Thief's covenant

CHAPTER TWO

Now:

It was, all of it, enormous. The Doumerge property was enormous, the manor at its center was enormous, and the ballroom deep within that house was-no surprise, by now-enormous.

And the chaos within, slipping further out of control by the minute, was rapidly becoming enormous as well.

A cluster of musicians sat upon a raised platform off in one corner, isolated from everyone they were hired to entertain. Furiously they played, lobbing their music into the crowd like arrows, reproducing some of the most popular tunes currently making the rounds of courts and noble soirees throughout Galice. Their outfits-the musicians, that is, not the pieces of music, though those too were arguably gussied up and overdressed-were lavish fabrics in a hypnotic mishmash of garish colors. Tunics and vests hung haphazardly; wigs sat askance atop sweaty heads; abused fingers ached in protest. For five hours they'd played, with never more than a few minutes between songs, and the torment didn't promise an end anytime soon.

For all that their music accomplished, they might well not have bothered. The ballroom, packed so full that dancing required advanced planning and possibly tactical diagrams, hovered at a volume just shy of tectonic movement. Every voice was a bellow, each and every speaker struggling to be heard over every other. The music, to them, was nothing more than extraneous noise, an obstacle to be shouted over.

The table was long, and laden with a quantity of food not merely sufficient to choke a large elephant, but also to bury its remains. Every variety of animal, it seemed, could be found at some spot along that buffet, smothered in sauce or breading or dressing or gods alone knew what. Beef, venison, fowl of every possible variety, at least a dozen types of fish, eggs of both fish and fowl, escargot, every vegetable known to man-it was all here, and no matter how much the guests ate, a criminal amount of food would go to waste. The smell alone was heavy enough to satiate a smaller appetite without a single bite.

The house had been well prepared, in expectation of the night's revelry. Paintings and tapestries hung high on the walls, well beyond reach of drunken fingers or spilled foods. Most were pastoral or mythic scenes, but several depicted the golden pyramid of Geurron, patron deity of the d'Orreille line, and a scant few boasted the sun-and-crown of Vercoule, Davillon's High Patron.

Fires blazed happily in numerous hearths, determined to enjoy the soiree. Various herbs and scents were sprinkled upon the logs, filling the room with a bizarre combination of odors that spun around the guests before rising to cluster at the ceiling's arches and buttresses. The carpets, lush and thick, had been brushed in expectation of the guests' arrival. Servants, immaculately groomed, stood at attention or bustled about the rooms, preparing this, refilling that, and basically playing the part of so many trained hounds, always running and fetching.

And in the center of the maelstrom, buffeted on all sides by the constant eddies and swirls of humanity, stood an unlikely pair. Despite the press of partygoers and the constant blank smiles, polite waves, and spouted small talk, they exuded an aura of calm, a globe of peace that extended a scant few feet from them.

“I must say, my dear baron,” the woman was commenting haughtily, “you've really outdone yourself. I can't recall when I've last attended festivities so elegant.” Her expression managed to add Other than those I've planned myself, without the slightest aid from her tongue.

The gentleman bowed in gratitude, his face partially hidden behind a loosely clutched kerchief held dangling from long, spidery fingers. “The duchess,” he said, his voice thin and watery, “is too kind.”

“She is, isn't she?” the woman replied.

Beatrice Luchene, the Duchess Davillon, Voice of Vercoule, landholder and ruler over all territories claimed by the duchy, province, and city of Davillon, was just shy of six feet, and broad of shoulders, hips, and features. Her hair, black-going-gray, was piled high above her head in a mountain of curls that failed utterly to soften a face grown taut with age. She wore rich purples and reds and blues, as well as a golden sun-and-crown brooch, and her face was powdered to within a shade of newly fallen snow.

Her host, by contrast, was a short, bony, shadow of a weasel of a man. Charles Doumerge, the Baron d'Orreille, looked perennially ill. His skin was near gray even without the benefits of powder, and his limp, straw-colored hair was thinning faster than a slug in a salt-shaker. Not even his finest outfit, of blues and browns, made him look any less the walking corpse.

Doumerge leaned in, his rodent's nose cutting through the intervening air like a prow. The duchess managed (barely) to refrain from pulling away.

“I'm grateful,” Doumerge told her, his voice as low as the surrounding cacophony would allow, “that I've guests here with the appropriate-shall we say, refinement? — to appreciate my efforts.” He furtively glanced around, as though ensuring he wouldn't be overheard, then, simpering, continued, “The truth is, I don't believe that everyone here is quite suited to this sort of thing. If I may be brutally honest with you, Your Grace, I'd not have chosen to invite, say”-he cast about quickly for a safe target-“the Marquis De Brielles. The fellow simply doesn't have what it takes to survive in our particular arena, you see? But, well, poor Francis has had such a difficult time of it of late, it would have been boorish not to offer him the opportunity to escape his problems. Still, I doubt that he's properly able to-”

“Francis Carnot,” the duchess said stiffly, “has done quite well, considering the title of marquis was expected to fall to his late brother. I consider the gentleman a friend, and I look forward to the day when he has managed to get his House back on its feet.” She peered down on her unpleasant little host, her expression lofty.

