Thief's covenant

CHAPTER EIGHT

Now:

Julien Bouniard strode past the ponderous door, rough with age but sturdy as the day it was hewn. He yanked the gauntlets from his hands as he walked, sticking them haphazardly through his belt. His nose wrinkled in distaste beneath the assault of the clinging mildew. Through ugly, claustrophobic corridors he passed, his path illuminated only by cheap lanterns suspended from the ceiling. The damn miserly city bookkeepers wouldn't even spring for decent lighting down here. The lamps were so poor that the light from one barely reached the circle of illumination from the next, and they smoked something awful, a constant irritant to the eyes and throat.

A second door, identical to the first, slowly materialized from the darkness before him. He fumbled at the keys on his belt, clanking them together softly, and unlatched the gargantuan lock with a resounding click.

The room beyond was cleaner than the hall, though this wasn't really much of an accomplishment, and was lit by modern lanterns far more efficient (and far less suffocating) than those in the cramped passage. A faded beige rug-or at least it was beige now, though Demas alone knew what color it might have been when new-covered the stone floor, and several old tapestries partially concealed the walls. An enormous desk occupied the room's far side, a series of cabinets stacked beside it, and yet a third door-not only locked, but barred with an iron-banded shaft as thick around as Julien's calf-lurked beyond.

The fellow behind that desk, garbed in a uniform that mirrored Julien's own, glanced up from beneath an uneven black hairline. He recognized Bouniard, of course, but policy was policy. Instantly he aimed a pair of enormous crossbows, swivel-mounted to the desk, in the newcomer's direction.

“Today's password!” he demanded harshly.

“Holy water.”

The other guard stood and saluted. “Major,” he offered with far more courtesy.

“Jacques.” Julien nodded. “Be seated.” The constable sat, his chair digging furrows in the carpet, and the major was just opening his mouth to speak when his jaw fell ever so slightly agape. Shouts, muffled to the point of utter incomprehensibility, and the clattering of something beating on the bars, penetrated even the heavy door.

“Is there a problem in there, Constable?” Bouniard asked seriously, mustache wrinkling as he frowned.

“Not really, sir. The new tenant's making a racket. Doesn't feel she belongs here, arrested unfairly, all the usual hogwash-but, uh, louder. To be honest, Major, I've sort of drowned it out.”

“I see. And she's been at it since she got here?” He sounded more than a little amazed.

“Well, after a fashion, sir. She's kept it up ever since she woke up, but that wasn't much more than two hours ago. I-”

“Woke up?” Julien leaned forward, hands on the desk. “Was she injured?” His damn ceremonial duties had kept him from hearing more than a perfunctory report on Widdershins's arrest.

“Again, Major, after a fashion. Way I hear tell, she was pretty bad off, but it wasn't our guys who did it. Seems they walked in on her and some big ox of a fellow having it out in the alley.” He grinned. “Seems it was his life they saved, too, not hers.”

Julien suppressed a grin of his own. That does sound like her. Aloud, he said, “I suppose I'd better go see to her, then. She's seen a healer?”

“Yes, sir. He felt that rest would be sufficient treatment.”

“Well, she'll have plenty of time for that here.” He paused. “The other man?”

“Sir?”

“The one she was fighting with.”

“Ah. Couldn't say, sir. I understand he was long gone by the time any of our people got back there.”

“I see. Be sure to get his description and pass it to the men, if it hasn't already been done. I'd like to have a word or two with him about fighting in the streets.” Especially with a girl.

“I'll see it's done just as soon as I'm off shift, sir.”

“Splendid, Constable. Which cell?”

“Twenty-three, sir. Put her in there alone, since she was hurt and all.”

Jacques muscled the bar from its brackets, letting it thump heavily to the floor, and turned his key in a lock far more intricate than those on the previous doors. It swung open with a ghostly groan, a maw that opened into the depths of hell. With a shrug, Julien stepped through.

Another hallway, mildewed, smoky, and ill-lit with cheap lanterns, but this one was far from featureless. Every ten feet stood a door of heavy iron bars. And behind some of those gates stood, sat, or slept a rogue's gallery of Davillon's more unpleasant (or, in some cases, merely unfortunate) inhabitants. Catcalls, shouts, threats, and pleas rained down in a veritable blizzard as the major strode the hall. He made a clear show of ignoring them all.

