Thief's Covenant (A Widdershins Adventure)

  “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 forma
l 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 ha
llways 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.