Floundering wildly for a distraction, the baron's gaze fell upon another guest nearby, a pretty young woman currently standing alone amidst the swirl of people, staring vacuously off into space.

“Umm-ah, Your Grace?” he asked, even as he reached his stick-thin arms and wormy finger to grasp at the young lady's elbow. “Have you met Mademoiselle Valois? No? Well then, I present to you Madeleine Valois. Mademoiselle Valois, this is Beatrice Luchene, the Duchess Davillon.”

The young lady blinked twice, her only sign of surprise, and curtsied elegantly. “Your Grace,” she said, her voice throaty yet demure, “I'm honored.”

With an artfully concealed flicker of amusement at Doumerge's clumsy diversion, Luchene gave the newcomer a brief once-over.

She was young, this Madeleine Valois, scarcely more than a child, with a slender face, sharp features, and aquatic eyes. Her head was piled high with lavish blonde curls; clearly a wig, but since half the women in attendance sported wigs, this hardly mattered. Her gown was a heavy thing of forest green velvets. All told, little about the woman separated her in any way, shape, or form from a dozen other ladies of quality.

And yet…

“It seems to me,” the duchess said, having acknowledged the young woman's genuflection with a shallow nod, “that I have seen you somewhere before, my dear.”

“Almost certainly, Your Grace,” Madeleine told her, face modestly downcast. “I've been privileged to attend several balls and dinners before tonight. But this is the first time,” she added breathlessly, with a beaming smile toward their mousy host, “that anyone has done me the honor of formally acquainting us.”

“Ah.” The duchess's mind was clearly already moving on to other pursuits. “Well, it's certainly been a pleasure to meet you, dear. Do enjoy the rest of the party, yes? Good Baron,” she continued, abruptly swiveling toward the pale-faced lord of the manor, “I believe that you and I were in the midst of a discussion?”

As the royals launched back into their debate regarding the values of particular guests, the young lady drifted, unnoticed, into the throng. “Well, that was interesting,” murmured the woman who currently called herself Madeleine Valois. “I thought we'd been found out.”

Heartfelt agreement, tinged with a patina of relief, flowed from her unseen companion, followed by a sense of inquiry.

“No, I'm not worried about the baron. That clown wouldn't comprehend a real threat if someone hid a manticore in his chamber pot. I was afraid the duchess might have recognized me, though. Thankfully, I'm not important enough for close examination.”

Another surge of emotion, almost but not quite nostalgia.

Madeleine-who had once been Adrienne-nodded. “And it was a long time ago, yes. But enough worrying.” Sliding through the forest of humanity, she continued to survey the house, absorbing every detail. “All right, he's not allowed any of his guests upstairs, so I'll wager that's where he keeps most of his valuables.” Irritably, she shook her head, careful not to dislodge her wig and reveal the thick brown hair beneath. “I wish I had the opportunity to examine the layout up there,” she complained. “It would make this all so much easier. Ah, well. We're only human, yes?”

Somehow, without the use of a single coherent word, Olgun growled something impolite.

Madeleine flickered a mischievous smile. Right. As if she would wake up one morning and just forget that she had a god riding around in her head.

Gradually, she allowed the flow of the party to edge her ever nearer the door. It was time for Madeleine Valois to make her farewells, preparing the way for a different and uninvited guest.

Several pairs of eyes watched as Madeleine Valois made her graceful exit from the Baron d'Orreille's soiree. Most were potential admirers, sorry to see so lovely a creature depart from their midst.

One was not.

All the houses of Davillon boasted their own guards. Even if most never saw the slightest action, it was simply Not Done to go without. Some were veritable armies unto themselves, while others consisted of anyone who could stand up straight and look competent while making parade-ground turns in formalwear or old-fashioned armor.

Doumerge's guards were largely of the latter category, which meant that the baron's hiring requirements were rather more lax than those of the City Guard. And that meant that, though his ruined hand had cost him his commission in said Guard, Henri Roubet had never lacked for a position.

This wasn't the first party at which the crippled solider had spotted the Lady Valois, though she had never spotted him in turn; it was part of his job, after all, to remain inconspicuous and out of the guests' way. But tonight was the first time he'd gotten a good enough look at her to be certain that she was who he thought she was.

Madeline Valois was, indeed, Adrienne Satti. It was a bit of news for which his employer-his real employer, not the weaselly fool of a baron-would pay well.

To those who dwelt outside the law, within the slums and poor districts, and among the population of the so-called Finders' Guild, she was neither Madeleine nor Adrienne. She was Widdershins, a simple street-thief like a thousand others. Tonight, Madeleine had done her part admirably; now it was Widdershins's turn to take over.

