Thief's covenant

CHAPTER TEN

Now:

“All right, all right! I'm coming, confound it all!” Through the living room of a small house, its interior neat and crisp as a military barracks awaiting inspection, the old man moved toward the front door. In one hand, he carried a small lantern, for he'd already doused the lights in preparation for bed. In the other, he carried a heavy bludgeon with which, even at his age, he was more than skilled enough to crack a skull or two. He wasn't expecting trouble, no, but neither was he expecting visitors-and one didn't reach an age to retire from the Guard of Davillon without knowing how to take precautions.

It took him an extra moment to work the lock and the latch on the door, what with both hands being full, but eventually he hauled the portal open a crack, just enough to see who waited on the other side.

“Well, I'll be…Come in, Major, come in!” The door swung wide in invitation.

“Thank you, Sergeant,” Julien Bouniard told him as he stepped across the threshold, doffing his plumed hat.

“None of that, Major,” Cristophe Chapelle told his former protege with a smile far wider than any he'd offered during their years of working together. “No longer a sergeant, me. Unless you want me to call you ‘Constable'?”

Julien smiled in turn. “There was a time the thought of calling you anything else would have terrified me out of a week's sleep.”

“Well, I suppose you can go with ‘sir' if it makes you comfortable.” Then, still grinning, “Have a seat, Major. I fear I haven't anything prepared this late, but I could offer you a brandy.”

It was a test, as much as an offer, and Chapelle saw in the younger man's face that he knew it. “Nothing for me, thank you,” Julien demurred as he selected a chair.

“Not a social visit, then, is it?” The old soldier sat across from his guest. “Let me see. You obviously think of yourself on duty, but you're not precisely here in an official capacity. You need my advice on something, don't you?”

Julien couldn't help but chuckle. “You haven't lost a step, I see.”

Chapelle harrumphed. “I could return to the job tomorrow if they wanted me.” Then, more seriously, “Tell me about it, lad.”

And that he did, from Widdershins's arrest to the bizarre incident at Rittier's manor, from the man he'd been forced to kill to the murdered guard they'd located only afterward.

“Monstrous!” Chapelle agreed, puffed up with enough indignant fury that he'd clearly forgotten he was no longer part of the Guard. “For them to come into one of our headquarters…”

Julien nodded. “I don't know what Widdershins is up to, or the rest of the Finders' Guild. I don't know if His Eminence is still in danger. But I do know that things are heating up, at a time where Davillon really can't afford them to. And I have no bloody idea what the Shrouded Lord could possibly be thinking, since he should be as anxious to avoid tumult during de Laurent's visit as the rest of us!”

Chapelle's turn to nod, but otherwise, he let the major continue uninterrupted.

“We can't let the guild think they can get away with something so brazen. But we can't afford an open war, either-not even if we could find some theological grounds to allow for it.”

“And you want my advice, lad?”

“Ah-not exactly, sir. What I need is your help.”

Again, Chapelle saw where Bouniard was hesitantly directing him. “You already have a plan, then. But it's not one that the Guard would let you carry out, so you need someone you can trust from the outside.”

“That's about the size of it.”

“I won't assist you in anything illegal, Major.”

“I'd never dare expect you to, sir,” Julien assured him. “It's not that the Guard would disapprove, exactly, so much as they'd probably find me unfit for duty, by reason of insanity, if they knew I was considering it.”

Chapelle leaned back in his chair, suddenly wishing he'd gone for the brandy after all. “Oh, Demas, I'm not going to care for this at all, am I? All right, let's hear it.…”

The chamber seemed even darker than before, as though the shadows within had spawned, layering each new generation upon the foundations of the old. Jean Luc hated coming to this place even under the best of circumstances. Today, though he brought news to mitigate it, he would have to admit that he'd failed a commission.

The highborn assassin stood roughly at attention near the center of the room, equidistant from the heavy, black-hued doors and the “evil wall” across from them. In the torchlight, he could just make out the hideous visage staring from within the darkened stone. The dancing illumination created the nerve-racking illusion that the face was laughing at him.

