Thief's Covenant (A Widdershins Adventure) (17 page)

“Well, no, they don't, but—”

The thief seemed not even to hear her. “So, fine. All right. If they're going to blame me anyway, I'm damned well going to do something to earn it.”

That suspicion Genevieve had been ignoring turned into a shiver, running an icy, lecherous touch down her spine. “Shins…What are you talking about?”

“I'm going to rob the archbishop.”

For long moments, no sound escaped Genevieve's throat, though her jaw worked furiously. No one, not even Widdershins, could be
that
crazy!

“It's not crazy!” the thief objected after her friend finally squeaked out a few syllables. Then, “Well, all right, maybe it is. But I have to do it anyway. I am
not
going to be pushed around like this, not for something I didn't even do! I'm going to rob the archbishop, and I'm not going to get caught, and nobody's going to be able to prove it was me, even though they're all going to know it! And they're all going to know that they're better off just leaving me the hell alone!”

“Shins—”

“No! I'm doing this, and damn the whole lot of them!”

“Shins!” Gen finally exploded. “
Think
a minute! All you'll accomplish is to bring them down on you harder than ever! So what if they can't
prove
it was you? You think either the Finders' Guild or the Guard is going to balk at leaping to conclusions?! You'll wind up arrested, or dead, or both! What is the
matter
with you?!”

What
is
the matter with me?
Widdershins wondered, shaken more than she'd care to admit. Sure, she was a risk taker, always had been, and sure she was frustrated, angrier than she could ever remember. But she wasn't a moron—she knew that what she planned was not only crazy, it was nothing short of stupid.

But she knew, just as surely, that she would not,
could
not, back down. Nor, she realized with a gentle mental prod, would Olgun, who seemed just as anxious to see this done.

Could that be it? Was the god influencing her reactions, her emotions? Was Olgun prodding her into doing something from which she would normally have walked away? Did the tiny deity even
have
that much power over her?

No. Even if he could, why
would
he? This was nobody's decision but her own.

“I'm going,” she said simply, voice steady, tone final. “I wish I could make you understand, Gen.”
Then maybe you could explain it to me.
“But I
am
doing this. I'm sorry.”

Genevieve cast her gaze downward, her fingers spinning the stem of her goblet.

“Who's de Laurent staying with first?” Widdershins asked softly.

Her friend refused to look up. “I can't stop you from getting yourself killed, Shins, but I'm certainly not going to help you!”

“You know I can find out elsewhere, Gen. I'd rather you be the one to tell me. Everyone else I ask adds that much more risk of word getting out. Please?”

The blonde barkeep's shoulders slumped. “The Marquis de Ducarte. He'll be there a week or so, and then he moves on to his next host.”

“Thank you, Gen.”

When she finally looked up, Genevieve's eyes brimmed with tears. “Shins, please come back alive!”

“I promise, Gen. If I come back, it'll be alive.”

And then Widdershins was gone, before the fire that blazed suddenly in her friend's eyes could take root in any further word or deed.

Pockmark—whose name was actually Eudes, not that it mattered much to anyone but himself—really, really didn't care for this idea. Constables of the Guard were the sort of men that one did well to avoid, and
certainly
he could have happily gone the rest of his life without ever seeing the inside (or even the outside) of one of the city's gaols.

But he had his orders, and he had access to the sorts of coin that made him think those orders came from somewhere a little higher than Brock, however unofficially. So he grumbled, and he fretted, and he worried….

And he went.

In a deep doorway, he wore the shadows like a favorite outfit and waited, cursing his partner for every moment that passed. In truth, though, it wasn't long at all before a red-and-yellow flicker brightened the night, fingers of smoke rose to pluck the stars from the firmament. Doors and windows opened all along the block, and the nightmarish cry of “Fire!” shattered the stillness.

Men and women with buckets sprouted throughout the street, very much as though they grew wild, but it was a few moments more before a handful of constables appeared through the doors of the great granite hulk to join them.

Had to take time to make sure the cells were all secure, no doubt. But if the guards were worried at all, it was about folks breaking
out.
Not a one of them, whether outside wielding buckets or inside wielding blades, were watching for someone sneaking
in.

Pockmark moved through the chaos and casually slipped between the massive wooden doors, shuddering at the weight of the stone and steel around him. Along the walls of a vast antechamber, well away from the clerk's desk, he made his way at a rapid crouch. His body still ached, mottled with bruises and partially healed lacerations; he walked with a slight limp, and every now and again he heard a faint ringing in his left ear. But none of it was enough to slow him down, especially with revenge so near he could smell it.

In one hand, he held a minuscule crossbow, a weapon far quieter than the flintlock with which he'd been more comfortable, aimed constantly at the man behind that desk. Thankfully, he didn't have to pull the trigger. The thick shadows and the distraction of the tumult outside were more than enough to divert the clerk's attention. In a matter of moments, Pockmark was through an inner door and into the lantern-lit hallways beyond.