Two blocks south of Doumerge Estates, sandwiched between a large bakery and a winery, lay a narrow alleyway that was nigh invisible in the late hours. Filled with refuse from both establishments, emptied once a week by underpaid city workers, it was ignored by those few who noticed it at all.

At the moment, however, it boasted an abnormally large human population: that is, one. Madeleine edged her way down the alley, away from the boulevard. Knees bent, back pressed tightly against the winery, feet pushing against the opposite bricks, she passed above the reeking filth. Her gown lay in her lap, clasped tightly in her left arm; she wore, now, a bodysuit of supple black fabrics and leathers that had lain hidden beneath the forest-green velvet. At the end of the alleyway, she reached out, straining to grasp the pack she'd stashed earlier that evening. Though her entire weight shifted and she feared she'd dislodged herself from her precarious perch, her fingers brushed against the satchel. She quickly grabbed it and yanked it up.

Still without setting foot on the cobblestones, her nose wrinkled against the stench of refuse, she stuffed the gown roughly into the bag and removed a second, smaller bundle. This prize, carefully unwrapped, revealed deerskin gauntlets, hood, thin shoes of black leather, and a belt whose pouches and pockets contained, among other things, a candle stub, a one-handed tinderbox, a tiny hammer and chisel, and the finest set of skeleton keys and wire picks available in any market, black or otherwise. Finally, her tool of last resort: a rapier, blade blackened with carbon and ink, the basket-hilt removed so that the weapon could hang flat against her back.

The dark-colored sack in which her tools had been wrapped, she folded tightly and jammed through her belt. The larger pack-stuffed with the gown, jewelry, and everything else that identified Madeleine Valois-would remain ensconced at the end of the alley.

A few quick breaths to steady herself, and she reached over her head to grab the overhang. She tightened her fists and pulled her legs away from the far wall, lifting them smoothly up, her weight supported only by her hold on the roof. Her stomach muscles, though toned through years of practice, still screamed in agony as first her feet, then her knees, cleared the roof over her head and curled over. A final heave, arms straining, and she lay on her stomach at the edge of the winery's roof.

For a few minutes-more than a few, if truth be known-she simply lay, gasping as she regained her composure. She quirked her lips in annoyance at the question she felt from her divine passenger.

“Maybe, but this way was quicker,” she whispered.

Olgun's response was amused, and more than a little teasing.

“No, I did not do that just to prove I could!” she snapped at him.

Some emotions were more easily translated into words than others. The one he projected now was definitely the equivalent of, “Yeah, right.”

Grumbling, Widdershins rose to her feet-ignoring the twinges in her abdomen-and moved across the rooftops. A step to this roof, a leap to that, a quick scamper up a nearby wall…. Perhaps a quarter of an hour later, she settled on a building across a wide lane from the gates of the Doumerge Estates.

The boulevard was the border between two worlds. Behind, the square, squat buildings of the district's shops. They, like most of the city's newer construction, were of cheap stone or haphazardly painted wood, all business. Before her, a row of manors. Sloped roofs, ornate cornices and buttresses, fluted gutters and snarling gargoyles, all in marble or whitewashed stone, all old enough to have acquired an arrogance utterly independent of those who dwelt within. The straight lines and angles of poverty facing off against the graceful arches of wealth.

Widdershins had dwelt in both, and wasn't certain she was entirely comfortable in either. Crouching atop the flat roof, melding into the shadows, she settled in for what would surely be a long and boring wait.

Long and boring, as it turned out, were ridiculously optimistic. Endless and mind-numbing would have proved more accurate. The hours lazily meandered by, and the impulsive thief found herself near to bursting with the strain of waiting. Finally, as the moon rowed her way across the sea of night, the manor finally began to excrete its guests in sporadic fits and spurts. The stars wheeled their courses across the nighttime firmament; bats and nightbirds flapped past overhead; cats fought in nearby alleys, hissing and spitting all the while; and time plodded toward morning.

Not long before dawn, when she felt she could take it no longer, the lanterns in the upper-story windows flickered and died, suggesting that Baron Weasel-face had finally retired to his burrow for badly needed (and blatantly ineffectual) beauty sleep. The downstairs lights continued to burn, no doubt for servants who, having stood and watched as rich people grew fat on fancy foods, were now compelled to clean up after the satin-wrapped and brocaded swine.

“Hsst!” she hissed, her throat vaguely hoarse from the yelling that had passed for conversation during the baron's party. “Olgun! Wake up!”

Her mind was filled with a sense of self-righteous-and vaguely drowsy-protest.

“Sure you weren't,” she needled at him. “You were just practicing snoring, so you'd be sure to get it right later on, yes?”

Olgun's response very strongly resembled an indignant snort.

“Whatever. It's time.”

She cocked her head in response to an unvoiced question.