Until he reached cell twenty-three, anyway. Widdershins, garbed in the drab brown that was Davillon's standard prisoner's wardrobe, her face marred by a few lingering trails of dried blood, shouted angrily and slammed her prison-issue ceramic mug-now cracking and crumbling into so much powder-into the bars.

“Those cost money, you know,” Julien told her calmly.

Widdershins glowered at him. “You let me out of here, Bouniard! Right now!”

“What's with the hysterics?” he asked, arms crossed over his chest and standing well beyond arm's reach.

“I just wanted to get your bloody attention! Now let me out!”

“You know better than that, Widdershins,” Julien told her, not entirely without sympathy.

The young woman sagged, her ruined cup falling from slackened fingers. “Bouniard, I didn't do anything!” This time, she added silently.

“Maybe, but I know you, Widdershins, and I can't risk assuming that your proximity to the archbishop-to say nothing of the city's rich and famous-was happy coincidence. Besides, I'm told you were fighting.”

“Oh, self-defense is a crime, now, is it?” she barked. “He hit me with a hammer, Bouniard! Have you ever been hit with a hammer? It's not actually as funny as you'd think.”

The major raised an eyebrow. “You look like hell, Widdershins, but I don't know that you look as bad as all that.”

“I recover quickly, Bouniard. I-” The young woman shuddered once, and Julien saw her eyes roll back in her head. He lunged forward, arms reaching through the bars, catching her just before she would have collapsed in a jellified heap. Gently, he lowered her to the ground.

“Maybe not as quickly as you think,” he told her softly. “You'll be safe here, and you'll have time to heal. Once the archbishop's gone, you'll be free to go.”

Widdershins nodded weakly.

Julien rose and marched back toward the outer door. Was, in fact, reaching out to ring the bell that would alert Jacques he wanted out when he stopped, hand abruptly flying to his belt.

“Widdershins!” His face reddening, he pounded once more down the hallway, skidding to a stop before the young woman's cell. She'd moved back into the center of the room and now stared at him through a mask of pure, angelic innocence.

“Is there a problem, Bouniard?”

“You damn well know there is, Widdershins! Give them back!”

She blinked once. “Give what back?”

“My bloody keys!” Julien snarled, no longer in any mood to be accommodating. Imperiously, he gestured at the manacles that hung from the back wall of the cell. “Put those on, Widdershins,” he ordered. “Now!”

“Wait a minute. I don't think-”

“Put them on, or I'll call a few constables in here and we'll put them on for you! And don't even try to leave them loose. I can tell!”

Muttering, Widdershins rose to her feet, staggered to the rear of the cell, and latched the heavy iron bands to her wrists.

At which point she looked straight at the fuming major and asked sweetly, “How are you going to open the cell door?”

An instant or two of silence, and then, as neighboring prisoners all burst out laughing, Julien cursed, face growing redder still, and left the corridor, returning moments later with a second set of keys.

The lock clicked, the bars swung inward, and the Guardsman stalked across the room, slamming to a halt directly before the young woman. “One last time, Widdershins. Give me my keys.”

“I don't have your stupid keys, Bouniard!”

“Fine. I'll be as professional about this as I can.” He began to search her, thoroughly. Prison garb didn't allow a plethora of hiding places, but Julien checked them all with an expert touch. Widdershins felt herself flush, but, true to his word, he remained professional, neither his eyes nor his hands lingering any longer than necessary.

As Bouniard neared the end of his search, Widdershins twisted her right wrist, just enough so the chain clanked audibly.

Bouniard instantly straightened, casting a suspicious glare first at that hand, and then at her face. “Don't move until I'm done,” he ordered.

By then, of course, it was too late. In the instant he'd turned to her right, Widdershins's left hand had darted out, to the very end of the chain's slack, and snagged Bouniard's keys. She really hadn't stolen them when she'd collapsed against him at the bars. She'd simply moved them to the back of his belt, knowing he'd leap to conclusions when they weren't in their accustomed spot. This time, she swiped them properly, allowing them to rest inside the sleeve he'd already searched.

