Thief's Covenant (A Widdershins Adventure) (29 page)

NOW
:

Two years might change a person, but rarely a city. As Widdershins slipped through the darkened alleyways that flowed into Davillon's central marketplace, she couldn't help but remember that hellish night. The sights and sounds and scents were the same. People still shouted their arguments or whispered their black-market deals, and footpads still waylaid lone wanderers through the nighttime streets, taking money and lives.

And demons, Widdershins reminded herself with a shiver, still lurked in the shadows.

She'd escaped the confines of the Finders' Guild with ease—troubling ease, when she thought about it. True, Olgun had indeed remembered their route, guided her through the maze of passages. Still, she'd been certain there would be armed guards waiting at the exit, or skulking in ambush along the way.

But she'd met few Finders, and those she encountered allowed her to pass without incident, either having seen her moments ago with Hubert, or simply assuming that anyone this deep into the guild's headquarters must
belong
there. And it only got easier still. Near the front door, Widdershins encountered no sign of life, save the pained moans of the woman she'd dumped unceremoniously in the closet. It was just one more worry to add to her growing collection.

She lurked now across the street from the Flippant Witch, and wondered again if she'd been right to come here. Olgun swore he could hide her trail from the creature hunting her, at least for a while. But she knew there were other ways to find her, and she feared she might be putting Genevieve in terrible danger.

All the same, Widdershins felt a desperate need to know that her friend was all right.

“This is stupid,” she berated herself, as she abandoned her hiding spot, flickering across the street in a blur of motion. “I told her to find someplace safe until opening time; she's probably not even in there. Just Robin and the other servants…” Her hand closed on the door's tarnished latch.

“Pardon me, mademoiselle. I wonder if I might impose for a moment of your—”

Considering the evening's prior events, it's perhaps understandable that Widdershins reacted as she did. With a closed fist, she backhanded the speaker across the jaw before he could finish, knocking him from the steps. He landed hard, looking up to find her already standing over him, blade drawn.

“…time,” the young man finished with an audible swallow, his voice rising several octaves, one hand clutched to his bleeding lip.

Widdershins frowned. This gangly, brown-robed youth didn't look much like either a guild assassin or demon conjurer. Nevertheless, she kept her rapier rock-steady against his neck.

“Of course,” he continued nervously, “if that's too much to ask, I'm more than willing to negotiate.”

“Who are you?” Widdershins barked at him. “What do you want?”

“Oh. That is, my name is Brother Maurice. And as far as what I want, well, I imagine that the first priority would be to have your sword just a bit farther from my throat.”

She stepped back, moving the blade away from Maurice's jugular. “Stand up.”

He did so, and it was only then that she finally noticed the tonsure shaved into the top of his head.

Maurice brushed the worst of the dirt from his chest, attempting to salvage some modicum of dignity. He carefully smoothed the front of his robe and met Widdershins eye-to-eye, though he couldn't entirely hide the fear lurking behind his own. Widdershins reluctantly lowered the rapier.

“I wouldn't dream of speaking for you,” the young monk told her, “but I find this arrangement substantially more comfortable.”

“Did you want something, Brother Maurice?” she asked bluntly, eyes darting in all directions. This felt too much like a deliberate distraction.

“My instructions,” he said, taking refuge in duty and orders, “are to deliver to you an invitation. That is, assuming you
are
the thie—ah, lady called Widdershins?”

Lying just seemed more effort than it was worth at this point.

“Yes, that's me. An invitation from whom? And for what?”

“From the archbishop William de Laurent. Apparently, you made an impression at your first meeting. He's quite anxious to speak with you at your earliest convenience.”

Widdershins blinked. “He…I…
Why?”

Maurice shrugged. “I couldn't say. He told me to deliver his request; he didn't confide his motives, and I don't make it a practice to ask.”

“No, you wouldn't.” Widdershins shook her head, finally sheathing her rapier with a hiss that masked the monk's sigh of relief. “How did you
find
me, anyway?”

“His Eminence told me what part of town to start with.” The young monk raised his eyes heavenward. “I wouldn't dare speculate on the insights made available to the archbishop in times of need, but I imagine that knowing your name and, uh, profession was helpful. After that, I asked around until someone mentioned that you frequent this establishment.”

“You…you just went around Davillon's poor neighborhoods asking random strangers about a
known thief
?! You're suicidal, yes? I knew taking the cloth had to do bad things to the brain.”

“The gods watch over me,” Maurice said stiffly. “I was in no danger.”

Widdershins wondered how the man could fit that much naïveté into a frame that skinny. And yet—here he was. Nobody had harmed a hair on his tonsure.

All she could was shrug; given what she'd seen Olgun do, it wasn't as though she had any real standing
not
to believe. “All right, fine. Is there a particular place he wants to meet me?”

