The Republic of Thieves by Scott Lynch Read Free Book Online Page A

beyond their power to counteract. Locke had been made to drink a hundred different purgatives, teas, and elixirs, each seemingly more vile and expensive than the last, each ultimately useless.
    After that, Jean had dressed well and started calling on accredited physikers. Locke was explained away as a “confidential servant” of someone wealthy, which could have meant anything from secret lover to private assassin. The physikers too had expressed regret and fascination in equal measure. Most had refused to attempt cures, instead offering palliatives to ease Locke’s pain. Jean fully grasped the meaning of this, but paid no heed to their pessimism. He simply showed each to the door, paid their exorbitant fees, and went after the next physiker on his list.
    The money hadn’t lasted. After a few days, Jean had sold their boat (along with the resident cat, essential for good luck at sea), and was happy to get half of what they’d paid for it.
    Now even those funds were running thin, and Erkemar Zodesti was just about the only physiker in Lashain who had yet to tell Jean that Locke’s condition was hopeless.

5
    “ NO NEW symptoms,” said Malcor, a round old man with a gray beard that curled out from his chin like an oncoming thunderhead.Malcor was a dog-leech, a street physiker with no formal training or license, but of all his kind available in Lashain he was the most frequently sober. “Merely a new expression of familiar symptoms. Take heart.”
    “Not likely,” said Locke. “But thanks for the hand job.”
    Malcor had poulticed the tips of Locke’s fingers with a mixture of corn meal and honey, then tied dry linen bandages around the fingers, turning Locke’s left hand into a padded lump of uselessness.
    “Heh. Well, the gods love a man who laughs at hardship.”
    “Hardship is boring as all hell. Gotta find laughs if you can’t stay drunk,” said Locke.
    “So the bleeding is nothing new? Nothing worse than before?” asked Jean.
    “A new inconvenience, yes.” Malcor hesitated, then shrugged. “As for the total loss to his body’s sanguine humors … I can’t say. A close examination of his water could, perhaps—”
    “You want a bowl full of piss,” said Locke, “you can uncork your private reserve. I’ve given quite enough since I came here.”
    “Well, then.” Malcor’s knees creaked like rusty hinges as he stood up. “If I won’t scry your piss, I won’t scry your piss. I can, however, leave you with a pill that should bring you excellent relief for twelve to twenty-four hours, and perhaps encourage your depleted humors to rekindle—”
    “Splendid,” said Locke. “Will it be the one composed primarily of chalk, this time? Or the one made of sugar? I’d prefer sugar.”
    “Look … I say, look here!” Malcor’s seamy old face grew red. “I might not have Collegium robes, but when I go to the gods they’ll know that I gave an honest damn about lending ease to my patients!”
    “Peace, old man.” Locke coughed and rubbed his eyes with his un-bandaged hand. “I know you mean the best. But spare me your placebo.”
    “Have your friend remove your bandages in a few hours,” said Malcor testily, shrugging back into a worn frock coat that was spattered with dark stains. “If you drink, drink sparingly. Water your wine.”
    “Rest assured, my friend here waters my wine like a virgin princess’ nervous chaperone.”
    “I’m sorry,” said Jean, as he showed Malcor outside. “He’s difficult when he’s ill.”
    “He’s got two or three days,” said the old man.
    “You can’t be—”
    “Yes, I can. The bleeding is worse. His enervation is more pronounced. His humors are terminally imbalanced, and I’m certain an examination of his water would show blood. I tried to hearten him, but your friend is obviously undeceived.”
    “But—”
    “As should you be.”
    “There must be someone who can do something!”
    “The gods.”
    “If I could convince