With a curse of disgust, Bouniard stood, graced her with another angry glower and a stern “Don't move,” and unclasped the manacles, backing away swiftly as the iron clamps clicked open. Widdershins watched in mounting amusement as the major stormed from the cell. He slammed the gate with a resounding crash that echoed along the hall, apparently having taken up a formal patrol.

“Maybe you dropped them somewhere,” she offered helpfully.

Bouniard's left cheek twitched twice, and then he was gone, leaving Widdershins once more alone in the dimly lit cell.

“After that,” Widdershins continued earnestly over the rim of her goblet, brimming with a rich red that Genevieve had been saving for a special occasion, “it was just a matter of waiting long enough for the shift change. I just unlocked the cell door, went to the end of the hall, and rang the bell.” She frowned briefly. “The other prisoners wanted me to let them out, too,” she added thoughtfully. “But I just didn't think that would be right. I mean, I didn't want any real criminals to escape.”

“Of course not,” Gen agreed, hiding her smile behind her own goblet. “Some people belong in jail.”

“Absolutely!” Widdershins assented, oblivious. “Anyway, the guard wasn't expecting the bell, since he knew none of his own people were in the prison hall, so he was pretty cautious. Probably should have sent for reinforcements first, but Olgun was sweet enough to encourage him to come and take a quick look before he disturbed the other constables. A gentle knock over the head, a quick rummage through the cabinets to get my stuff back, and here I am!” She spread her arms in a dramatic “taa-daa!” sloshing more than a few swallows-worth across the table.

“And I'm glad you are here, and safe,” Gen told her seriously, though she eyed the wine-spattered tabletop with weary resignation. Careful not to spill a drop herself, she put down her own drink and leaned forward, expression somber. “Now let's try to keep you that way, shall we? Bouniard won't be happy about this, but if you lie low for a few months, I think the heat should-”

“I can't, Gen!” Widdershins insisted, shocked at such a profane suggestion. “I only have about four or six weeks before the archbishop leaves!”

A horrible suspicion crept up on Genevieve, tapping her urgently on the shoulder, but she refused to turn and acknowledge its presence. “What are you talking about?” she asked, almost sweetly.

Widdershins's face twisted into an ugly amalgamation of devious frustration. “Everyone's so sure they've got the right to walk all over me,” she spat, fingers clenching on the table. “'Oh, Widdershins might get us into trouble while the archbishop's here, better beat her into jam so she can't hurt the guild!' ‘Oh, Widdershins dared appear in the crowd to watch His Holiness arrive, better throw her in jail!' They have no right, Gen! None of them!”

“Well, no, they don't, but-”

The thief seemed not even to hear her. “So, fine. All right. If they're going to blame me anyway, I'm damned well going to do something to earn it.”

That suspicion Genevieve had been ignoring turned into a shiver, running an icy, lecherous touch down her spine. “Shins…What are you talking about?”

“I'm going to rob the archbishop.”

For long moments, no sound escaped Genevieve's throat, though her jaw worked furiously. No one, not even Widdershins, could be that crazy!

“It's not crazy!” the thief objected after her friend finally squeaked out a few syllables. Then, “Well, all right, maybe it is. But I have to do it anyway. I am not going to be pushed around like this, not for something I didn't even do! I'm going to rob the archbishop, and I'm not going to get caught, and nobody's going to be able to prove it was me, even though they're all going to know it! And they're all going to know that they're better off just leaving me the hell alone!”

“Shins-”

“No! I'm doing this, and damn the whole lot of them!”

“Shins!” Gen finally exploded. “Think a minute! All you'll accomplish is to bring them down on you harder than ever! So what if they can't prove it was you? You think either the Finders' Guild or the Guard is going to balk at leaping to conclusions?! You'll wind up arrested, or dead, or both! What is the matter with you?!”

What is the matter with me? Widdershins wondered, shaken more than she'd care to admit. Sure, she was a risk taker, always had been, and sure she was frustrated, angrier than she could ever remember. But she wasn't a moron-she knew that what she planned was not only crazy, it was nothing short of stupid.

But she knew, just as surely, that she would not, could not, back down. Nor, she realized with a gentle mental prod, would Olgun, who seemed just as anxious to see this done.

