Thief's Covenant (A Widdershins Adventure) (22 page)

Huddled deep in a tattered cloak, good hand and bad both wrapped in a beggar's bandages, Henri Roubet waited in the shadows of a nearby alley. His companions had been inside a while, now, and the former Guardsman was growing ever more concerned that something had gone wrong—or that one of the guild sentries would decide he was more than the vagabond he seemed, and run him off. He'd give them a few more minutes, but then…

Then, thank the gods, Jean Luc and the others emerged, apparently unharmed. They looked this way and that, as though getting their bearings, but for a split second the assassin met his eyes and nodded. All right, they had what they needed. Now it was his turn.

Jean Luc and the others disappeared down a side street, followed a moment later—as they'd known they would be—by several guild thieves, determined to learn whom they served. Roubet let them go; they weren't his concern.

The second group, however, led by the large, limping man with the hammer, were
definitely
his concern. Sticking close to the shadows, Roubet flitted after them.

“I see that you're not the only crazy man out and about tonight, Major.”

“Of course not,” Julien Bouniard said as he carefully slid both rapier and scabbard from the frog at his belt. “You're here with me, sir.”

“Amusing, lad. But that's not what I meant.” Chapelle reached out and grabbed the guard by the shoulders, physically turning him so that he would have to gaze down over the lip of the roof on which they stood. From above, the pair of them watched as multiple groups departed the structure across the lane.

Julien's eyes narrowed at the sight of the second group. “That big fellow there may be the man who was fighting with Widdershins,” he noted.

“Good. Go chase him. It's by far the saner activity.”

“You agreed this had to be done, sir.”

“I did no such thing. I agreed to help you do it, because I'd feel guilty if you went off and got yourself killed and I could've done something. That doesn't remotely alter the fact that I think you're mad as a syphilitic hatter.”

The younger man's eyes widened just a bit, and Chapelle muttered something about his years out of uniform having made him too lax about watching his tongue.

And then there was nothing to be done but for the old former sergeant to watch as his companion—his friend—moved down the rickety stairs and made his way, unarmed, toward the heart of organized crime in Davillon.

Julien struggled to keep his breathing even and his shoulders straight as he neared the doorway, but there was nothing he could do about the sweat gathering on his palms, or the hairs rising on the nape of his neck. The Finders' Guild had lasted this long, in part, by staying smart—they weren't going to murder a member of the guard without cause. Then again, the incident in the gaol suggested that their attitudes might've changed recently, and even if they had not, the
guild
acting smart didn't mean everyone
in
the guild had a brain to call their own.

A faint breeze gusted along the roadway, hauling the scents of woods and meats and smokes on its back, setting Julien's cloak to rustling. He was certain he was being watched, that the guild must have eyes trained on the street, but damned if he could spot any of them. With a fist that wasn't shaking at all—and he was rather proud of himself for that—Julien pounded on the door.

A sliding panel, so cunningly concealed in the woodwork that Julien hadn't the vaguest suspicion it was there, slid open with a loud clack. He couldn't see much of the person behind it, just barely enough to guess that it was a woman. Her voice confirmed that guess when she barked out, “We're closed for business at this hour, and we're not looking for new clients at any rate.”

“I want to see the Shrouded Lord.”

It was, at the least, unexpected enough to stay her hand before she could slide the aperture shut once more.
“What?”

“You heard me. Let's not waste either of our time pretending that this place is something it's not. I need to speak to the Shrouded Lord. Immediately.”

“You…” The woman clearly hadn't the slightest idea how to respond. “You're mad!”

“Getting there,” Julien told her. “Nearer every moment we stand here arguing, in fact. I'm unarmed. I'm planning no tricks. Now be a good little thief and let me in.” Then, at the narrowing of her eyes, “And don't even think it. I'm not alone.”

He waved, and at that prearranged signal, a lantern blazed from atop the roof, then just as swiftly vanished. Julien knew that Chapelle was already moving to a new vantage point, in case any of the thieves chose to converge on the source of the light. But it was enough to prove that Julien was being watched by eyes from
both
sides of the law.

“So,” the major continued, “your options are exactly these. You can refuse to let me in, and risk the possibility that what I've to say to your master is something he'd wish to hear. You can kill me, of course, but then you've committed the cold-blooded murder of a Guardsman—with a witness, no less—right outside your headquarters, and I'll just bet that
that
wouldn't make you popular with your boss, either. Or you can let me in, and allow me to speak with him, and let
him
decide what's to be done with me and the news I bring.”