He'd known it wouldn't actually be
that
difficult. The bulk of the Guard were on duty elsewhere, providing escort for His Eminence or working double shifts to keep the streets clean and quiet during the holy man's visit. The various Guard installations were staffed with a skeleton crew, and most of
those
weren't exactly the cream of Demas's crop. Three times only, as he crept his way toward his destination, did Pockmark encounter a constable he could not sneak past. And on two of those occasions, a heaping handful of coin was enough to buy their cooperation.

After all, it was just a prisoner he was after. What was the harm, really?

Had they known about the
third
constable, the uncooperative one, the one currently stuffed in a broom closet with a crossbow bolt in his throat, they might have reconsidered that cooperation.

Carefully he approached another door, reloaded crossbow in one tight fist, curved dagger in the other. He knew the layout of this next chamber from personal experience, knew of the desk-mounted crossbows trained on the entryway. He had to be ready to act, and faster than the constable beyond. Taking the dagger in his teeth, he carefully nudged the latch and then, returning the weapon to his fist, hit the door with his shoulder.

The heavy portal swung inward, impacting the wall with a dull thud. Pockmark had already dropped to one knee, crossbow trained on the desk—but there was nobody there. Indeed, the door across the room stood open, revealing the hall of cells, and the constable on duty lay slumped in that doorway.

Had someone else come to do the job?

Scowling, Pockmark crossed the room, glancing down at the dead man—no, just unconscious; he could see the fellow breathing—and continued on into the hall. Many of the prisoners began to shout as he passed, clamoring for release, but most fell back at the sight of him.

The more experienced crooks, at least, knew damn well that an armed stranger in the hall meant someone wasn't going to see tomorrow. Healthier not to attract his attention.

Frowning at the noise, the Finder thug studied each cell as he passed, looking, never finding. Some were empty, some packed with strangers, but none held his target. And then he came to one, just one, standing not only empty, but open.

And he knew.

Damn it!

It shouldn't have been possible, but not for a moment did he question. She'd bloody
escaped
! Ooh, Brock was
not
going to take this well…

Enough of the prisoners had fallen silent, now, that he heard the sudden gasp at the doorway. He spun, crossbow held steady, aimed right at the heart of the man who stood gaping down at the fallen constable.

Perfect. Just what I need.

Slowly, the guard looked up from his crumpled brother and met Pockmark's gaze. “I don't suppose,” the man asked in a voice
almost
devoid of either surprise or fear, “that
you
know where my keys might have gone?”

The thug neither knew nor cared what the hell the lunatic was talking about. “Pistol and sword on the ground, guard. Now—and
slowly.”

Brass and leather scraped across the stone floor, the only sounds in a hall now grown deathly silent. Prisoners huddled in the cells, some with faces pressed to the bars so that they might see, others turned away to make it
damn
clear that they
didn't
see.

“Kick them away.” More scraping on the stone.

“Get down on your knees.” He was rewarded with a brief flicker of fear in the guard's face, but the man did as he was told.

Pockmark moved forward, tiny crossbow aimed squarely. Just a few steps closer, near enough to absolutely ensure a kill shot, not so close as to give the man a chance to grab at him. He had to get this done and get out before any of the constables returned from outside, or any of the men he'd bribed became aware that fellow guards had died tonight. He had to tell Brock, had to—

The thunder of a flintlock roared through the hall, echoes bounding almost playfully off the heavy walls. Pockmark staggered back, agony flaring through him, fire burning in his chest. He heard a distant
twang
as his own weapon discharged harmlessly into the ceiling, then fell from disobedient fingers. His hands went to his ribs, came away dripping.

But…but…Oh.

For just a moment, Pockmark's eyes focused on the bash-bang in the guard's fist—not the one the man had when he came in, but the one belonging to the unconscious constable beside whom he'd knelt.

“Well…Shit.”

They were, as last words go, not terribly inspired. But Eudes felt, before the floor rushed at him and the world went away, that they were at least an accurate assessment.

A few seconds, long enough for the pounding of his heart to subside at least a bit and his breath to come more easily to his lungs, and Major Julien Bouniard rose to his feet. He even managed to be almost steady at it. His own weapons once again firmly in his grasp, he scanned the poorly lit hall, alert for any new attack, but it seemed the man he'd just killed was alone.

Three steps, check the body—indeed, quite dead—and then a sprint down the hall, ignoring the rising chorus of catcalls and questions from within the crowded cells. Only one door was ajar, only one prisoner missing, and he couldn't even find it in himself to be remotely surprised.

Julien wasn't certain precisely what had happened here—when Widdershins had escaped, who the dead man might have been, whether he'd come to free Widdershins or with a darker purpose in mind—but one thing, at least, he knew.

The thieves and criminals of Davillon had brought their struggles and their corruption into the house of Demas. And
that
was simply unacceptable.