Could that be it? Was the god influencing her reactions, her emotions? Was Olgun prodding her into doing something from which she would normally have walked away? Did the tiny deity even have that much power over her?

No. Even if he could, why would he? This was nobody's decision but her own.

“I'm going,” she said simply, voice steady, tone final. “I wish I could make you understand, Gen.” Then maybe you could explain it to me. “But I am doing this. I'm sorry.”

Genevieve cast her gaze downward, her fingers spinning the stem of her goblet.

“Who's de Laurent staying with first?” Widdershins asked softly.

Her friend refused to look up. “I can't stop you from getting yourself killed, Shins, but I'm certainly not going to help you!”

“You know I can find out elsewhere, Gen. I'd rather you be the one to tell me. Everyone else I ask adds that much more risk of word getting out. Please?”

The blonde barkeep's shoulders slumped. “The Marquis de Ducarte. He'll be there a week or so, and then he moves on to his next host.”

“Thank you, Gen.”

When she finally looked up, Genevieve's eyes brimmed with tears. “Shins, please come back alive!”

“I promise, Gen. If I come back, it'll be alive.”

And then Widdershins was gone, before the fire that blazed suddenly in her friend's eyes could take root in any further word or deed.

Pockmark-whose name was actually Eudes, not that it mattered much to anyone but himself-really, really didn't care for this idea. Constables of the Guard were the sort of men that one did well to avoid, and certainly he could have happily gone the rest of his life without ever seeing the inside (or even the outside) of one of the city's gaols.

But he had his orders, and he had access to the sorts of coin that made him think those orders came from somewhere a little higher than Brock, however unofficially. So he grumbled, and he fretted, and he worried….

And he went.

In a deep doorway, he wore the shadows like a favorite outfit and waited, cursing his partner for every moment that passed. In truth, though, it wasn't long at all before a red-and-yellow flicker brightened the night, fingers of smoke rose to pluck the stars from the firmament. Doors and windows opened all along the block, and the nightmarish cry of “Fire!” shattered the stillness.

Men and women with buckets sprouted throughout the street, very much as though they grew wild, but it was a few moments more before a handful of constables appeared through the doors of the great granite hulk to join them.

Had to take time to make sure the cells were all secure, no doubt. But if the guards were worried at all, it was about folks breaking out. Not a one of them, whether outside wielding buckets or inside wielding blades, were watching for someone sneaking in.

Pockmark moved through the chaos and casually slipped between the massive wooden doors, shuddering at the weight of the stone and steel around him. Along the walls of a vast antechamber, well away from the clerk's desk, he made his way at a rapid crouch. His body still ached, mottled with bruises and partially healed lacerations; he walked with a slight limp, and every now and again he heard a faint ringing in his left ear. But none of it was enough to slow him down, especially with revenge so near he could smell it.

In one hand, he held a minuscule crossbow, a weapon far quieter than the flintlock with which he'd been more comfortable, aimed constantly at the man behind that desk. Thankfully, he didn't have to pull the trigger. The thick shadows and the distraction of the tumult outside were more than enough to divert the clerk's attention. In a matter of moments, Pockmark was through an inner door and into the lantern-lit hallways beyond.

He'd known it wouldn't actually be that difficult. The bulk of the Guard were on duty elsewhere, providing escort for His Eminence or working double shifts to keep the streets clean and quiet during the holy man's visit. The various Guard installations were staffed with a skeleton crew, and most of those weren't exactly the cream of Demas's crop. Three times only, as he crept his way toward his destination, did Pockmark encounter a constable he could not sneak past. And on two of those occasions, a heaping handful of coin was enough to buy their cooperation.

After all, it was just a prisoner he was after. What was the harm, really?

Had they known about the third constable, the uncooperative one, the one currently stuffed in a broom closet with a crossbow bolt in his throat, they might have reconsidered that cooperation.

Carefully he approached another door, reloaded crossbow in one tight fist, curved dagger in the other. He knew the layout of this next chamber from personal experience, knew of the desk-mounted crossbows trained on the entryway. He had to be ready to act, and faster than the constable beyond. Taking the dagger in his teeth, he carefully nudged the latch and then, returning the weapon to his fist, hit the door with his shoulder.