The pall of silence was chipped away by the muttering of the other killers arrayed behind him, the crackling of the torches, and the steady footsteps of the Apostle, who once again paced before the graven image, pondering Jean Luc's report.

Finally, he halted directly before the embossed idol and faced the assembled assassins.

“The information you bring,” he intoned, “is indeed valuable, more so than you know. I thank you for it.

“The fact remains, however, that you royally bollixed up a sensitive and equally vital task, one that fell squarely within your area of expertise. For this, you may find my thanks less palatable.”

The leather-clad killer snarled, paring his nails with a long dagger. “How the hell were we supposed to know some damn thief'd show up and spoil it?”

“You weren't supposed to know that at all,” the Apostle admitted, hands raised in a dramatic shrug. “Then again, six of you were assigned to this undertaking, but only two of you were actually in the house. That strikes me as poor resource management.”

“We figured Jean Luc could handle it!” the assassin protested. “I mean, even the six of us together couldn't fight through the marquis's guards, and once it was just a matter of sneaking, we thought that a smaller group-”

“Had all of you been there, doing the job for which you were hired, Adrienne would never have won past you. Now, not only do I still have to track her down, I've got to find someone else to handle the archbishop.”

“Someone else?!” The killer's voice was choked with rage, and the others behind him growled their agreement, all save Jean Luc, who was rapidly developing a sinking sensation in his gut. “You can't take us off this! You owe us-”

“For a job you failed to complete,” their employer interjected, slicing off their protests like a gangrenous limb. “I'd say that makes us even.

“However,” he continued more reasonably, before the argument could heat up, “I do have another task in mind for you. It doesn't pay as much as the archbishop would, but I think we can work something out.”

The assassin looked far from happy, his face twisted in a scowl, dagger still clutched in his fist, but he wasn't entirely beyond the bounds of reason. “All right, let's hear it.”

“In a moment, my impatient friend. I need to pray, seek guidance for my next step. I'll ask you all to bide just a few minutes. Except you.” He pointed imperiously at Jean Luc. “You, come stand beside me.”

The aristocratic killer blanched, though it went unnoticed in the cloak of shadows that draped the room, and reluctantly shuffled forward.

The Apostle turned to face the image and began to chant in a low, sonorous rumble, his lips, tongue, and throat twisting themselves around words that came from no language Jean Luc had ever heard. It sounded…“guttural” wasn't a strong enough term. Chthonic, perhaps, not just inhuman but inhumane.

A single horsefly circled the room once, buzzing softly, and then set down on the floor and spat up something tiny and unidentifiable, coated in blood. The insect convulsed as though suffering some sort of fit and then burst, adding its internal fluids to the tiny viscous pile already deposited.

A second horsefly appeared. It, too, vomited something strange into the minuscule but growing mass, and then ruptured. It was followed just as swiftly by a third, a fourth, a fifth, and then the chamber shook with the drone of a thousand horseflies, and even the dullest of the assassins knew that something was very wrong.

From every conceivable hiding place they came. From the corners of the room, the edges of the door, the folds and drapes of clothing, even the ears and nostrils and mouths of the horrified killers they flew, buzzing angrily, forever adding to the swelling thing upon the floor. The room filled with a nauseating, acrid odor, a miasma of rot and decay. The air blurred visibly with the heavy stench.

It wasn't until the leather-garbed assassin glanced down at his arm to see it shrivel and shrink, muscle and flesh disappearing from under the skin, that he knew what was happening.

And with that knowledge, so came pain. Suddenly, the men couldn't just see the horrific fate befalling them, they could feel it, now consciously aware of each and every fly-sized morsel that detached itself from their innards to be regurgitated across the room. Four mouths gaped open, to scream, to cry, perhaps to beg. Nothing emerged but an atrocious gurgle as various fluids mixed within their lungs. Blood and bile erupted from between cracked and drying lips; eyes collapsed as aqueous humors bubbled through punctured membranes and ran in monstrous tears down sunken cheeks. Limbs folded as bones and tendons liquefied beneath the unrelenting assault.

The shape on the floor began to pulse, palpitating in time with some unseen heart. With each beat, the mass shifted. Crests and ridges that formed with one pulse didn't quite subside with the next; hollows and cavities remained despite the press of fluids.

