Thief's Covenant (A Widdershins Adventure)

  “He expressed his utmost confidence in your ability to arrange such a rendezvous, mademoiselle. Apparently, your ability to reach him the first time impressed him.”

  “Yes, but that was before someone made an attempt on his life, Brother. He's being watched more closely than a free exhibition at a brothel and—oh.” Widdershins blushed, remembering belatedly to whom she was speaking. “Umm, sorry.”

  “No trouble,” Maurice told her, hoping the heat in his own face didn't show. “I do understand your concerns,” he continued, “as does my master. But he assures me that this is most important, and there simply is no other way.”

  “There never is.” Widdershins sighed.

  She couldn't just sneak in. The repercussions if she was caught were too severe. Madeleine Valois could just ring the bell, but it would mean revealing her noble alter ego to the archbishop, and she didn't know how far she could trust him. So how to…?

  Ah.

  “His Eminence has nuns in his traveling entourage, yes?”

  “Why, yes, but what difference does that—?”

  “You,” she told him with a smirk, “are going to help me pick up a new habit.”

  Maurice choked as understanding crashed down upon him. “Oh, gods. I'm going to hell.”

  “Probably, but you're the one who invited me, and now I'm too damned curious to ignore it.”

  The monk deflated in his robes. “Fine. I'll get you what you need.”

  “Excellent. Don't be in too much of a rush.” She eyed the door to the Witch one last time and then sighed. “I'm going to go home and grab at least a few hours' sleep, or else I'm likely to collapse on His Holiness's lap.

  “Where is the archbishop, anyway? I'm sure they hustled him out of Rittier's house like it was on fire. Who's he staying with now?”

  “The gentleman's name is Alexandre Delacroix.”

  Widdershins didn't even blink. “Of course it is,” she said.

  Had she not been so distracted, so overwhelmed by worry, so utterly exhausted, Widdershins might just have realized that someone had followed her from the Flippant Witch to the ramshackle flop in which she was currently staying. Or maybe she wouldn't; the man was no slouch himself.

  Louvel—or Scarface, as she knew him—rose from the corner on which he'd been begging, allowing himself a clear view of the Witch's front door, and shadowed the little thief all the way home, practically bursting at the seams. Brock would be delighted, Eudes would be avenged, and Louvel himself would earn himself a nice, fat bonus. Just a quick detour back to his own apartment to shed his beggar's garb and pick up some heavier blades, and he'd be ready to report back to—

  “Don't move a muscle.”

  He froze, one hand on the latch to his door, and glanced over his shoulder. Coming at him from both directions down the dilapidated hall were uniformed Guardsmen led by an officer with a thick brown mustache. Half a dozen flintlocks, and even a pair of blunderbusses, gaped open in his direction.

  “In the name of Davillon, Vercoule, and Demas,” the officer continued, “you are under arrest for arson, conspiracy to murder, and being an accomplice to the murder of a City Guard.” The officer stopped just beside him, jabbing his flintlock into Louvel's side hard enough to draw a pained grunt and leave a bruise that wouldn't fade for some time.

  “Just so you know,” the man whispered gruffly, “I had myself a friendly chat with your Shrouded Lord the other night. You, my friend, are on your own.”

  The thug visibly sagged.

  “And if it's all the same to you,” the Guardsman continued, “I'd really like you to resist.”

  Louvel decided, rather wisely, not to oblige. And all he could think, as the Guardsmen led him away in manacles so heavy it was all he could do to shuffle along, was Brock's really not going to be happy when I don't show.

  Alexandre Delacroix was not in a pleasant mood. The archbishop's early arrival to his home had upset a very delicate timetable and inconvenienced a great many people. Parties and balls needed rescheduling; appointments had to be pushed up, pushed back, or canceled; other projects and endeavors postponed. His servants had scurried about the house and the city, light or dark, rain or shine, for days on end, preparing for the churchman's untimely, and possibly extended, stay. Claude, who really should have been here doing half a dozen different tasks, was instead out and about in the city performing a dozen more and leaving the master behind to deal with all manner of bookkeeping that Alexandre had not touched in years.

  Thus it was, when he heard the door chime that particular evening, he hunched his shoulders, gritted his teeth, and ignored it. Another damned highborn fop, he'd no doubt, come to petition the archbishop for some favor or other that His Eminence will politely refuse. Such it had been since the day the clergyman arrived: petitioner after petitioner, most in the guise of social visitors for Alexandre himself, but all inevitably asking if they might take just a moment to “pay their respects.”

  With a shudder, he directed his attentions back to the desk. For over an hour, he'd attempted to balance a set of numbers that refused to properly add up. He rubbed at the bridge of his nose and glanced again at the report. “Gains and Losses in the Wool Market, as Pertain to Our Interests in Outer Hespelene.”

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

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

  So preoccupied was he, he almost missed it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Get out.”

  “But, my lord—”

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

  “But—”

  “Go!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Maurice? The archbishop's attendant?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Something deep within her wilted, just a little.

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

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

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

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

  “Enter!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Eminence!” Maurice protested.

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

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

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

  “Yes, Your Eminence?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “But—”

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

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

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