The heavy portal swung inward, impacting the wall with a dull thud. Pockmark had already dropped to one knee, crossbow trained on the desk-but there was nobody there. Indeed, the door across the room stood open, revealing the hall of cells, and the constable on duty lay slumped in that doorway.

Had someone else come to do the job?

Scowling, Pockmark crossed the room, glancing down at the dead man-no, just unconscious; he could see the fellow breathing-and continued on into the hall. Many of the prisoners began to shout as he passed, clamoring for release, but most fell back at the sight of him.

The more experienced crooks, at least, knew damn well that an armed stranger in the hall meant someone wasn't going to see tomorrow. Healthier not to attract his attention.

Frowning at the noise, the Finder thug studied each cell as he passed, looking, never finding. Some were empty, some packed with strangers, but none held his target. And then he came to one, just one, standing not only empty, but open.

And he knew.

Damn it!

It shouldn't have been possible, but not for a moment did he question. She'd bloody escaped! Ooh, Brock was not going to take this well…

Enough of the prisoners had fallen silent, now, that he heard the sudden gasp at the doorway. He spun, crossbow held steady, aimed right at the heart of the man who stood gaping down at the fallen constable.

Perfect. Just what I need.

Slowly, the guard looked up from his crumpled brother and met Pockmark's gaze. “I don't suppose,” the man asked in a voice almost devoid of either surprise or fear, “that you know where my keys might have gone?”

The thug neither knew nor cared what the hell the lunatic was talking about. “Pistol and sword on the ground, guard. Now-and slowly.”

Brass and leather scraped across the stone floor, the only sounds in a hall now grown deathly silent. Prisoners huddled in the cells, some with faces pressed to the bars so that they might see, others turned away to make it damn clear that they didn't see.

“Kick them away.” More scraping on the stone.

“Get down on your knees.” He was rewarded with a brief flicker of fear in the guard's face, but the man did as he was told.

Pockmark moved forward, tiny crossbow aimed squarely. Just a few steps closer, near enough to absolutely ensure a kill shot, not so close as to give the man a chance to grab at him. He had to get this done and get out before any of the constables returned from outside, or any of the men he'd bribed became aware that fellow guards had died tonight. He had to tell Brock, had to-

The thunder of a flintlock roared through the hall, echoes bounding almost playfully off the heavy walls. Pockmark staggered back, agony flaring through him, fire burning in his chest. He heard a distant twang as his own weapon discharged harmlessly into the ceiling, then fell from disobedient fingers. His hands went to his ribs, came away dripping.

But…but…Oh.

For just a moment, Pockmark's eyes focused on the bash-bang in the guard's fist-not the one the man had when he came in, but the one belonging to the unconscious constable beside whom he'd knelt.

“Well…Shit.”

They were, as last words go, not terribly inspired. But Eudes felt, before the floor rushed at him and the world went away, that they were at least an accurate assessment.

A few seconds, long enough for the pounding of his heart to subside at least a bit and his breath to come more easily to his lungs, and Major Julien Bouniard rose to his feet. He even managed to be almost steady at it. His own weapons once again firmly in his grasp, he scanned the poorly lit hall, alert for any new attack, but it seemed the man he'd just killed was alone.

Three steps, check the body-indeed, quite dead-and then a sprint down the hall, ignoring the rising chorus of catcalls and questions from within the crowded cells. Only one door was ajar, only one prisoner missing, and he couldn't even find it in himself to be remotely surprised.

Julien wasn't certain precisely what had happened here-when Widdershins had escaped, who the dead man might have been, whether he'd come to free Widdershins or with a darker purpose in mind-but one thing, at least, he knew.

The thieves and criminals of Davillon had brought their struggles and their corruption into the house of Demas. And that was simply unacceptable.

Clarence Rittier, the Marquis de Ducarte and likely successor to the rule of Davillon should anything befall the duchess (gods keep her), was as much a bull of a man as the Baron d'Orreille had been a weasel. His features were squat and broad, as though he stared at life with his face pressed up against a window, and the rest of him followed suit. His coarse brown hair was currently masquerading behind a wig of longer brown curls, his cuffs were properly billowed, his coat and breeches were of the finest brown cloth-and despite the best efforts of his personal tailors, it all looked little shy of ludicrous on him. You can put a bull in formal wear, but he'll always be a bull.