For long minutes the horror grew, and the helpless men writhed on the floor, deflated from within, until nothing remained save four sopping, gummy sets of clothing, each with a ring of teeth lying neatly nearby.

Jean Luc fell to his knees and retched, his stomach heaving long after it was empty of anything to purge. His expression thoughtful, the Apostle stood over him, watching the ongoing transformation.

The mass on the floor resolved itself into a clearly humanoid shape. It twitched once, twice, and rose to its feet. Even as it stood, a rough skin blossomed across its surface. Fingers flexed, testing muscles; eyes rolled up from within, sliding into formerly hollow sockets. Finally complete, it loomed above the watching mortals, death incarnate, and Jean Luc was certain that the abhorrent fate of his companions was nothing compared to what this monstrosity held in store for him. If Jean Luc could be grateful for one thing in this night of terrors, it was that the room's feeble lighting prevented him from seeing more details of the beast.

But then, he didn't have to look at it now. He'd seen it once before, two years ago…

“Do you know why you're alive, Jean Luc?” the Apostle demanded. “Do you know why you aren't currently a part of my pet here, like your companions?”

“I…I…”

“Get a grip, man! It was you who told me of Adrienne's illicit activities. That buys you some leeway. I also need your connections in the city's criminal element to track her down-and guide my little pet to her doorstep.”

“Oh, gods, no! Please, you can't-”

“I can. My own people will accompany you. Both of you. Succeed, and all previous failures will be forgotten. Fail me again, though, Jean Luc…” He felt no need to complete the threat.

Jean Luc watched the demonic form collapse in on itself, flesh crumpling like old parchment before once more smoothing into a roughly human size. It couldn't be mistaken for mortal on close inspection, but seen briefly on the night-dimmed streets, it shouldn't draw attention.

And then, with a grin that wasn't remotely human, it bowed and gestured toward the door, allowing the weeping assassin to exit first.

“Again, Major, I would never presume to tell you how to do your job, but aren't you being just a wee bit excessive?”

Julien Bouniard glanced irritably at the black-frocked churchman-seated quite calmly, fingers steepled together before him, at the writing desk-and tried to blink back the first stirrings of what promised to be a right monster of a headache. The room was pristine, neat and organized; surprisingly so, considering that Bouniard's men had dug through it with rabid gusto last night, seeking any evidence the intruders might have left. Behind de Laurent, the young monk who had so meticulously straightened the room paced nervously, wringing his hands and muttering to himself. The three of them-as well as six guards in the hall outside, four standing on the grounds beneath the chamber's window, and two dozen more scattered throughout the house-awaited the archbishop's carriage, at which time the entire procession would head to the dignitary's next temporary domicile.

The Guardsman shook his head. “Excessive? No, Your Eminence, I don't think so. There's already been one attempt on your life, one that the Marquis de Ducarte will never live down. I don't think we want another.”

De Laurent's expression turned wry. “For my sake, or for the sake of whichever noble is next in line to be so dishonored?”

“Truthfully, Your Eminence, some of both. Look, your assistant knows enough to be concerned. Why don't you?”

The archbishop craned his head. “Brother Maurice,” he chided gently, “you'll wear a hole through our kind host's carpeting.”

“Good. Maybe you can use it as an escape route the next time someone tries to kill you.”

The high official smiled broadly. “There, you see?” he asked Bouniard. “Maurice worries quite well enough for the both of us. For me to fret would be redundant, and I so frown upon wasted effort.

“So,” he continued swiftly, before the vague reddening of the major's face boiled over into something unpleasant, “tell me about this young lady we're so worked up about.”

If de Laurent hoped to calm the incensed guard, he'd chosen his topic poorly. Julien's lip curled under, and he fumed visibly. “There's little to tell, Your Eminence. I'm going to find her, and wring her scrawny neck with my bare hands.” He waved dismissively, as if shooing away an insect. “Everything past that is pretty much ancillary detail.”

“My, but we're taking this personally,” the archbishop commented. “What do you have against this poor girl whom you're planning to murder on my behalf?”

