Thief's Covenant (A Widdershins Adventure) (9 page)

With a very brief cry and a dull thump, he stepped clean off the table to land, seat first, on the unforgiving floor.

Laughing openly now, Widdershins crossed the wood and delivered a sharp, swift kick to the man's temple. He collapsed next to his bloody-faced companion like a sack of very ugly grain.

“Well,” Widdershins said snidely to the room at large, “I think you boys have accomplished your mission here. I guarantee you, this is an evening I'll remember for a very long eeeep!”

That bit of extemporaneous grammar was the result of Brock surging abruptly to his feet, red faced and roaring like a goosed tiger. His hammer slammed down, a thunderbolt hurled from the heavens, directed not at Widdershins but at the table. Wood splintered, the entire surface tilted sharply, and Widdershins, with a brief squeak, was on her back and sliding.

She found herself fetched up in a twisted heap at Brock's feet, rapier lying uselessly just beyond her grasp. A sick feeling roiling inside her gut, as though she'd swallowed a live and very frisky eel, Widdershins pushed the hair from her face, blinked the dust from her eyes, and peered up with a wan smile.

“Brock? You're a reasonable man, yes? I know that we can come to some sort of understanding if—Brock, your orders! You're not supposed to kill me, remember?”

Apparently, he did not remember. With an inarticulate bellow, he raised his hammer high, fully intending to pulp the young woman's skull between the weapon and the floor.

Widdershins kicked him in the groin again.

Brock couldn't have frozen any more utterly had he gazed lovingly into the face of a gorgon. For interminable seconds the tableau held: the massive enforcer standing above her, immobile as the earth itself; Widdershins, foot still buried someplace unpleasant, equally motionless. And then the air in Brock's lungs joyously escaped to freedom with a sudden
whoosh.
His pupils actually crossed, his grip went slack, and…well, Widdershins didn't see what else, since she had to scramble madly to remove her face from the path of the hammer that now tumbled from nerveless fingers. It hit hard, splintering the wood beside her ear and ripping several strands of hair from her head.

When Brock followed his weapon to the floor a moment later, she was forced to scuttle aside once more, this time to avoid being crushed by three-hundred-some-odd pounds of thug.

Battered and dust-caked, Widdershins bent to retrieve her rapier, clucking her tongue at the mess they'd made of Genevieve's furniture, and marched haughtily from the room. She felt a faint glimmer of satisfaction from Olgun.

“Oh, please. Like you helped.” She frowned at his indignant protest. “Yes, you warned me of the guy behind me. Well, thank you
so
much. You couldn't maybe have actually
done
something about one of them? I almost got my head turned into so much carpeting.”

Genevieve was on her in a flash, slowed only marginally by her bad leg. “Gods, Shins, are you all right?”

Widdershins probably would have replied, but her friend's violent embrace was only marginally looser than that of a hungry boa constrictor. Genevieve failed to notice the faint bulging around the thief's eyes.

“I'm so sorry!” the barkeep sobbed over and over. “Gods, I'm so sorry.”

“Gen—” Widdershins finally managed to croak. “Air…”

“Oh!” Flushing an embarrassed crimson, Genevieve loosened her death grip and stepped back. Widdershins gasped in what might have been gratitude.

The other patrons of the Flippant Witch, she noticed, were staring at them with a fascinating mixture of expressions, and Widdershins decided that this probably wasn't a conversation to have in public, or even anywhere vaguely public-adjacent.

“Robin!” she shouted (after sucking in a few more deep breaths), summoning the small serving girl to her side.

“Is she all right?” Robin asked with a concerned glance at her employer.

Great
, Widdershins grumbled silently.
I'm the one who almost got pulped into a pastry, and the brat wants to know if
Genevieve's
all right.
“She'll be fine, Robin. We just need to talk for a few minutes. Can you handle being in charge out here for a little while?”

“Oh, sure. I've run an entire shift before. But you tell me if you need anything.” She looked up at Widdershins, expression iron-hard and insistent. The thief couldn't help but laugh.

“I'll do that,” she chuckled, again tousling the girl's hair. Then, taking Genevieve by the shoulders, she led her disconsolate friend toward another of the private rooms, snagging a decanter of wine and a goblet from the bar as they passed.

“Did they hurt you?” Widdershins asked softly as they neared the door.