The ballroom of his manor house churned with chatting, dancing, and aimlessly wandering aristocrats. So packed in were they, Rittier was quite certain he would soon see them hanging from the rafters, their finery flapping listlessly about them. The guest of honor himself, William de Laurent, hadn't made his appearance, probably would not for some hours, and most likely found the entire fiasco as arduous as the marquis did. But such was the price to be paid for power and privilege in Galicien culture.

Rittier turned, surveying the irritating creatures currently infesting his private domain, and nearly ran smack dab into one. A striking young woman with blue-green eyes, a wig of blonde tresses, and a velvet green dress cut distractingly low was drifting past as he pondered, and he scarcely pulled himself up short in time to keep from running her down.

Another social butterfly. “I beg your pardon, mademoiselle. How clumsy of me. Pray forgive me.”

“Hmm? Oh!” The girl curtsied, her expression vaguely vacant. “No harm done, my lord.”

“I'm so glad to hear it. Might I have the honor of your name?”

“Madeleine Valois, my lord,” she told him. “This is a most excellent soiree, my lord, if I may say so.”

Ninny. “A pleasure to meet you, Madeleine. I'm so glad you're enjoying my party.”

“Me too,” she breathed vapidly.

Fists and teeth clenched of their own accord. “Well, Mademoiselle Valois, I fear I have other guests I must see to. If you'll excuse me?”

She curtsied once again, giggling softly. Rittier fled the landing as rapidly as courtesy permitted.

Madeleine rolled her eyes at the marquis's back and swallowed a laugh. But while tormenting the nobility might be a hoot, it was growing near time for Madeleine to vanish for the night.

She regally climbed the broad and carpeted stairs, which opened onto an indoor balcony that offered a full view of the ballroom below. Once she was certain nobody watched her, Madeleine ducked beneath the balcony's guardrail, dropping out of sight of anyone on the lower floor. She darted swiftly to the nearest door, allowed herself (and Olgun) a brief moment to listen for any sounds behind it, and slipped inside.

It appeared to be a guest room, or so she guessed from the plain bed, dresser, and wardrobe she spotted before the door clicked shut. The chamber once more plunged into darkness, interrupted only by the twinkle of stars just barely visible through the tree overhanging the room's only window.

Within seconds, Widdershins had stripped off the velvet gown, rolling it into a careless parcel. The chill air of the room raised goose bumps across her flesh. More than a little uncomfortable standing around only partially clad, she slipped into the black-hued tunic and gloves she'd withdrawn from a large sack she'd kept well hidden beneath the folds of her dress. (She took a moment to thank the gods of the Pact that those stupid bell skirts were all the rage this year. She could probably have smuggled two backpacks, three extra outfits, and a trained mule under that thing. True, stuffing the gown into the sack meant breaking the hoops, and they wouldn't be cheap to replace, but you couldn't have everything, could you?) She shoved the bundled dress into the sack, followed by that abominable wig. Belt of tools and picks now strapped to her waist, rapier at her back, hair tied back with thick black yarn-she was ready to go.

“Madeleine Valois has left the party,” she whispered softly. “She asked me to make her apologies.”

Olgun chuckled.

“All right,” she continued, voice low, “it doesn't much matter what we get, as long as there's no doubt who it belonged to.” Widdershins padded back to the door as she spoke, soundless as the ghost of a cat. “As soon as we-”

Her right foot struck something limp and yielding, something that scraped across the carpet with a faint rustle, something she'd apparently stepped over and missed through sheer dumb luck when entering the darkened room.

Statue-still, Widdershins strained her senses. Sight was useless in the black; her ears detected no hint of noise save her own pounding heartbeat; her nose-wait! She did smell something, something with a familiar tang.

With agonizing slowness, Widdershins silently retrieved her flint-and-steel box with one hand, and what appeared to be a tiny iron cube with the other. It was, in fact, a miniature lantern, one she'd acquired at no little expense. The oil reservoir within was pathetic, allowing for a burn of less than five minutes. But it was easily concealed, and directional to boot. Widdershins lit it now, keeping the aperture at its narrowest, and directed the tiny beam at her feet.

