inside, and gave a startled grunt.
“Strange days are upon us.” He snapped the purse shut. “Signs and wonders. Jasmer Moncraine has paid a debt. I’d say my fucking prayers tonight, I would.”
“Are we square?” said Moncraine.
“Square?” said Shepherd. “Yeah, thismatter’s closed. But don’t come crawling back for more, Moncraine. Not for a few months, at least. Let the boss forget what a degenerate ass-chancre you are.”
“Sure,” said Moncraine. “Just as you say.”
“Of course, if you had any brains at all you’d never risk the chance of seeing me again.” Shepherd sketched a salute in the air, turned, and left along with his crew of thugs, most of whom looked disappointed.
“A word,” said Moncraine, leading Locke off to one side of the room. “While I’m pleased as a baby on a breast to have that weight lifted, I begin to wonder if I’m meant to be nothing but a mute witness to my own affairs from now on.”
“If you’d had yourway you’d be starting your real prison sentence today,” said Locke. “You can’t blame us for wanting to keep you out of further trouble.”
“I’m not pleased to be treated like I can’t handle simple business. Give me the purses you have left, and I’ll dispense with my own debts.”
“The tailor, the bootmaker, the scrivener, and the actors that left for Basanti’s company? We can hunt them down ourselves, thank you.”
“They’re not your accounts to close, boy!”
“And this isn’t your money to hold,” said Locke.
“Jasmer,” said Sabetha, coming up behind them with Jean in tow, “I’d hate to think that you were trying to corner and intimidate one of us privately.”
“We were merely discussing how I might take responsibility for my own shortcomings,” said Moncraine.
“You can hold to the deal,” said Sabetha. “And remember who got you out of the Weeping Tower, and brought in our new patron. Your job is to give us a play. Where that’s concerned, we’re your subjects, but where your safety is concerned, you’re ours.”
“Well,” said Moncraine, “don’t I feel enfolded in the bosom of love itself.”
“Just try not to screw anything else up,” said Sabetha. “It won’t be that hard a life.”
“I’ll go have my bath, then,” said Moncraine. “Would the three of you care to watch, to make sure I don’t drown myself?”
“If you did that,” said Locke, “you’d never have the satisfaction of bossing us around on stage.”
“True enough.” Moncraine scratched at his dark gray stubble. “See you after luncheon, then. Oh, since these are matters relating to the play … Lucaza, get a dozen chairs from the common room and set them out in the inn-yard. Verena, dig through the common property to find all the copies of The Republic of Thieveswe have. Jenora can lend you a hand.”
“Of course,” said Sabetha.
“Good. Now, if I’m wanted for any further business, I’ll be in my room with no clothes on.”
2
JUST BEFORE noon the sun passed behind a thick bank of clouds, and its brain-poaching heat was cut to a more bearable lazy warmth. The mud of the inn-yard, late resting place of the very pickled Sylvanus Olivios Andrassus, had dried to a soft crust beneath the feet of the excited and bewildered Moncraine-Boulidazi Company.
All five Gentlemen Bastards had seats, though Calo and Galdo, with dark patches under their eyes, pointedly refused to sit together and so bookended Locke, Jean, and Sabetha.
Alondo flipped idly through a torn and stained copy of The Republic of Thieves. Each volume in the little stack of scripts found by Sabetha was a different size, and no two had been copied in the same hand. Some were marked MONCRAINE COMPANY or SCRIBED FOR J. MONCRAINE, while others were the ex-property of other troupes. One even bore the legend BASANTI on its back cover.