“Of course I'd rather wait a bit longer,” she lied, actually fidgeting foot to foot. “But the night's not just old, it's getting arthritic. We have to go now.”

The faint scrabbling of loose shale shifting as she set foot on the roadway was the only sound of her swift and graceful descent. Had anyone been watching the wide boulevard in the faint light of the street lamps, he'd have seen nothing more than a quick wink of blackness, a wisp of shadow, no more alarming than a running tomcat and dismissed just as readily.

The polished stone wall surrounding the Doumerge property was near ten feet tall, and impressively smooth. No cracks or seams provided even the most infinitesimal handhold. A rope and grapple might have provided a solution, but Widdershins, who preferred to work light, carried no such thing.

She never needed one.

“Olgun?” she prodded, breaking into a dash as she neared the barrier. “Would you be so kind…?”

As she drew within a few feet of the wall, her boot came down on something that simply wasn't there, an invisible step or perhaps the interlaced fingers of unseen hands. With Olgun's boost, she cleared the wall entirely, tucking in tight to avoid the short but wicked spikes that topped it.

The shock upon landing was considerable, though she tumbled into a forward roll to absorb as much momentum as she could. Half kneeling in the baron's dew-coated grass, she gingerly tested both ankles, both knees; as often as she'd done this, she was convinced each time that she'd injured something. Only when each and every joint proved fully mobile and free of pain did she rise and take in her surroundings.

Large, flowering bushes of diverse hue decorated the property at random intervals that someone had probably thought were tasteful. A few trees grasped gently at the stars above, while sculptures and fountains of stone dotted the estate. Even in the dark, Widdershins could see two satyrs, a naked nymph, and a urinating cherub. The entire place emitted a sickly sweet scent, as though the combination of so many flowering plants and blossoms brought out the worst in each. No wonder Doumerge always appeared faintly ill.

It all just oozed excess. Widdershins felt her mouth curl in a faint sneer at what Baron Doumerge was-what she herself had almost become, a lifetime ago.

“Olgun?” she asked, her tone again little more than a breath. “Dogs?”

A pause, an answer.

“Ah. And do you think you should maybe do something about that?”

Self-satisfied gloating.

“You already did.” It wasn't a question.

Another affirmative.

Widdershins sighed. “I hope you didn't hurt them.”

Olgun sent a flash of horror running through her, so strong that she felt herself shudder.

“All right, I'm sorry!” she hissed. “I know you like dogs. I know you wouldn't hurt them! I wasn't thinking!”

The god sniffed haughtily.

“Look, I said I was sorry! Let's move on already, yes? We're running out of night.”

At an easy jog, flitting from shadow to shadow, Widdershins crossed the property. She passed, on the way, a large brown hunting hound wearing a spiked collar. The dog sniffed once in her direction, wrinkled its nose with a slight yelp, and ignored her.

One of these days, she thought to herself, I'm going to ask Olgun exactly what it is that he does to them-or what it is he makes me smell like to them!

And with no more difficulty than that, she was at the wall of the manor. Dropping to her belly, Widdershins wormed her way below the first-floor windows. It'd be embarrassing to come this far just to be discovered by some lovelorn servant staring out at the stars. Only when she'd reached a stretch of wall unbroken by glass did she return to her feet.

Each mortared spot between the bricks was a rung, the entire wall a ladder placed solely for her own convenience. In less time than it takes to tell, she was ten feet above the ground, sidling sideways toward the nearest darkened window.

She took a moment to curse the craftsmen's guilds for making glass so much cheaper in recent years-this would have been much simpler in the days of open panes or oilcloth-covered windows-before her questing fingers produced a thin length of wire from her pouch. She inserted it between the window and the pane with one hand, clinging to her perilous perch with the other. Within seconds, she felt resistance, heard the faint clack as the strip fetched up against the window latch. It required a few tries, but finally the tiny metal hook lifted from its eyelet and fell away with a tiny ping.

In a span of seconds, the wire was back in her pouch and Widdershins was inside the darkened room.

That was the good news. The bad was that she'd just come to the end of any real knowledge she possessed about the manor's layout, as she'd never found the opportunity to examine the second floor.

“Keep your eyes and ears-or whatever-open,” she told Olgun in her inaudible whisper.

After listening for a full minute, ensuring that her own heartbeat was the only sound in the room, she took the tinderbox from her pouch, along with a candle stub, and struck sparks until the wick caught. Keeping her back to the window, she quickly examined the small chamber.