One of the marquis's maids, if Widdershins could judge by the uniform. She lay haphazardly on the floor, one hand stretched over her head. It was that limp and lifeless limb Widdershins had kicked on her way toward the door. The poor woman's mouth was twisted in an eternal expression of crippling terror, and the front of her dress was drenched in blood.

There was something so utterly cold-blooded about the whole affair, it made Widdershins's head swim. The maid couldn't have been murdered here; there wasn't enough blood on the carpet. Someone had casually opened the woman's chest, and then tossed the body in here…Why? To hide it, obviously, at least for a short while.

Which meant, Widdershins realized with a sickened lurch, that the killer was assuredly still here. Unless someone bore this simple domestic servant one hell of a grudge, she wasn't the intended target. Most probably she'd stumbled on something she shouldn't have seen.

And if someone was to die here tonight, it didn't take a lot of detective work to identify the most likely victim.

“Oh, figs…” Good heaping helping of gods, her luck couldn't be that bad, could it? What were the odds that…?

A moment's frantic thought-which actually took two moments, since first she had to fight down a moment's panic-and Widdershins realized that perhaps this wasn't nearly the coincidence she'd first thought. Rittier was, after all, the archbishop's first host in Davillon, and this, the first party he was scheduled to attend. That made tonight the first real opportunity to get at him-the distraction of the ball, combined with absolute knowledge that His Eminence would be present-and no assassin worth his salt would let such an opening pass him by. Indeed, that was why she'd chosen to act tonight, and she'd just wanted to lighten the man's purse!

“Would it be too much to ask that something go smoothly, just once?” she inquired of the room, the gods, and the universe at large. “Just for the novelty of it?”

Her only response was a swell of concern from Olgun.

“You're right. We have to get out of here, and quick!”

The god couldn't have agreed more.

“Then it's settled. We leave. Now.”

Again, she felt Olgun's heartfelt assent. Yet she didn't move. Her feet seemed to have taken root in the carpet.

“The window would be best,” she continued lifelessly. “The tree's right there. I can climb it to the ground, and we'll be gone with none the wiser.”

She felt Olgun's growing impatience, a buzzing hornet biting at her neck and head. Still, she found herself most assuredly not moving.

The murdered maid stared at her accusingly, and Widdershins's shoulders slumped in defeat. She took a moment, her movements quite calm and methodical, to extinguish her miniature lantern and replace it in her pouch. She took a deep breath.

And then she was running, not to the window but out the door and into the hallway, careless of stealth now, speed her only priority. Olgun's startled squawk echoed in her mind as she pounded toward the stairs that would take her to the uppermost stories where she assumed-hoped-the guest of honor would be lodged.

“I know, I know!” she muttered between gasps and gritted teeth. “But we have to do this!”

The doubt washing over her was thick enough to drown in.

“Look, I just escaped gaol not two days ago. Who do you think they'll suspect if de Laurent winds up dead?”

Olgun wasn't particularly impressed with her argument. Which was just fine, since Widdershins wasn't taken with it either. Bouniard knew she hadn't a violent offense to her name, and wasn't likely to think she was starting now.

And yet she ran, taking the steps three at a time, driven by a need she couldn't explain to Olgun because she didn't understand it herself. Maybe later, when she found a few minutes to think-

Olgun shrieked even as her foot hit the top step, and something sliced from the shadows of the hall, something that gleamed in the flickering lantern-light of the top floor. Memories of Brock's brutal assault assailed her as she hurled herself violently aside.

The rapier etched a line of fire across her ribs, but the wound was shallow. It bled freely and it hurt like hell-particularly when added to the lingering traces of stomach pain that clung tenaciously, even after several days-but it wouldn't slow her down.

Her desperate evasion carried her clear over the banister, and the bottom dropped out of her stomach into the empty space beneath her. Throwing her legs out to the side, she spun completely over, like a roast turning on an invisible spit. For one heart-stopping instant, she was looking straight down at the floor almost forty feet below.

She lashed out, grabbing at the balcony's guardrail. Muscles screaming with the strain, aided by a swift boost from her guardian god, Widdershins yanked herself over the banister to land in a panting heap on solid floor.