Julien's frown grew even deeper, a feat of true muscle contortion that threatened to flip his entire face upside down on the front of his head. He'd been exaggerating, of course. He had no true intention of killing Widdershins, but the archbishop's quiet criticism was still a slap in the face.

“Your Eminence, I've a burnt-out husk of a building, one dead guard, another who'll be off work for a week until his head heals, and I very nearly found myself winging off to meet the gods myself!”

“And you believe this girl responsible?”

“At the very least, she played me for a fool,” the Guardsman admitted after a few deep breaths. “I'm still not entirely certain how she did it, but she played me, and managed, in doing so, to escape from a prison with a seventeen-year vomit record.”

“Vomit record?” de Laurent repeated cautiously.

“Escape,” he clarified apologetically, flushing slightly. “When someone escapes, we, umm, we usually refer to the prison as having vomited them out. Thrown them up, as it were.”

“I see. How droll.”

“Yes. Ah, well, my point is that no one's escaped from that particular gaol in seventeen years, Your Eminence. But she did it, and she used me to do it. That'd be enough to make me irritable even if I didn't have the rest of it to deal with.”

“I'd never have guessed,” Maurice whispered as his pacing carried him past the archbishop's shoulder.

“Down, boy,” de Laurent hissed, hiding a smile behind an upraised hand. “Do continue,” he said more loudly.

The Guardsman let the whispered exchange pass without comment. “I would have thought that her attempted assault on you would have put you in a fouler mood than I, Your Eminence. Even with the whole ‘forgiveness doctrine' bit, you seem remarkably unconcerned about this.”

“'Forgiveness doctrine bit.' Oh, it warms my heart to see that the Church's teachings are so happily embraced by the masses.”

“I-”

“Major, I believe I have told you-more than once, in fact, which is not a frequent experience for me unless I'm giving a classic sermon-that this girl…” He frowned. “What was the bizarre name you called her?”

“Widdershins. Most of Davillon's thieves have-”

“Widdershins, yes. I believe I've told you that Widdershins was not here last night to do me any harm.”

“Your Eminence, with all due respect-”

“A statement,” de Laurent noted to the young monk, “that is never followed by anything even remotely respectful.”

“Disgraceful,” Maurice confirmed.

“Indeed.” The archbishop smiled once more. “If I may take a wild guess, Major? You were about to tell me, in the most respectful manner imaginable, that I'm a foolish old man who forgives far too easily, can't tell an assassin's dagger from a butter knife, and wouldn't know real danger if it came up and bit me on something that I cannot, as an official of the Church, admit to possessing. Is that about the size of it?”

Julien's jaw clamped shut tighter than a chastity belt.

“Major,” he continued, leaning over his desk, all trace of good humor sliding from his face, “allow me to be absolutely, perfectly clear. I appreciate your concern for my well-being. I appreciate that you're trying to do your job to the best of your ability. And I will happily admit that I'm far less familiar with the bloodier aspects of life than you.

“At the same time, I am no stranger to violence. My life has been threatened more than once, and I have defended it more than once. I believe in the afterlife, and I even have the audacity to think that I'm headed to the more pleasant place when my time comes, but I'm in no rush to prove it. I am not an idiot, no matter what gossip you might hear, and I am not some ignorant old fool to be taken in by a pretty face.

“When this Widdershins burst into my chamber, she was wounded, and attempting to warn me of some coming danger. As you yourself informed me, she seems to have rather handily dispatched another disreputable fellow who was lurking about the house, one who most likely did intend me some amount of bodily harm. So tell me why I should be worried about this woman?”

“Your Eminence,” Bouniard told him, fighting to keep his voice under control, “I'll acknowledge that she probably wasn't here to kill you. It's not her way. But she's involved with people of a much bloodier bent-and putting thoughts of murder aside, she was definitely here to rob you. I don't approve of that, even if you do. And someone wants to cause you harm. So either way, you're in danger. And either way, Widdershins is connected to it, and she's the only lead I've got.

“Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go see if your carriage is ready.” Fists clenched so hard his leather gauntlets squeaked, the major rose, bowed stiffly, and swept from the room.

“That,” Maurice noted as he moved to stand behind the archbishop's left shoulder, “is not a happy jasper.”

