Thief's covenant

CHAPTER TWELVE

Two years ago:

Adrienne allowed the rhythm of the music, the ebb and flow of the dance, to sweep her through the hall of whirling couples and spinning bodies. The musicians were magnificent, the strings and winds weaving a tapestry of pure emotion. Dresses and gowns of the finest cloths, formal coats with silver buttons-all flashed past as her feet carried her the length of Alexandre Delacroix's massive ballroom. Her every move as graceful as those who were born to this life, Adrienne found herself smiling with a foreign sentiment she only scarcely recognized as contentment.

And if she had more difficulty in finding a dance partner than other women; if she danced alone more often than not; if some of the aristocrats fell back as she drew near, lips curled in a moue of arrogant disdain…well, it was their loss, as Alexandre had told her again and again, in the long nights when their disrespect had sent her sobbing or raging to her chambers. Some of Davillon's nobility had indeed learned to welcome this strange addition with open arms. Those who didn't, didn't matter.

The waltz wound to a close, the minstrels taking a much-deserved break before launching into their next piece, and Adrienne breathlessly worked her way through the milling throng. Her gown was modest, a deep lavender with tight sleeves of rich blue, a gift her mentor had insisted upon giving even though Adrienne could easily afford such things on her own, now. It was just that sort of behavior that kept the rumors of their nonexistent romance alive. For two years she'd lived in Delacroix's manor. Today, she could afford a place of her own as easily as she could the gown.

She loved the old man, true enough-as family, not as the gossips suggested-but this wasn't why she stayed.

Adrienne was afraid-afraid that without Alexandre at her side, her hard-won acceptance in Davillon's upper echelons would blow away like so much dandelion fuzz. She feared that, once she grew only a few years older, custom and propriety would force her to hire servants of her own, to throw her own parties, to play her own politics-all elements of high society she could happily do without.

But most of all, she feared that stepping out that door would bring her old life rushing back. She'd pushed it down, crushed it beneath the weight of stubborn determination, but still it haunted her at night, when such terrors shamble from their dens to torment innocent insomniacs. The sting of hunger and the itch of matted filth were never far from her thoughts. She'd never shaken the notion that this was all some majestic dream or fantasy, and she clung unconsciously to the childish notion that it was Alexandre himself who kept that fate at bay. As long as he remained in her life, the dream would continue.

These, however, were darker thoughts for other nights. Tonight was for music, for dancing, for…

“Watch where you're stepping, damn it!”

Adrienne spun aside just as the trailing end of a heavy banner flopped down where she'd been standing. She glanced up into Claude's angry eyes. He stood atop a ladder, struggling to straighten a hanging that had come loose. The image was the lion's head-not the masked crest of House Delacroix, but the unadorned feline face that was the symbol of Cevora.

But of course it was. Claude would hardly have cared enough to fix any of the other banners, would he?

“Don't you have a psalm to go sing?” Adrienne snapped at him, then spun off into the crowd before the angry retort in his eyes could reach his tongue.

All right, so maybe some dark thoughts are appropriate for tonight.

“Would it be presumptuous of me, Mademoiselle Satti, to say that you are easily the most radiant, most enchanting, and most wonderful sight present in this house tonight?”

And then again…

The young woman teasingly rolled her eyes heavenward, though her smile grew wide. “Presumptuous, Monsieur Lemarche? Not at all. Rather silly, though.”

Darien Lemarche, current patriarch of the Lemarche family, younger brother of the late and lamented Pierre, bowed gallantly and took a seat beside her.

He was very much like his brother, though he lacked, or at least appeared to lack, Pierre's selfish streak. Some eight or nine months after Alexandre took Adrienne in, the Lemarche family had-in an almost perfect echo of Alexandre's own social and economic recovery-reversed their fortunes once again and reentered the aristocracy without a trace of their old patriarch's stigma. Darien had recognized Adrienne by name when they'd first met. If he blamed her in any way for the death of his older brother, or even knew that she'd been involved in Pierre's final scheme, he never showed it, treating her with exquisite courtesy. She, in turn, considered Darien one of the few friends she'd made among the nobility, who were, by and large, more amiable in groups than as individuals.

