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

Zodesti—”
    “Zodesti?” Malcor laughed. “What a waste of a gift in that one. Zodesti treats only two ailments, wealth and prominence. He’ll never condescend to do so much as take your friend’s pulse.”
    “So you’ve no other clues? No other suggestions?”
    “Summon priests. While he’s still lucid.” Jean scowled, and the aged dog-leech took him gently by the shoulders. “I can’t name the poison that’s killing your friend. But the one that’s killing you is called hope.”
    “Thank you for your time,” growled Jean. He shook several silver coins out of his purse. “If I should have further need of these marvelous insights—”
    “A single
duvesta
will be quite adequate,” said Malcor. “And despite your mood now, know that I’ll come whenever you require. Your friend’s discomfort is more likely to wax than wane before the end.”
    The sun was gone, and the roofs and towers of the city were coming alive with specks of fire against the deepening night. As he watched Malcor vanish down the street, Jean wanted more than anything to have someone to hit.

6
    “ FAIR DAY to you,” said Jean, approaching the garden gate again. It was the second hour of the afternoon, the next day, and the sky overhead was a boiling mess of gray. The rain had yet to fall, but it was coming, certain and soon. “I’m here for my usual petition.”
    “How completely unexpected,” said the old man behind the iron bars.
    “Is it a convenient time?” From inside the garden, Jean could hear laughter again, along with a series of echoing smacks, as though something were being thrown against a stone wall. “Or is the scholar consumed—”
    “By work. Stranger, has the conversation we had yesterday fled your memory?”
    “I must beg you, sir.” Jean put as much passionate sincerity as he could into his voice. “A good man lies dying, in desperate need of aid. Did your master not take oath as a physiker of the Collegium?”
    “His oaths are no business of yours. And many good men lie dying, in desperate want of aid, in Lashain and Karthain and every other place in the world. Do you see the scholar saddling his horse to seek them out?”
    “Please.” Jean shook a fresh envelope, jingling the coins within. “At least carry the message, for the love of all the gods.”
    Wearing half a scowl and half a smirk, the servant reached through the bars. Jean dropped the envelope, seized the man by the collar, and slammed him hard against the gate. An instant later Jean flourished a knife in his free hand.
    It was a push-dagger, the sort wielded with a thrusting fist rather than a fencer’s grip. The blade seated against Jean’s knuckles was half a foot long and curved like an animal’s claw.
    “There’s only one use for a knife like this,” whispered Jean. “You see it? You try to call out or pull away, and you’ll be wearing your belly-fat for an apron. Open the gate.”
    “You’ll die for this,” hissed the servant. “They’ll skin you and boil you in salt water.”
    “And what a consolation that will be for you, eh?” Jean prodded him in the stomach with his knife. “Open the gate or I’ll take the keys from your corpse.”
    With a shaking hand, the old man opened the gate. Jean threw it aside, grabbed the servant again, and turned him around. The knife was now at the small of the man’s back.
    “Take me to your master. Stay composed. Tell him that an important case has come up and that he
will
want to hear my offer.”
    “The scholar is in the garden. But you’re mad.… He has friends in the highest places … urk!”
    Jean poked him again with the blade, urging him forward.
    “Of course,” said Jean. “But do you have any friends closer than my knife?”
    At the heart of the garden, a short, solid man of about thirty-five was sharing a hearty laugh with a woman who had yet to see twenty. Both of them wore light breeches, silk shirts, and padded leather gloves. That explained the rhythmic