Between the comfortably padded chair, the heavy mahogany writing desk liberally dusted with sundry scraps of parchment, and the overburdened bookcase that skulked dejectedly against the far wall, she knew this must be Doumerge's study. Moved by a sudden sense of idle curiosity that could just as easily have come from her or her empathic ally, the thief-turned-aristocrat-turned-thief leafed hurriedly through the nearest stack of writings. It contained little of any real interest: various calculations on the worth of this product or that market; some letters of identification, presumably for servants running errands in the baron's name; and a few attempts at romantic epic poetry so teeth-gratingly, mind-numbingly, soul-shrivelingly awful that it might have doubled as a form of interrogation. With a quiet “Bleah!” of disgust, Widdershins dropped the parchment back into place and moved to the door, as though afraid that the verses might leap off the page and pursue her screaming down the hall.

Her hand was on the latch when Olgun yelped a warning. Unable to repress a startled gasp, Widdershins fell back, instinct alone keeping her soundless as a snowfall as she snuffed the light of her candle and vanished, an insubstantial phantom, into the darkened study.

Muffled footsteps trod slowly down the hallway, pausing once for a brief instant by the study. Widdershins modulated her breathing, as motionless as the statues in the garden, until the footfalls resumed and slowly faded away.

“Thanks,” she whispered to her unseen guardian. “Though you didn't have to yell.”

Olgun's reply was more than a little perturbed.

“Yes, I should have been paying more attention!” she admitted, her voice rising slightly. “I made a mistake. It happens. I've already thanked you! What more do you-what? I did so mean it! All right, fine! See if I thank you again anytime soon!” Widdershins pressed her ear to the door, making absolutely certain this time. “Condescending creep,” she muttered as her gloved hands once more worked the catch. “Thinks he's so much better, just because he happens to be a god….”

Still murmuring-though low enough that none but Olgun could hear-she drifted out into the hall. She was prepared, if necessary, to search room by room until she found what she needed, but here, at least, her task proved easy. No need to hunt down Baron Doumerge's bedchamber; the prodigious snoring was more than sufficient evidence.

At least, Widdershins assumed it was snoring. Judging by the sheer volume and variety of tones, the noise could just as easily have been a cold-stricken lumberjack chopping down a copse of trees with a wild boar.

“All right,” she breathed, “here's where it gets tricky.” Ready to dive in any convenient direction should she be interrupted, she crept toward the bedchamber.

The door opened inward, unfortunately, meaning that she couldn't grease the hinges. The baron probably ordered his servants to keep them oiled-little disturbs the idle rich so much as petty annoyances-but Widdershins hated trusting to luck. Then again, what was luck, really, but divine intervention?

“Olgun? Could you take care of any creaks or squeaky hinges?”

Petulance was his only reply; well, that and the emotional equivalent of a wet raspberry.

“Olgun,” she coaxed in a breathy undertone, “you're not still mad at me, are you? It was such a little argument….”

With an obvious roll of nonexistent eyes, the god twiddled his equally nonexistent fingers at the door. Widdershins felt the tingle of Olgun's power in the air around her.

“Thank you, sweetie,” she teased. “I'll rub your tummy later, all right?”

Grumble.

Widdershins lightly pressed the catch and opened the door just enough to squeeze through the gap. The sound of the baron's somnolent rumblings intensified, and the young woman experienced the sudden sensation that she was stepping into the gullet of some fantastic beast that would gobble her down as an appetizer.

As the sensation faded and the chamber steadfastly insisted on remaining a chamber, she shut the door and consciously commanded each and every muscle in her body to relax as she waited for her vision to adjust to the near darkness. Thankfully, the window faced west (can't have the baron awakened by something as inconsiderate as the dawn, can we?), from which direction there currently shone a sliver of the vanishing moon.

The room was gaudy, the living space of a man who'd never outgrown the childhood conceit that more is always and automatically better. Paintings, bejeweled weapons, and even a few small tapestries jammed the walls, resembling nothing so much as a bargain bin at a market stall. A tacky chandelier in the shape of Geurron's golden pyramid hung above the bed. The dresser sitting beneath a large silver mirror was covered in knickknacks, doodads, and diverse baubles, from gilded brushes to jewel-inlaid boxes to haphazardly scattered jewelry.

Widdershins ignored it all. Anything stolen from Doumerge Estates would be too easily traced-anything except hard currency. A man as paranoid as the Baron d'Orreille would certainly keep a strongbox of coin close at hand for emergencies. It was this, and no other, that she sought in the man's bedroom, mere moments before the first stirrings of dawn. Sure and silent, she crept from corner to corner, eyes and hands roving, examining. The baron continued to snore, obliviously if not peacefully, as his room was methodically ransacked.

Drowned out by the sound of the baron's nocturnal symphony, all but smothered by the thick quilts and comforters of the bed, the room's other occupant almost completely escaped even Widdershins's methodical examination. Only as the thief reached the far corner of the bed did she spot the young woman-a high-class courtesan, to judge by the clothes carefully laid out on the floor and the smeared makeup that still smudged her face-slumbering beside the noble rodent. Widdershins went statue-still, but the woman remained asleep, if not deeply so. Her eyelids twitched as dreams pressed against them from within, and every few breaths a tiny portion of her voice would escape with a slight moan.