Tonight, Darien was dressed in a magnificent overcoat of deepest burgundy, atop a pair of white hose and a black ruffled shirt. He'd chosen to forgo a wig, and his dark hair was swept immaculately back. He was, at least where Adrienne was concerned, more than a little stunning.

“Seriously,” he said, taking the time to nod a friendly greeting to another passing acquaintance, “how are you?”

The young woman was taken aback, not by the question, but its tone. “I'm just fine, Darien. Why?”

“I don't know. You just seem…I'm sorry.” He shook his head, jolting several curls out of alignment. “It's not my place.”

“Oh, please.” Adrienne smiled. “We've both been around enough to know where you can stick your ‘place.'” Darien blinked. “Tell me,” she insisted.

The young patriarch sighed. “As you wish, Adrienne. You just haven't seemed content of late, that's all.” He leaned forward, close enough to draw a few scandalized stares. “Haven't you felt at all, well, incomplete?”

She couldn't help but smile once more. “You sound like you're selling something. I'm quite happy here, Darien.”

“But it's not enough, is it?”

Adrienne frowned, her earlier thoughts circling through her mind once more.

“Adrienne,” he told her, fingers idly stroking the smooth arm of the chair, “I have something I'd like to show you.” He smiled. “Considering your-if you'll please pardon the unflattering cliche-'rags-to-riches' story, it's very possible he's been calling to you anyway. He may even have had a hand in your success.”

“He? He who? Who's he? What are you talking about?”

“The one who restored my family's fortunes, Adrienne.” Darien rose to his feet, extended a hand to the young lady. “Let's find someplace we can talk,” he told her softly. “You'll find it worth your while, I promise.”

They found their spot upon one of the manor's balconies, overlooking the intricate rose garden. Other couples, seeking privacy of their own, wandered below them, following the twists and turns of the almost-but-not-quite-maze of blossoms. The moonlight illuminated this jewel or that bauble, reflected from this woman's hair, from that gentleman's bald pate. A faint breeze, perfumed by the roses below, wafted across the open landing, ruffling Adrienne's gown as though she had some other small creature in there with her. Darien's expression was sincere, imploring. Hers was, to put it mildly, incredulous.

“You're joking,” she finally said.

The young man's face fell, but he refused to give in. “Not at all, Adrienne.”

“A god.”

“A god,” he repeated. “His name is Olgun.”

“I've never heard of him.”

“I'd be shocked if you had. He's not one of the gods of the Pact; I don't think the High Church has even heard of him, let alone thought about recognizing him. We only know him because our founder discovered his last shrine on a trading expedition to the northlands. There was one man there-Olgun's last priest, we think, but he spoke no civilized language, and died mere hours after they found him. We think Olgun was a major northman deity once, long, long ago.”

“And he put your family back on its feet,” she said doubtfully. “And you think he was responsible for my good fortune as well? Come on, Darien.”

“Adrienne, why do you think the Houses and guilds and governments have patron deities? How many icons to Cevora have you seen around Alexandre's home? For that matter, how do you think he recovered his family fortunes, if not with divine aid?”

She shrugged. “Luck? Skill? Random chance? I'm sorry, Darien. I believe in the gods, I just-well, they've certainly never done anything for me.”

“Haven't they?” Darien said cryptically. Then, at the look on her face, “Adrienne, you needn't take my word for it. There's over twenty of us, now. All aristocracy, all wealthy, and all of us have known a tremendous amount of good fortune since we joined. We're Olgun's only worshippers. It's not like the gods of the Pact, who have hundreds, thousands, maybe even millions calling on them at any given time. Olgun can concentrate on us alone, and he's not bound by the strictures of the Pact gods. With him at our side, we never risk losing what we have. No disgrace will ever befall my family again, I promise you.”

“Even if it's true, Darien,” Adrienne told him, her tone suggesting it was anything but, “what would I need Olgun for? I have all I need.” And besides, if Cevora was responsible for Alexandre's recovery, did she want to risk insulting him?