Her side throbbed where the blade had cut her, her arms burned with the strain of her frantic acrobatics, and the pounding of her heart threatened to shatter her rib cage from the inside out. She wanted nothing more than to lie where she was, but she needed neither Olgun's warning nor the sound of running footsteps to know that her assailant hadn't abandoned his attack.

She did not rise, did not draw steel. She waited, favoring her injury, luring him closer.

The assassin lowered his rapier, echoing the lance of a charging knight of old, aimed unerringly at her bloodied rib cage. With a flex of her feet, the thief rolled at the last second, both palms planted firmly in the lush carpet. Even as the startled assassin stumbled past, braced for a thrust that never landed, Widdershins shifted the entirety of her weight to her already wearied arms and kicked back, mule-like, with both feet.

The assassin's grunt abruptly swelled into a crescendo of fear as he struck the guardrail and toppled over the balcony.

“Turnabout,” Widdershins quoted to Olgun, “is fair-oh, son of a monkey!”

It was at that point, when the first screams wafted up from the ballroom below, that Widdershins pinpointed the flaw in her hastily conceived plan. Dropping assassins onto the heads of frolicking revelers did not, even by the most lax definition of the term, constitute stealth.

Despite his worry, Olgun couldn't help but snicker.

“Oh, shut up! I swear, one more comment from you, I'll have someone make me a new pair of god-skin boots!” She ran even as she spoke, one hand pressed tightly to her wounded side, and tried not to think about the fact that she'd probably just killed a man. She heard the commotion below rise to a fever pitch, detected the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Rittier's bodyguards, no doubt.

Lovely. Could this evening possibly get any better?

Fortune, however, hadn't abandoned her entirely. There were, Olgun indicated to her, only three living souls in the immediate vicinity, and only one shone to him with the light of true faith and divine favor. Without hesitation, fully aware that lots of men with pointy objects were liable to surge from the staircase at any moment like some metal tidal wave, Widdershins hurled herself at the door. It flew open, crashed resoundingly against the wall, and the thief, face caked with perspiration, left side with blood, stumbled into the chamber.

An old man in a black cassock rose from behind a sizable writing desk, gazing at her with a startling lack of alarm. One hand was held behind his back; the other rested with deceptive casualness on a staff of office more than thick enough to serve as an efficient head-breaker.

“Is there something I can do for you, young lady?” he asked disapprovingly, as though her ill-mannered entry was his only cause for concern.

“Have to get out!” she wheezed, panting for breath, wincing as the pain in her ribs flared anew. “You're…in danger! You-”

Shouts and racing footsteps sounded in the hall beyond the bedchamber, echoing from the stone walls.

“Rats!” the young intruder spat, with feeling. De Laurent raised an eyebrow.

And then she vanished through the window to the musical accompaniment of shattering glass, even as Rittier's personal guard, led by the red-faced marquis himself, burst through the door.

“Umm, Your Eminence…” Clarence Rittier, the powerful bull of a man, felt himself shrinking beneath the archbishop's unwavering stare. “Are you…are you all right?”

The old man responded not at all, didn't even blink. The Marquis de Ducarte, fully aware that this hideous breach of the dignitary's security would land squarely on his oversized shoulders, realized that he was in for a very unpleasant night.

In the shadows at the corridor's far end, unseen by any of the so-called guards, Jean Luc-aristocrat, assassin, and guest at the marquis's ball-grimaced in thought. He didn't mourn the death of his companion; he'd never been all that fond of the man. The Apostle, however, would be ill-amused that Jean Luc hadn't fulfilled his commission. William de Laurent remained very much alive, and after the events of tonight, he would doubtless stay that way for a while. Rittier would be paranoid-almost certainly wouldn't leave the archbishop alone for an instant, probably not even long enough for de Laurent to fill his chamber pot with his own holy water. And while Jean Luc considered himself one of the best, he wasn't about to make an attempt on a man that well guarded.

No, the Apostle wouldn't be happy about this, but it didn't matter. Because Jean Luc had something else for him, a face he'd recognized as he hovered unnoticed in the dark of the hall.

For weeks, now, they'd searched for Madeleine Valois, and failed. It seemed as though the noblewoman simply didn't exist beyond the bounds of high-society parties-and now Jean Luc knew why.

All this time, they'd been looking for an aristocrat, when they should have been hunting a thief.