Widdershins, whose desperation had more than once driven her to within a finger's breadth of the profession herself, during her hungriest years, had to force down a sympathetic sigh.

At least she's got access to a high class of clientele. Somehow, though, that wasn't much of a consolation. Chewing the inside of her cheek, Widdershins resumed her hunt.

It was, perhaps unsurprisingly, under the bed that Widdershins finally found her prize: a heavy mahogany box, equipped with the finest steel lock that money could buy. She knew it was the finest, because it took her two full minutes to open it. Inside, hundreds of gold marks glittered, newly captured stars, wealth enough to live on for many months.

This was, by far, the most dangerous moment of her night: transferring the hoard, or as much as she could, into the heavy black sack.

Fortunately, unlike most people who worked alone, Widdershins never worked alone. Olgun would warn her if anyone approached, or if the baron began to awaken. Furthermore, her “plunder sack” was woven of a heavy cloth, intended to at least partly muffle the inevitable clank of coins. Nevertheless, handling the cache was a slow and arduous process, one that wreaked havoc on the nerves, and Widdershins was covered in a sheen of sweat by the time she was through. The sky had grown bright enough that she could see the stirrings of dawn even through the window's western exposure. It was time, and past time, to go.

She looked up, one last glance to make sure all was well-except that it wasn't. The Baron d'Orreille remained fast asleep, but his companion had sat halfway up in bed, clutching the sheets to her naked breast, staring in terror at what, to her eyes, must have been little more than an inky blot moving through the darkened room.

Widdershins was around the bed in a silent flash, one gloved hand covering the courtesan's mouth. The woman fell back with a terrifying squeak, but otherwise made no sound at all.

Still in absolute silence, Widdershins leaned in until her lips were practically on the woman's cheek. She felt the contours of a bony face-clearly, even with clients as wealthy as the baron, the job didn't pay all that well.

“I'm not going to hurt you,” Widdershins breathed in a voice that even a whisper would have been hard-pressed to hear. “But I need you to keep quiet.” She smiled, knowing that the other couldn't possibly see the expression, hoping maybe she'd feel it. “Fifty gold marks. All yours, for keeping your mouth shut.” She couldn't just give her the coins-doubtless she'd be searched, thoroughly, when the theft was discovered. But…“The peeing cherub statue. Look in the water right under his-uh…” The thief was grateful that the darkness hid her sudden blush. “Well, you know.”

The woman clearly had no good cause to believe what Widdershins said. But fifty marks was more than she'd make in months, and so far, the thief hadn't hurt her. Widdershins hoped that would be enough to convince her.

The courtesan nodded, her face barely moving beneath Widdershins's hand. Widdershins breathed a silent gasp of relief and vanished from the bedside.

Moving with far less speed and far more care-it is simply impossible, however eloquent one might be, to convince a sack of gold to be silent, and Olgun could only muffle the sounds so much-the black-clad intruder crept back up the hall, returning to the relative safety of the study. Widdershins glanced at the window, but found herself unwilling to leave just yet. Doumerge's tawdry display of excess had really rubbed her the wrong way, and she felt an overwhelming need to express her displeasure.

If she was also, perhaps, angry at the reminder of what her life could have become, well, neither she nor her divine companion chose to acknowledge the possibility.

With Olgun impatiently tapping a nonexistent foot, Widdershins resumed her examination of the ledgers and parchments on the desk. No need for a candle now, for the sky was light enough that she could see clearly. She was pushing this too far, leaving it too close, but by the gods (well, by one god, anyway), she wouldn't leave until she was well and truly done. And despite his impatience, she knew Olgun would have it no other way.

Snatching up a nearby quill and dipping it deeply into the inkwell on the desk, Widdershins very carefully blotted out several dozen figures and totals throughout the ledger. It would take the greedy bastard days, if not weeks, to recalculate it all. Then, flipping several days ahead in the accounting ledger, she scrawled her message across the page in a neat but hasty hand:

Thanks for the gold, my lord. I'm sure I'll enjoy it more than you would. But look on the bright side. Now you won't be tempted to go out and spend it all, having fun, when you should be at home balancing your books.

Sincerely, someone a lot richer than they used to be.

A smirk crawling its way across her face, Widdershins closed the ledger and arranged the scattered chaos atop the desk, nearly as she was able, as it had appeared when she found it. Let the baron discover her little thank-you in his own good time.

“Now,” she told Olgun, stepping to the window and glancing outward, “the only issue is getting away from here, yes?” She scowled at the rising sun. “I don't suppose you could whip up some clouds, or maybe even a nice morning mist, could you?” she inquired doubtfully. Olgun scoffed.

“All right. Can you at least take a little of the weight off me?” She glanced meaningfully down at the sack full of gold marks.

The bag grew slightly but noticeably lighter.