“Except,” the young man argued, “the freedom to do what you want with it.”

Adrienne's jaw clenched.

“Come with me to one service,” he implored. “Just one. Olgun's not an evil god, or cruel. If you don't wish to join us, there won't be any repercussions. You have my word.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Darien said softly, “I would…very much like for you to be a greater part of my life. And I would have you see what fortune I have to share.”

She looked at the garden below, grateful that the pale moonlight hid the flush in her cheeks.

“Please, Adrienne. What have you got to lose?”

One evening the following week, while Alexandre was out on business of his own, Darien arrived at Delacroix Manor. Adrienne, clad formally in a red gown and a bodice of black suede, met him at the door. The servants would probably gossip, but somehow, Adrienne was pretty sure that an illicit religious rite was not among the activities on which their speculations would land.

They rode in style through the streets of Davillon, seated in a small carriage as fancy as Alexandre's own, and markedly more comfortable. The benches were well padded, upholstered in the finest velvet and cushioned with goose feathers. Horses and driver clearly knew the route, for there was a confidence in their step, a familiarity in the monotonous clop-clop of hooves on cobblestone. Idyllic, really, or it would have been had Darien not kept the windows shuttered and refused outright to tell Adrienne where they were going.

The young man's reticence, his dour expression and solemn mien, were amusing-initially. Adrienne couldn't help but chuckle, so out of character was the cheerful, happy-go-lucky aristocrat. After a half hour passed, however, and he'd said no more than three contiguous words, when she still had no idea where they were headed, when she'd attempted surreptitiously to lift the window shade and discovered it bolted down…then, finally, she began to grow just a bit miffed.

“Darien,” she growled, “you are going to tell me where we're going, right now, or I am going to get up and leave this carriage, right now.”

“Not a good idea, Adrienne. We're moving.”

“Not quickly, we're not. I'll take my chances.”

“The door's locked,” he pointed out.

The young woman's expression turned to ice. “I'm sorry, I didn't quite hear you. I thought you said the door was locked.”

Darien nodded.

“Lemarche, you let me out of this carriage this instant!”

“I can't do that, Adrienne. You're not allowed to know where our shrine is until after you've been accepted.”

“Darien-”

“Adrienne, no harm will come to you, I swear it. Trust me.”

“Oh, because you're making it so easy, aren't you?”

But Darien subsided again into a solemn silence, one that Adrienne, for all her threats and demands, could not penetrate. Finally, worn out, angry, and growing ever more anxious, she, too, fell petulantly silent, save for occasional grumbles about how much Darien was coming to resemble his older brother.

Another twenty minutes passed, and for all Adrienne knew, they could be halfway across town, or only three doors from where they had started. When the coach finally trundled to a halt, Darien attempted to hand the young woman a blindfold, opening his mouth to explain that it was required, that it wasn't really up to him.

He quailed beneath her withering glare and put it away without uttering a word.

Despite her anger and mounting trepidation, Adrienne couldn't help but smirk contemptuously as her companion unfolded a bundle of gray cloth from beneath his seat and pulled it over his head. Unknown gods, hidden cult gatherings, and now a plain hooded cloak. This was starting to look less like a secret sect and more like the opening act of a bad melodrama.

“Well?” she asked, when Darien reached over to knock on the carriage door. “Don't I get one, too?”

The young man shook his head, the gesture strangely twisted by the hood. “No. It's traditional that the entire sect be permitted to look upon new petitioners as they determine their suitability to join.”

“I'm not petitioning, I'm observing. One service, remember, to judge for myself? So far,” she added bitterly, “I'm not terribly impressed.”

The door swung open, pulled aside by several figures that were, as Adrienne expected, similarly hooded and cloaked. A brief spate of whispers and mutters erupted as they took in Adrienne's unveiled face, and one of the small band glowered at Darien.

“She's supposed to be blindfolded!” he hissed in a stage whisper.

She left Darien to explain her lack of ocular wrappings as best he could, directing her attention instead to the building. It wasn't impressive, just a nondescript structure, ungainly and ugly. It didn't quite seem to be a warehouse, nor a storefront, nor a tavern, nor a tenement. Tucked away on a cluttered street, it was so unremarkable, so actively unimportant, that she doubted anyone gave it a first glance, let alone a second.

