If you’ve ever played Dungeons & Dragons, you probably know that any thief/rogue character automatically knows a language called “Thieves’ Cant.” It’s not really all that well described, and it includes a lot of elements that aren’t technically part of a canting language. Back in the day I played D&D, which hasn’t been for some years now (I moved on to other, more flexible systems), I basically just thought of it as a secret language and left it at that.

Image: romanchazov27
But canting languages are really super-cool. The essence of a cant is it’s a means of communication you can use when you’re being observed without the people who are eavesdropping on you knowing what you’re saying.
The canonical go-to example of a canting language is probably Cockney rhyming slang. Take a common, popular two-word expression. Find a word that rhymes with the second word of the expression. Use the first word of the expression in place of that word.
So for example, you might say “mate, I’m in barney, did you bring the bangers?” Barney: Barney Rubble: Trouble. Bangers: Bangers and mash: Cash. “I’m in barney, did you bring the bangers?” means “I’m in trouble, did you bring the cash?”
It’s never been as popular or widely used as pop culture makes it seem, but it’s a cool and interesting example of a cant.
I quite like the idea of canting languages. They’re a way of concealing meaning in an open and hostile environment; kind of like obfuscated JavaScript on malicious websites, in fact. They’re subject to enormous adaptive pressure because, of course, authorities will learn the cants used by the criminal underworld, so they have to change rapidly, but if they change too rapidly they become unintelligible for the people using them. The idea of a universal cant like in D&D is a bit absurd; they’re really of limited use, and they’ve never been all that common.

For my novel Black Iron, I had tremendous fun researching Victorian-era British slang for a canting language used among street urchins:
“My qab!” Missy said. A grin of delight split her grubby face. She leapt to her feet, hands out imploringly.
“I beg your pardon?” Skarbunket said.
“She means her hat, sir,” Mayferry said.
Missy made an exasperated noise. “It’s what I said! My qab! Give it t’me!”
Mayferry took the hat from Skarbunket and peered into it. “Aye, it’s a rum qab for a brim couch as yourself.” He set the hat on Missy’s head. It fell until it nearly covered her eyes. “Where did you get it?”
“I tole you!” Missy said. “It was my pa’s.”
“That’s a rumple kaddie, lass,” Mayferry said. “Don’t snap me for a bemmer. Where did you really get it?”
Skarbunket and Bristol looked sideways at each other. “Well, well, Mister Mayferry, you never cease to amaze,” Skarbunket said. “What the blazes are you two talking about?”
“Thank you, sir. I told her it’s a very fine hat for a young child, but I know she’s lying about where she got it, sir,” Mayferry said.
“Obviously she’s lying,” Bristol said. “We’re wasting our time.”
Skarbunket held out his hand. “No day in which we learn something is a wasted day. Today we have learned something interesting about Officer Mayferry, I think. Pray continue, Mister Mayferry.”
Missy squinched up her face. “‘Pray continue, Mister Mayferry.’ ’E talks like a jeeve.”
“That’s not a very nice thing to say,” Mayferry said. “He got you back your hat.”
Missy looked from Mayferry to Skarbunket and back again. “Aight, I s’pose ’e’s jayed ’nuff.”
“It’s not nice to rim your friends,” Mayferry said.
“Posies ain’t my friends,” Missy shot back.
“These posies got you your hat back.”
Missy looked doubtful. “Well…”
“That’s what the posies are for, isn’t it? That’s why you came to us. To help you get what was rightfully yours. And you have it back!”
Her grin returned. “My qab!”
“We’re not going to take it away,” Mayferry said. “We just want to know where you got it for real.”
“It’s mine! I tole you already!” She folded her arms defiantly in front of her. “My pa gave it t’me! Now you go away!”
Mayferry spread his hands. “Okay. Tell us about the hackie cove who cleved your qab.”
Missy’s face darkened. “’E didn’t give me a shilling.”
“How did you know where he was when you came to us?”
“I followed him, I did! ’E’s a fox an’ duckie for sure. Went all over like ’e had a shortie waking ’im. I was too duckie for ’im. I waked ’im all the way.” Her small face beamed with pride.
“Translation, if you please, Mister Mayferry?” Skarbunket said.
“She’s saying she followed him. Apparently he went to some trouble not to be followed.”
Canting languages are interesting because they’re a playground for language, intended to obfuscate as well as communicate. One thing cants have in common is that, almost by definition, they’re a direct channel for communication. The meaning is hidden in the way they use language, obfuscating the intended meaning behind words that are used in unusual ways or behind invented words, but they’re still direct communication; as long as the sender and receiver know the meanings of the words as they’re used, the communication is straightforward.
My Talespinner and I have finished the third draft of our far-future, post-Collapse magical realism literary novel, so we’ve set it aside to percolate before we return to the fourth draft. In the meantime, we’ve started a new novel, this one a hyperurbanized retrofuturist court-intrigue gangster noir, set in the fictional city of Bander Lautan, kind of a mashup of Hong Kong and Singapore but in an archology that’s basically completely enclosed from stem to stern, but not, like, in a deliberately planned way; think Singapore’s Interlace reimagined as a sort of hotel/convention center on steroids that just so happens to have a population of eight million souls.
The protagonist, Indah Tam, is a gangster, a member of an all-woman organized crime gang that calls itself Warisan Kita (“our legacy”), divided into clans called kongsi. Her particular clan, Taman Kongsi (Garden Clan; informally, taman wanita, garden of women), is one of five kongsi operating in Bander Lautan. (Why all women? Because men are far too emotional for this life, of course. Men will go to war over something like “honor” or some personal insult, the poor dears. They just don’t understand why that’s bad for business.)
Indah is a “Diplomat,” a euphemistic title meaning her job is primarily concerned with dealing with other kongsi and with law enforcement. This sometimes requires actual diplomacy, but a kongsi’s Diplomat is also the tip of the spear, something like the gangland equivalent of the Culture’s Special Circumstances; she handles everything from skulduggery of various sorts to espionage and counterespionage to dirty tricks to sabotage to assassination. In the world of Warisan Kita, the Diplomat is the knife.