“What? Oh, no, not…not at all.” Genevieve's eyes clouded again, and she sniffled loudly. “They just…they wanted to know when you'd be here next. I didn't want to tell them anything, Shins, I swear to Banin I didn't! But—”

“Hush, Gen. It's all right. I understand.” She did, too. Brock was frightening enough to Widdershins, accustomed as she was to the sorts of people with whom she shared Davillon's shadows. For someone like Genevieve Marguilles, he'd be downright terrifying.

There was, however, one little detail she needed to know.

“Gen,” she asked, voice calm, “you didn't tell them…that is,
about
me, did you?”

“Tell…” For an instant, her mouth quirked in puzzlement, and then her face fell. “No, of course not! Gods, I'd never—”

“I know,” Widdershins assured her. “I just had to ask.”

Genevieve, so far as Adrienne knew, was the only other human being alive who knew that Widdershins had once been Adrienne Satti. If she were ever identified and arrested, Widdershins knew she couldn't expect anything resembling a fair trial, or even a clean execution. When it came to vindictiveness, the aristocracy could have taught the Finders' Guild a thing or two.

But with that unpleasant possibility thankfully out of the way, there was nothing remaining but to comfort her traumatized friend as best she could.

When Widdershins released her hold on Genevieve's shoulders to shove open the narrow door, she discovered that their so-called private room was already occupied.

A short but impishly handsome fellow sat smugly in the farthest chair, his booted feet propped up on the edge of the table. The twinkle in his azure eyes vaguely belied the frown of concern that twisted his lips and jet-black mustache.

Genevieve, already as jittery as a wine-addled monkey, loosed a shrill cry. Widdershins merely put a comforting hand once more around her friend's shoulder and scowled at the intruder.

“What in the name of Khuriel's left shoe are you doing here, Renard?”

Renard Lambert rose to his full unimpressive five-foot-seven and bowed extravagantly. He wore today a long tunic of the finest fabrics, constructed in panels of white and sapphire blue, and trimmed in gold embroidery. His boots boasted bright buckles—and, Widdershins knew from experience, several hidden daggers—and he sported a deep purple half cape and a white flocked hat with an ostrich plume.

“Do the gods even
wear
shoes, dear Widdershins?” he asked her.

“If you don't tell me why you're here, and why you felt it necessary to frighten my friend half to death, you're going to be
eating
your
own
shoes. So spit it out!”

With a magnanimous gesture, the finery-bedecked man motioned for them to come in.
As though we needed his invitation.

“It's all right, Gen,” she said softly to her pallid friend, steering her gently through the doorway. “He's harmless.” She cast a sideways glance at the smiling popinjay. “More or less.

“Renard,” she continued, once she'd firmly shut the door behind them, “this is Genevieve Marguilles, the owner of this tavern and, therefore, your
host.
Genevieve, Renard Lambert, a friend—acquaintance—of mine, and an incorrigible thief. Keep an eye on your silverware, your coin purse, and possibly your hair. He's almost as good as he thinks he is.”

“You wound me, Widdershins,” Renard complained. “As you say, we are guests in this dear lady's establishment. I never steal from a host, Mademoiselle Marguilles. Bad for the social standing.”

“Thief?” Genevieve tensed, as though she would bolt from the room. Widdershins passed her a goblet of wine, which the innkeep drained in one long swallow. “Is…,” she started, faltered, choking shallowly on her drink. “Is it really a good idea to be talking to him? I mean, after…”

Renard's smile faded. “I am indeed of the guild, Mademoiselle, but I can assure you that I strongly disagree with some small number of their more draconian policies—at least where my friends are concerned. Neither of you has aught to fear from me.”

“That's true enough,” Widdershins agreed blandly, refilling Genevieve's drink. “Since he knows I'd kill him three times if he tried anything.” Then, despite herself, she grinned at the injured look on his face.

“Actually,” she grudgingly acknowledged, “Renard's always done right by me. He was my assigned trainer when I joined the guild. Helped me assimilate, showed me the ropes.”

“Since otherwise you were liable to get yourself hanged from one of them.” Renard smiled.

“And he's got a serious hate for certain people who hate me, so I guess that puts him on my side. Whether I want him or not,” she couldn't help but add.