Not a bad place for a clandestine sect, actually. Her respect for Darien's people rose a bit-still below scalp lice, but now higher in her estimation than the thin film that covered the floor around a public privy.

The cloaked fellow who'd barked at Darien stormed toward her, clearly unhappy with the results of his conversation. Despite the hood, Adrienne had already seen enough of his jawline that, combined with his not-quite-whisper, she could identify the man from more than a few parties.

“Do you swear, Adrienne Satti,” he asked in a feigned rasp, “to remain silent regarding what you see here tonight, to reveal nothing of your activities this evening, and to expose the power of our god and our faith to no outsider, upon your very soul?”

“Yeah, sure, Tim. Whatever you say.”

Timothy Pardeau, patriarch and owner of a horse- and livestock-trading empire, uttered a strangled gasp and retreated several steps, glaring fire from beneath his cowl. Abruptly he spun, grabbing Darien by the collar with both hands. “This is your fault,” he seethed at the young Lemarche patriarch. “If this goes badly, I'll see to it personally that you catch the brunt of it! I-”

“If you're through threatening your fellow true believer,” Adrienne said, idly tapping a foot, “I thought there was supposed to be a floor show tonight.”

Timothy shouted something garbled and incoherent at her, then shoved past and practically flew into the building. With a shrug-and a second, larger shrug in response to Darien's whispered “Are you trying to ruin it?”-Adrienne followed the cloaked cultists inside.

Though she'd have scoffed if anyone had suggested it beforehand, Adrienne Satti's life changed forever in the following hour.

She'd rolled her eyes at the winding staircase that led to the underground shrine, formerly a basement. She'd shaken her head at the mass of gray-robed worshippers staring at her, good little sheep lined up between the door and the center of the domed chamber (which still sported rafters and platforms from recent reconstruction). She yawned through the sermon, some claptrap about health and fortune, delivered with gusto by an obviously enraptured Timothy. She snickered as they tugged on the hidden lever, engaging a series of heavy gears and pulleys that raised Olgun's likeness up into the center of the room, and she laughed aloud at the horned, bearded visage that hove into view. She was all but ready to tell Darien and his friends to stick their deity and his divine favor someplace very, very cramped when Timothy finished his benediction with “Speak to us, your faithful, mighty Olgun. Reveal to us your favor!”

In the single biggest shock of Adrienne's life, the god replied!

Not with deep-voiced words, thundering from on high, nor with obscure omens or a rain of frogs, but with what Adrienne could describe only as a gentle wave of emotion. It flowed through the chamber in a cleansing stream-kind, tender, washing them clean of their worries and cares. Adrienne tried to remain skeptical, even in the face of that outpouring of peace and tranquility, to convince herself that it was an illusion, some magic spell, perhaps even a drug in the smoke of the dancing torches.

And then Olgun touched her soul personally. Adrienne never knew if he'd communicated individually with anyone else that night, or if only she was so honored. And what he sent to her was not some empty sense of his own magnificence, not some haughty attempt to convince her of what she should or should not accept. No, the emotion that washed over Adrienne had been, as best she could translate into words:

“Pretty silly, isn't it?”

From that day onward, Adrienne never missed even one of their weekly gatherings. She accepted Olgun, and his worshippers, and they, in turn, accepted her as their newest acolyte, though some were more eager to take her in than others. Even here there were those who felt that Adrienne was attempting to rise above her station, that her recent fortune didn't make up for the cardinal sin of a common birth. As the weeks passed, however, germinating slowly into months, even the hard-liners were forced to accept that Olgun himself had chosen Adrienne as one of his own. Haughty and convinced of their own superiority they might be, but they weren't prepared to challenge the judgment of their god himself.