“That's just fine. It won't need to be long.” She opened the pane, stretched down as far as she could, and allowed her bag to fall the remaining few feet to the grass. She followed quickly after, scuttling down the side of the house. Glancing around warily to ensure that nobody was up early and working in the garden, she hefted the sack over her shoulder and then did the only thing she could.

It was one of the primary rules of thievery. When hiding, sneaking, and trickery are all out, the correct answer is “run like hell.”

Whether some god other than Olgun watched over her that morning or whether she simply ran through a free-floating pocket of good luck, she made it across the Doumerge Estates without being spotted. (She even managed to make a quick detour and complete her promised delivery to the cherub fountain, despite Olgun's objections.) Then she was at the outer wall, leaped without slowing-again boosted by unseen hands-and vanished into the nearby alleys.

Birds, squirrels, and other disgustingly pastoral creatures sang and chirped their greetings to the rising sun. The streets of Davillon's marketplace filled rapidly: merchants setting up shop, patrons looking for a good deal while the market remained uncrowded and the proprietors remained in a good mood. The trickles of humanity grew, first into streams, then veritable rivers. Flowing through the streets that were the veins and arteries of the town, these were the lifeblood of Davillon.

Above the growing throng at the market's edge, one woman rolled over in bed to face the window, blinking blearily against the sunlight. She'd taken to her bed only a few hours before, and had no intention of rising with the dawn. With a muffled curse, she slammed the shutters and drifted back to sleep, carried into dreams by the low tones of the bustling market.

She woke again around noon, gave some brief thought to staying in bed a while longer-she never opened the tavern more than four hours before sunset, anyway-but decided, reluctantly, that the place needed a good cleaning after last night. Grumbling under her breath, she rose to her feet, shivering as her flimsy shift failed utterly to keep the chill autumn air at bay.

Some hours later, washed, dressed, and breakfasted, she emerged into the sweeping tides of market-goers and allowed them to carry her a few doors down the street to her destination.

To the casual observer, Genevieve Marguilles was stunning. Luxuriant blonde tresses, the sort that most noblewomen tried (in vain) to achieve with expensive wigs, cascaded down her shoulders. Her eyes were a gleaming brown, golden in the right light; her features soft; her figure the envy of women ten years her junior. She wore today a long, burgundy skirt beneath a smoke-gray tunic and a snug bodice that emphasized attributes that, on her, didn't really require additional emphasis.

Yes, Genevieve was beautiful. And had that been the end of it, she'd already be twelve or fourteen years married to some aristocratic fop chosen for his political connections by her father.

But that wasn't the end of it. Her gait was uneven, leaning heavily leftward as she walked. From birth, her left leg had twisted slightly inward, bending awkwardly at the knee, and though the details of her deformity were hidden by the long, flowing skirts she favored, she could not hide its effect on her stride. It was something to which she'd long since grown accustomed, but for Gurrerre Marguilles, patriarch of the House Marguilles-and, not incidentally, her father-it was the touch of death for any political marriage. To offer an “imperfect” child to the scion of a noble house would have been an insult.

Sensing that she wasn't wanted (not that the proud Gurrerre had tried to hide the fact), Genevieve spent her childhood and teenage years associating with a “lower” class of people. She made many friends among the commoners of Davillon, and while it took some time to grow accustomed to a life where not everything was provided at whim, she ultimately persevered. She'd struck out on her own, taking with her enough of her family's funds to open her tavern. Her father didn't approve of his daughter working among the lower classes, and certainly wasn't happy with her chosen vocation, but neither could it be said that the old man was sorry to see her depart. He made the occasional attempt, for form's sake, to coax her back into the fold, and otherwise they happily left one another alone.

Today, Genevieve found herself in a jovial mood, no doubt due to the extra sleep in which she'd indulged. Waving cheerily at several market regulars, she climbed the five shallow steps to the door of the Flippant Witch. It was a squat building, fairly plain, nothing more than a large common room, a small storeroom, three tiny private parlors, and a kitchen. It boasted no decoration, save for a tiny blue stone with a white cross: the symbol of Banin, the Marguilles' household deity and one of the few portions of her old life Genevieve hadn't abandoned. But despite its modesty, it was a popular spot for those who couldn't afford the “prestigious” drinking establishments. Her prices were reasonable, the food and drink tasty, the staff friendly.

To Genevieve, it was more than her tavern. More so than the house in which she'd grown up, more so than the small cluster of rooms in which she slept, the Flippant Witch was home.

Which was why, when she stepped into the darkened taproom and spotted a trio of men sitting around the nearest table, her initial reaction was one of anger, rather than fear.

“Who the hell are you?” she demanded angrily, one hand darting to the steel stiletto tucked in her bodice. “How did you get in here?”

All three stood, largely concealed by the ambient shadow, and the biggest stepped toward her. Despite herself, Genevieve retreated until her back struck the wall. She thought briefly of making a run for freedom, but she knew the intruder could easily catch her before she managed to open the door.

