Thief's Covenant (A Widdershins Adventure) (30 page)

Shutting the ledger with an angry thump, Alexandre shot from his desk, oblivious to the fact that his chair knocked over a potted plant by the window, and stalked from the room.

Recognizing the conflagration in his eyes and the glower on his face, the servants hastily cleared his path. He stomped as he walked, shoes mercilessly crushing the carpet. He wished one of the servants
would
say something to him, block his path, do something,
anything
, to justify a screaming fit. He felt guilty—most had gone above and beyond the call in recent weeks—but only a
little
guilty.

So preoccupied was he, he almost missed it.

Alexandre halted so abruptly that his shoes snagged in the carpet. He had just passed by an open door, and he'd seen…No. He couldn't possibly have seen what he
thought
he had.

Backtracking, he peeked his head around the door frame. There, seated in a small tea room, was the guest heralded by the recent door chime. No empty-headed aristocrat, as he'd expected, but a Church nun in the traditional blue and silver, presumably here to speak to His Eminence on some ecclesiastical matter or other.

Except Alexandre knew that this was no more a nun than he was. She'd made a reasonable attempt at disguise: Her skin was duskier than Alexandre remembered it, her lips fuller, her cheeks more sunken.

But even beneath the makeup, and wrapped in that ridiculous wimple, Alexandre would have recognized that face anywhere. It was a face carved so deeply in his memory that it ached, a face he'd seen in a thousand dreams.

Alexandre slammed the door fully open, his pace carrying him into the center of the room before it rebounded from the wall. A livery-clad servant, leaning down to serve the guest, bolted upright, nearly overturning both the carafe and the goblet upon his silver tray. For her own part, the young nun rose and curtsied deeply, her head bent low.

“Forgive me, my lord,” the steward stammered, steadying his shaking tray with a white-gloved hand. “I wasn't expecting you, and you'd ordered us not to disturb you with visitors to His Eminence, and…” The slender fellow swallowed nervously as the master continued to ignore him.

Gamely, he tried again. “My lord, this is Sister Elspeth, here for a conference with the archbishop. Sister Elspeth, this is—”

“Get out.”

“But, my lord—”

“I said
get out.
If you haven't heard from me in ten minutes, or if you hear any hint of a disturbance from this room, you are to summon the guards—both my own and the city's—immediately.”

“But—”

“Go!”

The young lady kept her head low, even after the door drifted shut, briefly serenading the room with an audible, and slightly ominous, click.

“It's truly a privilege to meet you, monsieur,” she began, her voice low. “I've heard so much about—”

“Give a feeble old man
some
credit, Adrienne. Did you really think that disguise would fool me?”

With a resigned sigh, Widdershins raised her head. She couldn't help but notice how many more lines were laid across his face, how truly old he seemed.

“I was actually hoping,” she admitted slowly, “that I wouldn't run into you at all.”

“In my own house?” He sounded moderately incredulous.

“Maurice told me you were keeping to yourself and all but ignoring the archbishop's visitors. You picked a rotten day to change your routine.”

“Maurice? The archbishop's attendant?”

Widdershins nodded. “I'm here by invitation, Alexandre.”

“Right.” The old man tensed. “I suppose His Eminence is tired of living?”

Had Widdershins not frantically grabbed for the back of the chair, she might well have fallen. His words hit her harder than Brock's hammer ever had.

“They issued a description of you, you know,” the aristocrat continued. “'Widdershins,' they said your name was. But there are so many brown-haired girls, it didn't occur to me…” Angrily, he shook his head. “Well, this is where it ends, Adrienne, or Widdershins, or Elspeth, or whatever you want to call yourself. I've kept my household guards ready since His Eminence arrived, and the constables are only a shout away. You can't escape, not this time.”

“Alexandre…” Adrienne found herself physically reaching out, had to stifle a cry when he flinched from her outstretched fingertips. “Gods, you
can't
believe this!” she demanded softly, imploringly. “You can't honestly think I killed all those people! Our
friends!”

“You disappeared, Adrienne,” he replied flatly. “I didn't believe it then, but you never came back. Never came to me.” His mouth twitched, a buried expression struggling to escape his cold façade. “I kept telling myself, ‘She'll be back any day. She'll be back, and we'll straighten all this out.' But you never came back, Adrienne.”