Olgun rarely spoke to her personally after that first night, though she experienced his touch each week, as he reached out to his worshippers en masse. His signs of favor were obvious, though, to those who knew to look. Alexandre had instructed Adrienne well, and she'd proven herself an apt student; but following her discovery of Olgun-or perhaps Olgun's discovery of her-the riches she'd accumulated in two years practically doubled in two months. Every endeavor seemed blessed with a bit of extra luck, never dramatically, just enough to nudge things in her favor. The silkworms of the east ceased production early that year, only after she'd stockpiled her own stores; a sudden rain kept a competitor's goods off the market while hers were bought and sold.

Adrienne's luck turned in other areas as well, and she found herself in Darien's company on as many social occasions as religious ones. And that, too, seemed to open further the doors of high society, to smooth the rough edges with which the aristocracy treated her.

And then, one night, he appeared beside her as Olgun's services came to an end, and the small crowd began to disperse.

“We should get a move on, love,” she said to him with a smile. “Don't get me wrong, I prefer listening to cats mate than going to opera, but if you don't want to be late…”

“Actually,” he said, his face strangely serious, “we're not going to the theater tonight. There's someone you need to talk to.”

Adrienne frowned, but followed as Darien led her across the room, his boots reverberating on the heavy stone. Finally, they stood before another gray-robed figure, his deep hood obscuring his face. She'd seen him earlier, standing near the back of the service, and had wondered who he was, but had forgotten all about it during the service.

He reached up, slowly-were his hands trembling? — to draw back his hood. Adrienne's eyes grew wide, and a surge of joy wrestled with a vague sense of betrayal deep in her gut.

“Hello, Adrienne,” said Alexandre Delacroix.

For long minutes they walked, side by side, along the streets of one of Davillon's higher-rent districts-away from either the shrine or the estate, but also far from anywhere they might feel unsafe.

“Why?” she finally asked. She could have meant any one of a dozen questions.

Alexandre sighed. “I've wrestled with this since the day we met, Adrienne.”

“Stop wrestling and start explaining.”

He couldn't help but chuckle. “Olgun turned my fortunes around, Adrienne. House Delacroix was destined for poverty, for disgrace, for social exile. I was desperate for a way to save the House-to save myself-and Olgun offered it.”

“And Cevora?”

The aristocrat's face fell. “Cevora has been patron of my House for generations beyond counting, and he's been good to us in our time. But either he chose to withhold his favors recently, or they proved insufficient for the tasks at hand. Either way, I shall never fail to honor Cevora for all he's done, for so many years of watching over us. I worship him still. But I grant my faith to Olgun as well, and he has honored me in return. It's why I've allowed Claude to take over most of the religious duties of the household. I revere Cevora, but it didn't feel right for me to be leading the services, you see?” Alexandre smiled shallowly. “Just as well, really. From the day I hired him, Claude took to the worship of Cevora as though he were born to it. I think he's more devout than I ever was.”

“All very nice,” Adrienne said, face turning briefly jaundiced as they passed beneath a streetlight in dire need of a good cleaning. “But that's not really what I meant, you know.”

“Yes, I know.” Alexandre stopped and turned, putting his hands on her shoulders. “Adrienne, I believe Olgun willed us to meet that night.”

“I'm sorry, what?”

“By the evening we met, I'd been attending Olgun's services for slightly more than a year,” Alexandre explained. “And it was everything I could do to keep it a secret-from my own servants, especially. You can just imagine how well Claude took it when I missed evening mass once every week or two.”

Adrienne snickered.

“I'd just decided, while on my journey, that I'd have to attend less often-or perhaps find someone who could attend in my stead. But of course, there was nobody I could possibly trust enough to do so. Don't you see, Adrienne? I'd just begun contemplating that, and suddenly there you were! It couldn't be a coincidence!”

“Is that the only reason you took me in?” she asked quietly.

“At first,” he admitted. “But only at first, Adrienne. I swear it.”

“All right,” she said, pretending that the streetlight wasn't blurring behind unshed tears, “but you never told me about Olgun! If I was supposed to be your-your…” She waved her hands helplessly.

“Proxy?” Alexandre provided.

“Yeah, that.”