“What-what do you want?” she asked, voice shaking. “I don't have much money here. We-we haven't opened for business. If-”

“Shut up.” His voice was as deep and unfriendly as she'd expected. “We don't want your money. And,” he added as Genevieve gasped and went deathly pale, “we don't particularly want to hurt you.” He stepped nearer still, pressing the frightened proprietor tightly against the wall. She was near enough, now, to strike with her small weapon, but she knew better than to try. “All we want,” he continued, “is for you to help us out with something. After that, we'll leave you alone.”

“What do you want?” she asked again, staring up at this mountain in man's clothing.

“Just to find someone we hear is a frequent visitor to your lovely tavern. And it is a lovely tavern, by the way. Do you know a young woman who goes by the name Widdershins?”

Hours later, the sun setting at her back, Widdershins wandered the crowded boulevard, whistling a jaunty tune. She wore a tunic of verdant green and earth-brown breeches topped by a green-trimmed black vest, a combination that made her look vaguely like an ambulatory shrubbery. Her chestnut hair hung in a loose tail, her rapier swung freely at her side (the intricate silver basket now reattached), and her coin purse overflowed with the smallest portion of the baron's liberated gold. All in all, the last couple of days had been magnificent, and she was determined to share her good cheer.

And, Olgun aside, the thief possessed only one close friend in Davillon with whom she might share it.

Widdershins had gone directly home after her escape from the Doumerge Estates, detouring just long enough to retrieve her pack from the filthy alley. The following day-or what remained of it after a well-earned slumber-she'd spent in circumspect travel to several bolt-holes scattered throughout the city, secreting a portion of her gains in each.

Now she fully intended to enjoy a moderate allotment of her newfound wealth. And so, ignoring the aggravated glares of passersby who would now have the melody she was whistling stuck in their heads, she sauntered across the market, up the shallow stairs, and through the front door of the Flippant Witch.

A cheerful fire crackled in the imposing stone hearth. Lanterns hung at irregular intervals, lighting a common room that was crammed near capacity with thirsty market-goers and city-dwellers. The noise level was not much below that of the baron's party two nights past, but it was friendlier, somehow less abrasive.

Several regulars called or waved gaily as she entered, and she happily waved back, teeth bared in a wide grin-a grin that grew even wider as Robin sidled up to her with a shy smile of her own. The slender serving girl-a few years younger than Widdershins herself, with short-cropped black hair and drab wardrobe-was often mistaken for a boy at first glance. It was an effect she cultivated deliberately, due to some truly unpleasant experiences about which she rarely spoke.

The Flippant Witch, Widdershins noted, attracted more than its share of hard-luck cases.

“The usual, Shins?” Robin asked softly.

“Not tonight, kiddo,” Widdershins laughed, ruffling Robin's hair. “Scyllian red, oldest you've got. I want to celebrate.”

“Obviously,” the girl gasped, shaking her head. “Shins, I can't serve anything that expensive without Genevieve's permission, you know that.”

“Fine with me. Where is she, anyway? I wanted to talk to her tonight. I-”

They were interrupted by a raucous call from a nearby table whose inhabitants rather loudly demanded to know where their ales were.

“Gotta go,” Robin apologized, sounding not at all contrite. “Genevieve's working the bar tonight. I'm sure she'd love to talk to you.” With another smile, the girl slipped through the crowded tables, assuring the impatient patrons that she'd be right with them, and could they just give her one more moment….

Still smiling, Widdershins amiably shoved through the intervening space, working her way toward the heavy oaken bar. Other than the fact that it was missing the compulsory large mirror-that would've been far too expensive, especially given the all-too-real danger of it being shattered by flying tableware during some of the Witch's wilder nights-it perfectly fit the popular image of the “typical tavern.” On the left rose several hefty kegs of ale and beer; on the right, rack upon rack of bottled spirits. Between them stood the door to the storeroom. The kitchen was located away from the bar itself, along the left wall. The succulent aroma of roasting venison wafted forth, a benediction from various culinary gods.

And standing in the midst of it all, her face a mask of worry, stood Genevieve Marguilles, owner, proprietor, and one of Widdershins's very few friends.

“Genevieve!” the thief called happily, bellying up to the bar. “I've got to tell you about the other night! You won't believe…”

Her voice petered out, the last trickle of a drought-dried stream, and the grin fell from her lips at the look on her friend's face.

“Genevieve? What's wrong?”

Even as the golden-haired innkeep drew breath to speak, a hulking form rose from the nearest table, an impending avalanche looming ever nearer. Clutching tightly at her rapier, Widdershins turned about, and the last of her good cheer drained away.

In a voice that perfectly matched a body far taller and far broader of shoulder than any human should be, the colossus spoke. “Hello, dear Widdershins. If you think you can spare us a span from your hectic schedule, the Finders' Guild would really like a word with you.”