“I was scared, Alexandre! I was frightened of the Guard, I was frightened of the—the
thing
that killed my friends.…” A tear ran down her face, threatening to smear the careful and precise application of makeup that was
supposed
to have kept her unrecognized. “And I didn't want to drag you down with me!” The older man blinked. “I didn't know what else to do!”

“So you went back to the streets,” Alexandre snapped angrily. “You went right back to stealing, and doing everything I spent years teaching you to avoid.” He frowned thoughtfully, curious despite himself. “Why didn't you leave Davillon, start over somewhere else?”

“I don't know anything outside of Davillon,” Widdershins admitted miserably. “I wouldn't have known where to start. To me, everything more than a mile past the city walls might as well be the Outer Hespelene!”

Alexandre couldn't help but smile, thinking back to his ledger. Well, no danger of boredom now, at least.

“Adrienne,” he said, his voice thawing, “I want to believe you. I've wanted to believe, for the past two years. But I don't know if I can, and I can't imagine what I might do about it now. If you'd only come to me then!”

Widdershins nodded glumly. “Alexandre,” she said simply, “we can talk about this—we
have
to talk about this—later. But something more is happening here, something important. It has to do with the people who
did
try to kill de Laurent. They're the same people who killed our friends! I really am here by invitation, and I've
got
to talk to the archbishop. Please…
please
just give me a little time.”

For long, long seconds he stared, motionless, unblinking. And then, so slowly she was certain his neck must snap, he nodded once.

“I'll escort you upstairs myself,” he told her, almost firmly enough to mask the maggots of doubt that wormed their way through his voice.

Widdershins's breath rushed from her lungs in a veritable gust of relief. “Thank you. You've got no idea—”

“Adrienne,” he interrupted, “understand something. If you're lying to me now, if so much as a single thread on His Eminence's frock is ruffled…” He clasped her arm with bruising force, his gaze burning with the gods' own fire. “I will have my guards right outside his door. Should anything untoward befall him, the only question will be whether they kill you quickly before I get my hands on you. Am I perfectly, crystal clear?”

Widdershins nodded dumbly. Ignoring the perplexed servants, they swept up the stairs, several of the manor's guard falling into step behind them.

They wandered halls through which Widdershins had strode, run, danced in happier years. Upon each, as it truly was, she could see phantom images of what had been, overlaid in strokes of shadow and pigments of memory. Here, what she recalled as a bare wall was adorned with brilliant tapestry, a golden griffin swooping from a sapphire firmament to sink bronze claws through an emerald serpent. There, the bust of Alexandre's great-great-grandfather, which she remembered as perfectly polished and maintained, lay covered in cobwebs and grime. And over there, in what had always been Andre's post while on duty, stood a stoic, grim-faced man she'd never seen. But most disturbing was the
smell.
Nothing overpowering, nothing disgusting, but the manor's background scent, something of which she'd never been consciously aware, had changed, transformed by the passage of time.

Something deep within her wilted, just a little.

And she noticed, too, the lions—everywhere, the lions.

Alexandre nodded as he glanced back, saw her eyes flickering this way and that. “I stopped worshiping Olgun that night,” he told her softly. “How could I continue, after everything that had happened?” He smiled despite himself. “Claude was thrilled when I started showing enthusiasm for Cevora's services again. I guess it's good
someone
was made happy by what happened.”

They walked the rest of the way in silence, for neither Widdershins nor Olgun seemed to know how to respond.

Finally they reached the door, and Alexandre tapped once loudly on the heavy oak.

“Enter!”

The chamber was plain, almost oppressively so. Off-color squares on the faded walls showed where paintings had recently been removed, and the shelves were empty of their accustomed trophies and knickknacks.

De Laurent, arms crossed before him in folds of black cloth, sat behind a large desk. His iron-hued hair was swept neatly back; his symbol of office hung perfectly from his neck. The desk was covered in numerous stacks of paper, neat and orderly piles that could only be the result of a prodigious lack of work. Behind him, fluttering nervously as a mother bird, hovered Brother Maurice, draped in another of those ubiquitous brown robes.