“At first, because I had to be sure I could trust you. And then because I was afraid you'd feel used, that I'd taken you in with ulterior motives-which, of course, I had. But I discovered I was more worried of you leaving than I was about being found out.

“And finally, though I was attending less and less often, my fortunes didn't fall. And I realized that Olgun must still be happy with me. That maybe he'd brought you to me for an entirely different reason-because you needed me.”

Adrienne's cheeks glistened, for she wept openly now. With a soft cry, she threw herself into the old man's arms. And she pretended, as he held her close, not to notice his own tears shining in the lamplight.

“Of course,” he said, clearing his throat and stepping back, “when young Lord Lemarche asked permission to induct you, I could hardly say no, could I? Best of both worlds and all that.” Alexandre looked down at her with a sudden gleam in his eye that had nothing to do with tears. “You could do worse, you know.”

Adrienne flushed and elbowed him in the ribs, but she laughed as she did it, and she felt as light as a feather as they began the long walk back home.

“Excited, love?”

Adrienne smiled, standing on tiptoes to kiss Darien's cheek. “Maybe a little,” she admitted, fluttering a coquettish smile swiftly hidden beneath her acolyte-white hood. “I've waited months for this.” Hands clasped, they wound their way together down the spiraling stair.

This would be her last service as a probationary member of the sect. Tonight, she would replace her white robe with the darker gray worn by the others. She could participate directly in services, rather than parroting back the congregational replies. She could speak without waiting for an older member to acknowledge her.

Fairly prosaic benefits, at best, but a sense of anticipation clung to her throughout the service like a second skin. Her only regret, though she fully understood, was that Alexandre's other, more public duties kept him away from this special gathering.

Just like that, it was done. The hour passed, Timothy uttered his closing benediction, and the service concluded with a cheerful announcement that today they welcomed a new sister in Olgun. Congratulations were offered (most of which were even sincere); the hidden lever was pulled; the horned idol sank slowly and majestically into the floor.

And the door to the cult's underground sanctum flew open with a deafening crash. Through it roared an apparition so terrible that several of Olgun's more weak-willed worshippers went quite literally mad at the sight of it.

It was accompanied by several human compatriots, but Adrienne never got a good look at them. Her gaze locked in fascinated horror on the demonic entity that even now ripped jagged, iron claws through poor Timothy's ample girth. It lifted him by his innards, his feet kicking spastically as blood poured across his killer in some twisted baptism. Before the merchant finished twitching, the creature dropped him, driving the claw on its left thumb through the screaming face of Marie Richelieu. Her terrified cries rose in a brief crescendo of agony, ending in a hideous rattle as her skull broke apart.

With each second, another of Adrienne's friends died horribly, organs and limbs ripped from their housing and strewn about the room like so many children's toys. Blood sprayed across the chamber, a red-tinged geyser that soaked Adrienne and the others down to the skin. Some of Olgun's rapidly shrinking congregation scattered in panic, only to find their exit blocked by the demon's human allies. Several chose that route anyway, preferring a clean death on assassins' blades to dismemberment by the long-limbed monstrosity. Still others, like Adrienne herself, stood rooted in place. She couldn't move enough even to blink away her tears when Darien's left shoulder vanished completely into the creature's gaping maw, disintegrating between those inhuman jaws.

Adrienne might have stood with the rest, paralyzed, until death took her in its own sweet time, but something pulled her from her stricken trance: a single stab of terrible, almost childlike fear. It came not from the screams of her dying companions, nor from the depths of her own mind, but with the unmistakable “voice” of Olgun himself.

The god, Adrienne realized with a lurch that nearly stopped her heart, was frightened. “We’re Olgun’s only worshippers, Adrienne,” Darien had told her. So what happened to a god when his worshippers, all his worshippers, were gone?

That thought spurred her into motion where fear for her own life and limb had not. As the others fell around her, reduced to so much bloody chaff, Adrienne found her hands and feet moving of their own accord. Skills that had lain dormant for years flared to life; fingers and toes grasped at cracks and crevices in the wall. In two blinks of an eye, she was up among the rafters, invisible in the depths of shadow.

And she watched, helpless, as the world turned red beneath her….