Thief's Covenant (A Widdershins Adventure) (13 page)

Music blared, banners waved, and thousands of people shouted their unbridled joy (even if most were celebrating not the archbishop's arrival—which meant little to them—but simply the opportunity to celebrate). Only those who'd waited since the earliest hours of the morning, ensuring that they got a street-side view or high vantage, would actually see the pristine white carriage, flanked by a dozen horsemen and followed by another seven or eight coaches carrying the archbishop's staff. The rest of the crowd would see nothing more exciting than the back of someone else's head.

One hand locked with bulldog determination on Genevieve's wrist, Widdershins slipped, slid, twisted, squeezed, weaseled, pushed, shoved, elbowed, and otherwise forced her way through the living barricade isolating her from her goal. She even went so far, on occasion, as to call on Olgun: here a woman broke into a sneezing fit, forcing her to stagger aside and allowing Widdershins to slip through the gap; that fellow there felt his belt buckle give way, once more clearing a path as he fled, red-faced, holding his pants up with his hands. In a surprisingly brief span, the barkeep and the burglar forced their way street-side, gaining an unobstructed view of…

“A carriage,” Genevieve muttered in her companion's ear, shaking her head. “All that, and you get to see a carriage. I hope you're happy, Shins. I know
I
haven't been this excited in
minutes.
”

“It's not the carriage, Gen!” Widdershins announced gleefully, refusing to look away from the snowy stallions, the luxuriously curtained windows, the ponderous gilded wheels. “It's the passenger!”

“But you can't very well
see
the passenger, now, can you?”
Sometimes I just don't
understand
that girl!

“No, but I know that he's—oh, figs.”

Genevieve tensed. “What? ‘Oh, figs'
what
?!”

“There.” Widdershins pointed at one of the soldiers: not an outrider who'd ridden from Chevareaux, but one of the eight or so Davillon Guardsmen who'd fallen in with the ostentatious procession as an additional honor guard.

“That's Julien Bouniard,” she whispered softly. “Right out in front.”

Genevieve raised an eyebrow. “Oh, come on, Shins. It's not as though he's going to just pick you out of a crowd like this. The man's got more important things on his mind, don't you think?”

Widdershins chewed her lower lip and said nothing.

The young constable, whom she'd first watched from the rafters on that awful day two years ago, insisted on intertwining himself back into her life with all the persistence of a recurring dream. Now a major himself after a meteoric rise through the ranks, he was one of the city's best, his name cursed by many of Davillon's extralegal entrepreneurs. Good as she was, Widdershins had been arrested a handful of times over the years—and more often by Bouniard than anyone else. He always made her more than a little nervous, even though he couldn't possibly know that Widdershins was also Adrienne Satti.

But Genevieve was right. No matter how skilled, how experienced, how observant he was, he'd not likely single her out of a crowd of thousands. With a deep exhalation, Widdershins forced herself to relax and enjoy the parade.

Julien Bouniard sat ramrod-straight, hands loosely clutching the reins. His tabard and uniform had been pressed and steamed, their lines crisp enough to shave with. The sterling fleur-de-lis and polished medallion of Demas glinted in the sun, and the feather in his flocked hat had been supplemented with the blue-and-green staring eye of a peacock plume.

Charlemagne, his gray-dappled steed, whickered in impatience at their plodding pace. He wanted to run, to prance ahead, at least to canter. Even a brisk walk would be nice. But no, here he was, trudging down the cobblestones, surrounded on all sides by other, inferior equines and the gargantuan wheeled contraptions, at roughly the pace of a mule with gout.

“Easy, Charles,” Julien comforted him, laying a steady hand alongside the animal's neck. “I don't like it either.”

The horse snorted once more, unimpressed.

Julien couldn't help but smile beneath his thick, walnut-brown mustache (an affectation he'd adopted along with his promotion to major, hoping it would make him look old enough for the part). He understood the beast's frustration—shared it, in fact. Ceremonial duties like this were enough to make him long for a fast-paced day of paperwork.

The Guardsman, ever alert for ambush, scowled as he spotted familiar features in the crowd. He knew, even without asking, that he'd never get permission to leave the procession. He was the ranking officer, and it was essential, or so it had been drummed into his head a million times over the past weeks, that the city make the best of all possible impressions on its revered guest.

So what sort of impression would it make on His Eminence if a street thief swiped his mantle off his shoulders, or used him as bait for some other, local catch? She wasn't the first known criminal he'd spotted in the crowd, and he'd deal with her as he had the others.

By taking no chances.

Pulling very subtly on the reins, Julien urged the warhorse to fall back a few paces, drawing even with the white-enameled carriage door. Leaning over, he rapped with leather-gloved knuckles on the rickety wooden portal.

The shade rose smoothly, the curtains drew back, and a kindly old face peered outward. “Is there a problem, Major?” William de Laurent asked curiously.

“Nothing serious, Your Eminence,” Julien told him politely, bowing his head in a curt show of respect. “I've spotted a known criminal in the crowd, and—”

“Another one, Major? Had a bumper crop this year, did you?”

Julien frowned. He was walking a tightrope here, and he knew it, trying to balance the archbishop's safety on one hand, his impression of Davillon on the other.

“No more than any city's plagued with, Your Eminence. Crowds offer a lot of opportunities, though, so here they come.”

“Of course. And you would like to dismiss a guard to run off and apprehend this criminal, as you did the last one?”