“Good evening, my dear,” de Laurent offered, a raised brow his only comment on her choice of wardrobe. “I'm so pleased you found it in you to accept my humble invitation.”

Widdershins curtsied—a tad awkwardly, truth be told, preoccupied as she was—and strode through the open doorway.

“A pair of guards will be posted directly outside the door, Your Eminence,” Alexandre said from behind her. “If you have the slightest problem, or the first
hint
of the slightest problem, they can be inside in seconds.”

“Your concern is touching, my son,” de Laurent told him with a vague
pooh-poohing
wave of his hand (and despite the fact that Alexandre could possibly have been the older of them), “but I don't believe I'm in any danger from this young lady.”

Alexandre frowned. “There are those who would strongly disagree, Your Eminence.”

“True, but they don't have my gods-granted wisdom, you see.” He shrugged. “Not meaning to sound immodest, of course, and I'd be lying if I said I
felt
particularly wise, but that's what the Church says, so I'm required to believe it. Bylaws and whatnot. I'm sure you understand.”

For a fraction of an instant, a grin flickered across Alexandre's face. Then, with a final longing look, he faced the young woman. “Adrienne, please prove me right.” And then he was gone, the guards noisily and obviously taking up their posts outside.

“Soldiers,” de Laurent muttered with a holy headshake. “I swear, sometimes I think they confuse their swords with other, more diminutive parts of their—”

“Eminence!” Maurice protested.

“Oh, relax, Maurice. The Church doesn't allow me to admit to having such things; it doesn't say I can't acknowledge that other people do.” He twisted in his seat and winked at the new arrival. “Unless I'm disturbing the young lady with my undignified speech, though I doubt this is the first time she's heard the like.”

Widdershins, too, couldn't help but grin. This man was definitely not what she'd expected. “I've run across a little profanity in my time, Your Eminence.”

“I thought as much. Please take a seat, my dear. You're hurting my neck. Maurice?”

“Yes, Your Eminence?”

“Please pretend that I've given you some practical-sounding errand to run, in order to assuage your wounded pride at being excluded from this conversation, and leave the room.”

Widdershins feigned a coughing fit. She liked the young monk, and was afraid she'd hurt his feelings if she laughed openly.

“But…Your Eminence, I don't think it's a good idea. That is, I'm not entirely sure it's…well—forgive me, mademoiselle—safe. For you to be here. Alone, that is.”

“I'm not alone, Maurice. The gods are with me.”

The monk opened his mouth to protest, but nothing emerged save a strangled squeak.

“Maurice,” de Laurent said more kindly, “go. If the young lady truly wanted to kill me, I'd not have survived her
first
visit to my boudoir, let alone a second. More to the point, she could kill the both of us as easily as she could one, and still be through the window before the guards could open the door.” He smiled at her. “
If
half the stories I hear are true, of course.”

“But—”

“Thank you, Maurice. That will be all.”

His face forlorn, and with many a backward glance, Maurice went.

“He's such a good boy,” de Laurent commented. “Another decade or three under his belt, and he'll be going places. He'd make a pretty good bishop himself one day, if I could talk him into changing orders.”

“Your Eminence,” Widdershins began, unsure how to proceed, “I'm really not here to hurt you.” She wasn't consciously aware of her fingers pulling at the hem of her sleeve, nor of the fact that she was chewing idly on a lock of her blonde wig. “I—”

“I know that, Adrienne. That
is
what Delacroix just called you, yes?” De Laurent's smile held no mischief this time, merely the comforting expression of a gentle old man who knew more about the world—and probably about you—than you did. “It's such a pretty name. May I ask why you changed it?”

Widdershins, who'd expected to be the one asking questions, found herself caught off guard. “Adrienne is…wanted for some pretty awful crimes, Your Eminence. Widdershins is just a thief. Though I suppose you think stealing is bad enough.”

“I'm not here to judge you. And as long as it's just the two of us, you might as well call me William. ‘Your Eminence' gets so unwieldy. ‘Excuse me, Your Eminence.' ‘If you say so, Your Eminence.' ‘Hey, Your Eminence, can you pass the mustard?'”