Renard, classy and urbane Renard, stuck his tongue out at her.

“All of which,” she concluded, “has taken us kind of away from the point. Which was, why
were
you skulking about in here?”

“I,” Renard sniffed, “do not skulk. I sneak. I prowl. I have even, upon occasion and at need, been known to lurk. But I have never once—”

“—managed to keep silent for two minutes straight,” Widdershins interrupted. “Would you shut up and answer the question?”

“Make up your mind. Which one?”

“Renard…”

“All right,” he said, taking a seat at the table. “The truth is, I witnessed you guiding our lovely host over in this direction, and I snuck in before you got here. I need to talk to you, Widdershins, and I'd rather not have anyone else know of it.”

“You snuck through my tavern?” Genevieve exclaimed, disbelief pushing her lingering fear to one side. “A tavern full of people? Dressed like
that
?!”

Renard smiled affably. “Indeed I did, my dear. As Widdershins has already so graciously testified, I am quite nearly as good as I think I am.” His tone finally came over completely serious. “Widdershins, are you hurt?”

“A little banged up, but nothing serious. Brock and his cronies got the worst of it.”

“Oooh, that's not good. He holds a grudge.” Renard sighed. “Well, better that than the alternative, I suppose.”

“Renard,
please
get to the point. Why is the guild angry at me?”

Another sigh. “I think we both know who ordered the attack on you, don't we, my dear?”

Widdershins nodded, but said nothing. It wouldn't do to mention names in front of an outsider, not even one she trusted.

But…

“Even she'd need an excuse, Renard. She doesn't have the authority to just decide to take out a member.”
Not yet, anyway.

“No, she doesn't. But the guild
is
cracking down on anyone who, um,
forgets
to pay their dues in full. They're gathering up all outstanding funds, since the plan is to suspend all major operations for the duration of the visit. Avoid any unpleasant attention, and all that.”

Widdershins paused in the act of reaching for the decanter. “Visit? What visit?”

“You haven't heard?” Renard boggled, and even Genevieve stared in puzzlement. “You hang out in a tavern, you frequent the homes of the rich and powerful, and you haven't heard?”

“So I don't pay attention to the small talk. What are you on about?”

“Shins,” Genevieve told her, “William de Laurent is coming to Davillon.”

Widdershins's eyes looked as though they might pop from their sockets and careen across the table like billiard balls. William de Laurent, archbishop of Chevareaux, was the greatest High Church official west of the Blackridge Mountains, inferior only to the twelve cardinals and the prelate himself. If he was coming here, important affairs of church and state were quite clearly afoot. Possibly even the appointment of a new bishop to Davillon, a position that had sat unoccupied since Bishop Fontaine had died of a fever a couple of years before.

All right, so that would obviously be important to the city, the aristocracy, and the devout masses. But, “Why does the
Finders' Guild
give a fig about that?”

“Because,” Renard said, idly stroking his whiskers with a well-manicured finger, “if anything untoward happens during His Eminence's visit, the duchess and the Guard will come down on us so hard they'll be picking bits of us out from between the cracks in the cobblestones.” His attention flickered to Genevieve, who somehow managed to look vaguely puzzled through an otherwise impenetrable mask of worry.

“Have you never wondered, my dear, why the city doesn't just smash us flat?”

“I'd sort of assumed,” Genevieve offered hesitantly, “that someone else would just take your place. At least this way, they can keep an eye on you.”

“Well…” Renard frowned, and Widdershins couldn't help but snicker.
So much for impressing the lady, Lambert.

“Yes, that's true,” he confessed. “But it's more than that. There've been times when they
wanted
to get rid of us, but the city's never declared war on the guild itself. It wouldn't be worth the bloodshed and financial repercussions, sure. Primarily, though, it's because of the Hallowed Pact.”

The barkeep glanced at her friend. “He's not seriously trying to tell me that the
gods
want Davillon to leave its thieves alone.”

Widdershins shrugged. “I'm not up on my theology, but yeah. The Shrouded God—”

“Our patron,” Renard interjected with an oddly reverential tone.

“Yeah.” Widdershins rolled her eyes so only Genevieve could see. “He's supposed to be one of the Pact, though I couldn't tell you which one. And since Davillon's patron is part of the Pact, and Demas of the Guard is part of the Pact…”