“Ah, perhaps two guards in this instance, Your Eminence.”

The archbishop raised an eyebrow. “Is that necessary, Major? Might he not simply be here to enjoy the spectacle?”

“She, Your Eminence. And she very well might be, yes. On the other hand, I've experience with this particular thief. She's extremely resourceful, a ghost when she wants to be, and absolutely unencumbered by the weight of common sense. I'd feel better knowing that she was out of the way, and thus not planning to rob you blind—pardon me for saying so—for the duration of your visit. At the very least, I'd like to encourage her to move out of your general vicinity.”

Julien was fully prepared to argue his case further, as politely as possible, but de Laurent simply smiled. “I believe you're worrying unnecessarily, Major. But I'm hardly qualified to tell you how to do your job. Dispatch your men if you think it best. I think I'll survive the hordes of assassins without them until they return.”

Julien smiled broadly. “Thank you, Your Eminence.”

William de Laurent nodded and closed the shade. Julien gestured to the nearest two guards, both of whom broke ranks and approached. As their horses plodded sluggishly forward, Julien growled his instructions.

When the two Guardsmen wheeled their horses around in her direction, Widdershins could no longer share Genevieve's confidence.

“Move!” she shouted, grabbing her friend by the hand and pulling her back through the crowd they'd battled moments earlier. “Gods, I don't believe this! What are the odds?”

“I'd have said pretty slim, but under the circumstances…,” Genevieve told her, eyes slightly glazed.

“There must be hundreds of known thieves in this crowd! Why is he singling
me
out?!”

“How many of those hundred thieves put themselves at the
front
of the crowd?”

“Well
now's
a fine time to point that out!”

Genevieve twisted, owl-like, glancing nervously behind her. The Guardsmen moved quickly, though there was insufficient room for their mounts. The crowd parted, shoved with swift-moving hands where the black-and-silver tabards weren't enough to clear the path.

With a sudden jerk, Genevieve yanked her hand from Widdershins's grip. “They're not after me, Shins!” she shouted, already separated from her friend by several layers of the milling assemblage. “I'll be fine! Run!”

“But—”

Genevieve pointed at the oncoming guards, moving through the throng far faster than she could match with her bad leg. “
Run!
”

Widdershins ran, first plowing through the crowd with all the grace of a runaway yak, then, once she'd calmed, more nimbly, dancing around people rather than knocking them aside. The Guardsmen gradually fell behind, and Widdershins burst from the mob and bolted for the nearest alley. All she needed was to get out of their sight for a handful of seconds and they'd never see her again.

Olgun screamed at her as she rounded the corner, but for once, even the great Widdershins's feline reflexes weren't fast enough. Something whistled from the shadows of the alleyway, crashing hard into her stomach. The thief doubled up, the agony a blade stabbing through her. She heard a strangled cry echoing from the darkened alleyway, and only faintly recognized the voice as her own. She found herself on her hands and knees in the garbage, violently retching up the contents of her stomach.

Vomit, she realized with a dull horror, mingled with blood.

A thoughtful look on his face, Brock materialized from the alley, his hammer swinging casually in a one-handed grip. “Oh, that doesn't look good for you, Widdershins,” he commented, poking with one booted toe at the unpleasant mess she'd heaved up. “I think you may have ruptured something.”

“Brock…,” Widdershins croaked through filth-encrusted lips, glaring with pain-deadened eyes.

“Are you upset, Widdershins? You're speaking in Chicken again.” A look of rage twisted the enforcer's face just before he kicked his victim in the stomach, the force of the blow lifting her from the ground.

Widdershins screamed. Her stomach felt as though she'd swallowed a brimming mug of molten iron, and she spat up another mouthful of bile-tinged blood even as she landed, shoulder first, on the cobblestones. Unable to act, to think, she curled into a tight ball around the pain, gasping, lacking breath even to fuel the anguished sobs that racked her chest and throat.

“Hurts, doesn't it?” Brock continued conversationally, idly spinning the hammer. “A lot?” He smiled abruptly. “Maybe even more than being kicked—twice—in the pomegranates? More than having a damn staircase dropped on your head? Well, I'll do you a favor. I'll make the hurting stop.”

“Can't…” Widdershins gulped several mouthfuls of air, trying to focus. “Can't…kill me…”

“Oh, can't I? Everyone knows your reputation for acting before you think, you stupid little bitch! No one'll doubt it when I say that you attacked me first.”

“Olgun…,” she coughed, unable to whisper.

“Olgun?” Brock squinted. “Who the hell is Olgun? And why should I care if he believes me?”

“Help…” Another cough, another mouthful of brackish blood. Widdershins spit it out, nauseated at the metallic taste, the slimy feel as it oozed over her tongue and between her teeth. It splattered across the cobblestones in a thin red spray, dotting Brock's shoes.

“That was rude,” he told her. “A guy might start to think you didn't care for him.”

Widdershins wasn't listening. She lay huddled and shaking, and struggled to bite back a sob of relief as she felt the familiar tingling in the air around her, felt the deity's divine touch. The pain, a roaring blaze, dimmed to a low flame—still intense, still agonizing, but no longer crippling. She wouldn't be dancing any time soon, but at least she wasn't bleeding to death internally. Her stomach muscles spasmed as Olgun set to right several bits that had been ripped apart by Brock's brutal assault. She tried not to cringe at the feel of things shifting around inside her. Olgun had saved her…partially.

She'd have to finish the job herself.