Almost a full minute passed as the thief on guard duty struggled with a conundrum for which she obviously wasn't remotely prepared. And then, finally, Julien heard the clank of a heavy deadbolt. The door swung slowly open before him, and with a nervous swallow, a frantic prayer to Demas, and a sudden deluge of second thoughts for which it was already far too late, Major Julien Bouniard stepped across the threshold into the headquarters of the Finders' Guild.

Lisette wound her way along darkened corridors, hollow worms that twisted through the depths of the Finders' Guild. It was nothing but a modest and mildly dilapidated building on the surface, but the sprawling complex beneath was nearly as large and convoluted as the palace of Galice's king. Any poor soul who didn't know what he was doing could easily find himself lost for days on end down here—assuming one of the guards didn't end his visit prematurely.

Lisette's journey finally carried her into the gargantuan stone shrine roughly at the center of the complex. She settled to her knees atop a long, plush cushion that some thoughtful soul had placed before the idol, and offered up to her patron her heartfelt thanks.

Her reverie was interrupted perhaps fifteen minutes later by the gentle swish of a chapel door.

Gracefully, her gaze remaining locked on the god of Davillon's thieves, Lisette stood, a rising serpent. Only then did she look away from the stone deity, turning toward the newcomer and nodding her head in acknowledgment.

“He wants to see you,” the thief told her. He didn't say, and she didn't ask, who “he” was. Head high and haughty, she made her way to the smoke-filled chamber.

“I understand we've had visitors,” the Shrouded Lord announced without preamble.

“We have indeed,” she confirmed.

“Tell me.”

For long moments Lisette spoke, the triumph in her voice marred only by the occasional cough as the fumes in the chamber tickled her throat. Still longer moments passed in silence when she was done, as the Shrouded Lord sat immobile, considering her words.

The taskmaster grinned again, nothing but teeth. “I told you she would hand us enough rope to hang herself. It's time to tie us a noose.”

“I…” Was it her imagination, or was the Shrouded Lord
hesitating?
“Yes, I suppose we—”

Whatever he might have said was lost in a loud tapping at his chamber door. “Enter!”

One of the Finders—the same who had fetched Lisette from the shrine—stuck his head through the doorway. “You've got a visitor.”

“Can't you see that we're busy?” Lisette snapped at him, furious that her moment of triumph had been interrupted.

“I—yes, Taskmaster, but I think you two
really
need to see him.” Only then did Lisette recognize the underlying sense of astonishment beneath the man's words.

“Our little clubhouse seems popular tonight,” the Shrouded Lord observed before his lieutenant could speak further. “All right, escort him in.”

She wasn't certain what she was expecting, but a man clad in full uniform, sporting the fleur-de-lis of the Davillon Guard, was absolutely not on the list. Lisette couldn't help sucking her breath through her teeth in shock, and even the Shrouded Lord, obscured by the smoke and his ragged garb, seemed to twitch in surprise.

“He's been searched,” the thief behind the door announced. “Three times, at least. He's unarmed.”

“Go,” the Shrouded Lord said simply, and the thief vanished, pulling the portal shut behind him. “You're a brave man, Constable…?”

“Or a stupid one,” Lisette muttered, not entirely under her breath.

“Major,” the other man corrected. “And with your indulgence, I believe I'd like to forgo names for the time being.”

Lisette opened her mouth to object, thought better of it.
Best see where this leads….

“Very well,
Major
,” the mouth growled from behind the shroud. “If we're forgoing the pleasantries, what the hell are you thinking?”

“I'm thinking that neither of us wants open bloodshed in the streets of Davillon, so with all due respect, perhaps you should tell me what the hell
you
were thinking?”

Lisette struggled to hide a smirk—partly because she enjoyed seeing someone else speaking to the Shrouded Lord without simpering to him, mostly because she was pretty sure she knew what was coming. If the Guard was just as furious at Widdershins's actions against the archbishop, was prepared to hold them against the guild, it was just that much more impetus to hunt her down and—

“Sending an assassin into a city gaol, ‘my lord'? Murdering Guardsmen? Are you
trying
to start a war?”

Oh, shit…

“Because I'll tell you, ‘my lord,' if we have to petition de Laurent to find us a way around the ban on conflict within the Pact, we're fully prepared to—”

“Major, shut up.”