Indah Tam, Diplomat of the Taman Kongsi.
The language of Bander Lautan started as a pidgin, then a creole of Malay, Penang Hokkien, and Indonesian. It has a ton of loanwords from Malay and Hokkien, with a smattering of Singlish (which is itself a creole of Malay, English, Hokkien, Cantonese, Mandarin, and Tamil).
Kitty and I decided early on that the language of Bander Lautan, which we still haven’t named, would be atonal. We flirted briefly with the idea that it would have a gestural component that served the same function as tones in a tonal language, but abandoned it as unworkable. If you can’t see the person you’re talking to, the “tonal” component is lost.
What we did instead is give the Warisan Kita a cant, but the cant is gestural. Subtle gestures modify the words being said, negating them, inverting them, or in some cases changing the meaning entirely. Each kongsi has its own particular library of gestures and what they mean, but regardless of the individual gestures, the idea is the same: to prevent conversations from being understood by eavesdroppers.
The gestures address one of the weaknesses of a traditional cant: if a conversation is recorded, which is highly likely (Bander Lautan is a high-surveillance society), the recordings can’t be decoded even if someone who knows the cant is brought in to listen to the recording, or if law enforcement should happen to crack the code. You need a recording of the spoken words and its accompanying gestures, which is more difficult to do by, say, wearing a wire.
This isn’t technically a canting language, because in a conventional canting language, communication takes place in an overt channel, it’s just that the main communication channel is obfuscated to prevent an eavesdropper from understanding it. As long as the speaker and listener both understand the cant, communication is no different from any spoken language.
With the cants of the Warisan Kita, communication is sidechannel. The gestures modify the meaning of the words being spoken; a listener unaware of the gestural part of the language gets one meaning, an insider who understands the sidechannel gets a completely different meaning.
It’s been a ton of fun to develop this system. To my knowledge, there are no real-world examples of canting languages that work this way.








The Brits have it right.