This, Maurice had been warned, was where it could get difficult. “The archbishop, unfortunately, is watched by too many eyes to go anywhere without being noticed. He apologizes for the inconvenience, but he fears you'll have to come to him.”

“At some House estate?” Widdershins's voice could have shattered glass. “Is he insane?!”

“He expressed his utmost confidence in your ability to arrange such a rendezvous, mademoiselle. Apparently, your ability to reach him the first time impressed him.”

“Yes, but that was
before
someone made an attempt on his life, Brother. He's being watched more closely than a free exhibition at a brothel and—oh.” Widdershins blushed, remembering belatedly to whom she was speaking. “Umm, sorry.”

“No trouble,” Maurice told her, hoping the heat in his own face didn't show. “I do understand your concerns,” he continued, “as does my master. But he assures me that this is most important, and there simply is no other way.”

“There never is.” Widdershins sighed.

She couldn't just sneak in. The repercussions if she was caught were too severe. Madeleine Valois could just ring the bell, but it would mean revealing her noble alter ego to the archbishop, and she didn't know how far she could trust him. So how to…?

Ah.

“His Eminence has nuns in his traveling entourage, yes?”

“Why, yes, but what difference does that—?”

“You,” she told him with a smirk, “are going to help me pick up a new habit.”

Maurice choked as understanding crashed down upon him. “Oh, gods. I'm going to hell.”

“Probably, but you're the one who invited me, and now I'm too damned curious to ignore it.”

The monk deflated in his robes. “Fine. I'll get you what you need.”

“Excellent. Don't be in
too
much of a rush.” She eyed the door to the Witch one last time and then sighed. “I'm going to go home and grab at least a few hours' sleep, or else I'm likely to collapse on His Holiness's lap.

“Where
is
the archbishop, anyway? I'm sure they hustled him out of Rittier's house like it was on fire. Who's he staying with now?”

“The gentleman's name is Alexandre Delacroix.”

Widdershins didn't even blink. “Of course it is,” she said.

Had she not been so distracted, so overwhelmed by worry, so utterly exhausted, Widdershins might just have realized that someone had followed her from the Flippant Witch to the ramshackle flop in which she was currently staying. Or maybe she wouldn't; the man was no slouch himself.

Louvel—or Scarface, as she knew him—rose from the corner on which he'd been begging, allowing himself a clear view of the Witch's front door, and shadowed the little thief all the way home, practically bursting at the seams. Brock would be delighted, Eudes would be avenged, and Louvel himself would earn himself a nice, fat bonus. Just a quick detour back to his own apartment to shed his beggar's garb and pick up some heavier blades, and he'd be ready to report back to—

“Don't move a muscle.”

He froze, one hand on the latch to his door, and glanced over his shoulder. Coming at him from both directions down the dilapidated hall were uniformed Guardsmen led by an officer with a thick brown mustache. Half a dozen flintlocks, and even a pair of blunderbusses, gaped open in his direction.

“In the name of Davillon, Vercoule, and Demas,” the officer continued, “you are under arrest for arson, conspiracy to murder, and being an accomplice to the murder of a City Guard.” The officer stopped just beside him, jabbing his flintlock into Louvel's side hard enough to draw a pained grunt and leave a bruise that wouldn't fade for some time.

“Just so you know,” the man whispered gruffly, “I had myself a friendly chat with your Shrouded Lord the other night. You, my friend, are on your own.”

The thug visibly sagged.

“And if it's all the same to you,” the Guardsman continued, “I'd really like you to resist.”

Louvel decided, rather wisely, not to oblige. And all he could think, as the Guardsmen led him away in manacles so heavy it was all he could do to shuffle along, was
Brock's really not going to be happy when I don't show.

Alexandre Delacroix was not in a pleasant mood. The archbishop's early arrival to his home had upset a very delicate timetable and inconvenienced a great many people. Parties and balls needed rescheduling; appointments had to be pushed up, pushed back, or canceled; other projects and endeavors postponed. His servants had scurried about the house and the city, light or dark, rain or shine, for days on end, preparing for the churchman's untimely, and possibly extended, stay. Claude, who really should have been here doing half a dozen different tasks, was instead out and about in the city performing a dozen more and leaving the master behind to deal with all manner of bookkeeping that Alexandre had not touched in years.

Thus it was, when he heard the door chime that particular evening, he hunched his shoulders, gritted his teeth, and ignored it.
Another damned highborn fop
, he'd no doubt,
come to petition the archbishop for some favor or other that His Eminence will politely refuse.
Such it had been since the day the clergyman arrived: petitioner after petitioner, most in the guise of social visitors for Alexandre himself, but all inevitably asking if they might take just a moment to “pay their respects.”

With a shudder, he directed his attentions back to the desk. For over an hour, he'd attempted to balance a set of numbers that refused to properly add up. He rubbed at the bridge of his nose and glanced again at the report. “Gains and Losses in the Wool Market, as Pertain to Our Interests in Outer Hespelene.”