“Indeed, no,” William agreed.

“Maurice,” he said suddenly, swiveling to face his young friend, “you'll not be traveling with me to our next residence. There's something I need you to do for me.”

“I'm a very busy woman, Jean Luc.” Lisette Suvagne leaned, hawklike, over the edge of the table, her face illuminated hellishly by the lamp blazing between her and her unexpected guests. “I have no work for you, and I certainly didn't summon you. So what the hell are you and your…”

She scowled irritably at the motley assortment. Jean Luc had always struck her as little more than a common dandy-he reminded her vaguely of Renard Lambert, come to think of it, even if he lacked the foppish thief's flamboyance-though she had to admit he was decent at his job. She didn't know the others: two, in their dueling vests and cheap rapiers, looked the part of common thugs. The last was tall, shrouded in a worn cloak, his hands and face bandaged as though to evoke the leprosy scares of old. Only the fact that Jean Luc had worked for the guild before, and swore he'd come on a matter of urgency, had won them admission past the guards. The red-haired taskmaster fully intended to have someone lashed if this didn't prove very, very important.

Or at least interesting.”You and your friends doing here?” she finally concluded, twisting a dagger between her fingers, scarring the heavy table with the blade. The sound of tiny splinters being gouged from the wood snuck through the chamber and went to go lurk in the corner, where it occasionally bounced back at them as an echo.

“That's not good for the steel, you know,” Jean Luc said neutrally.

“Oh, thank you so much. I've never held a dagger before. They're sharp, aren't they?”

“I was just-”

“Just about to tell me why you're here, why I should talk to you when I frankly have no use for you, and why I shouldn't just have all your throats slit and your carcasses dumped in a deep hole with the rats.” She grinned maliciously. “You don't necessarily have to answer to that last one, if it's too much of a strain.”

Jean Luc returned her smile, obviously not cowed in the slightest. “I would very much like to know when the Finders' Guild was taken over by idiots and cretins.”

Lisette rocked back in her seat. He couldn't possibly be talking about the attempt to kill Widdershins in gaol; not even the Shrouded Lord, let alone anyone outside the guild, could have linked her to it! And yet, what else could he…? “Explain yourself-quickly,” she hissed at him.

“What could possibly have possessed you,” Jean Luc continued, ignoring the woman's posturing, “to authorize a job on the archbishop? That sort of attention's bad for all of us, not just your precious guild!”

The taskmaster's jaw snapped shut like a bear trap, allowing only the release of a strangled, “What?!”

“The archbishop,” Jean Luc repeated slowly, as though explaining something to a child. “One of your thieves made an attempt on his belongings the night before last. My employeer-”

“And that would be who, exactly?” she interrupted.

“You know full well that I can't tell you that, mademoiselle. But I'll say that it's someone who would make a very bad enemy.” He fluttered his fingers in dismissal, as though shaking a clinging strand of cobweb from his gloves.

“I have plenty of enemies,” Lisette told him stiffly, when it became clear he would offer no further answer. “One more doesn't scare me. But as it happens, we authorized no such operation. Perhaps you'd tell me more about it?”

“Really?” Jean Luc leaned back, thoughtfully rubbing his chin. “Not to doubt your word, but I find that hard to fathom. She was clearly a professional, mademoiselle.”

“She?” Lisette's face lit up to shame the lantern. “Describe her,” she all but cooed.

Jean Luc shrugged, and began. He'd scarcely gotten beyond eye and hair color before Lisette's own eyes blazed like a funeral pyre.

“Widdershins!” The woman's grin was somehow both wolfish and serpentine at once.

“Really. Don't any of you people have normal names, Taskmaster?”

Lisette ignored him. “The little scab was specifically ordered to keep away from de Laurent! I told them she'd be trouble, but no, have to give her the chance to hang herself first. Well, now she's done it, hasn't she?”

And made things much easier for Brock and me, for that matter.

Jean Luc rose to his feet and bowed politely to the woman sitting across from him. “I see this has become an internal guild matter, then. We'll leave you to your affairs, content in the knowledge that you can handle the situation. Good evening.”

