Thief's Covenant Part 10

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 amus.e.m.e.nt 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, br.i.m.m.i.n.g 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 a.s.sented, 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 d.a.m.ned 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 n.o.body'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 h.e.l.l alone!"

"Shins-"

"No! I'm doing this, and d.a.m.n 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 G.o.d 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 n.o.body'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 pa.s.sed. 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 ma.s.sive 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 n.o.body 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 pa.s.sed, clamoring for release, but most fell back at the sight of him.

The more experienced crooks, at least, knew d.a.m.n 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 pa.s.sed, 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.

d.a.m.n it!

It shouldn't have been possible, but not for a moment did he question. She'd b.l.o.o.d.y 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 h.e.l.l the lunatic was talking about. "Pistol and sword on the ground, guard. Now-and slowly."

Bra.s.s and leather sc.r.a.ped 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 d.a.m.n clear that they didn't see.

"Kick them away." More sc.r.a.ping 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 tw.a.n.g 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...s.h.i.t."

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 a.s.sessment.

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 d.u.c.h.ess (G.o.ds 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 coa.r.s.e 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 b.u.t.terfly. "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 n.o.bility 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 n.o.body 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 b.u.mps 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 G.o.ds 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 sc.r.a.ped 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.