“Just a moment, Jean Luc,” the taskmaster interrupted as he rose, her voice oily as a well-greased hinge. “And what, precisely, were you doing at the Rittier household to witness little Widdershins's activities?”

The assassin ran a hand down his fine vest. “I was a guest,” he said simply.

Lisette Suvagne was no fool; Jean Luc hailed from the aristocracy, yes, and he could have been innocently attending the party, but she didn't buy it for a moment. He'd been there on his own job, one that could have thrown the entire city into chaos if he'd meant to kill de Laurent himself. She was tempted to demand answers from him, even though she knew well she'd get none.

But there were always alternatives.

Lisette waved him away, waited until her guests had departed, then rose and strode from the room. She whispered instructions to the nearest guard, who nodded and darted off along the hall; then she moved in the other direction.

Widdershins had finally given Lisette cause to deal with her as she'd always wished. Not even the Shrouded Lord could object if she took action now, not without appearing weak. Lisette almost felt like skipping along the darkened halls, and many of her fellow Finders recoiled in fear from the gleeful malevolence in her grin.

Huddled deep in a tattered cloak, good hand and bad both wrapped in a beggar's bandages, Henri Roubet waited in the shadows of a nearby alley. His companions had been inside a while, now, and the former Guardsman was growing ever more concerned that something had gone wrong-or that one of the guild sentries would decide he was more than the vagabond he seemed, and run him off. He'd give them a few more minutes, but then…

Then, thank the gods, Jean Luc and the others emerged, apparently unharmed. They looked this way and that, as though getting their bearings, but for a split second the assassin met his eyes and nodded. All right, they had what they needed. Now it was his turn.

Jean Luc and the others disappeared down a side street, followed a moment later-as they'd known they would be-by several guild thieves, determined to learn whom they served. Roubet let them go; they weren't his concern.

The second group, however, led by the large, limping man with the hammer, were definitely his concern. Sticking close to the shadows, Roubet flitted after them.

“I see that you're not the only crazy man out and about tonight, Major.”

“Of course not,” Julien Bouniard said as he carefully slid both rapier and scabbard from the frog at his belt. “You're here with me, sir.”

“Amusing, lad. But that's not what I meant.” Chapelle reached out and grabbed the guard by the shoulders, physically turning him so that he would have to gaze down over the lip of the roof on which they stood. From above, the pair of them watched as multiple groups departed the structure across the lane.

Julien's eyes narrowed at the sight of the second group. “That big fellow there may be the man who was fighting with Widdershins,” he noted.

“Good. Go chase him. It's by far the saner activity.”

“You agreed this had to be done, sir.”

“I did no such thing. I agreed to help you do it, because I'd feel guilty if you went off and got yourself killed and I could've done something. That doesn't remotely alter the fact that I think you're mad as a syphilitic hatter.”

The younger man's eyes widened just a bit, and Chapelle muttered something about his years out of uniform having made him too lax about watching his tongue.

And then there was nothing to be done but for the old former sergeant to watch as his companion-his friend-moved down the rickety stairs and made his way, unarmed, toward the heart of organized crime in Davillon.

Julien struggled to keep his breathing even and his shoulders straight as he neared the doorway, but there was nothing he could do about the sweat gathering on his palms, or the hairs rising on the nape of his neck. The Finders' Guild had lasted this long, in part, by staying smart-they weren't going to murder a member of the guard without cause. Then again, the incident in the gaol suggested that their attitudes might've changed recently, and even if they had not, the guild acting smart didn't mean everyone in the guild had a brain to call their own.

A faint breeze gusted along the roadway, hauling the scents of woods and meats and smokes on its back, setting Julien's cloak to rustling. He was certain he was being watched, that the guild must have eyes trained on the street, but damned if he could spot any of them. With a fist that wasn't shaking at all-and he was rather proud of himself for that-Julien pounded on the door.

A sliding panel, so cunningly concealed in the woodwork that Julien hadn't the vaguest suspicion it was there, slid open with a loud clack. He couldn't see much of the person behind it, just barely enough to guess that it was a woman. Her voice confirmed that guess when she barked out, “We're closed for business at this hour, and we're not looking for new clients at any rate.”

“I want to see the Shrouded Lord.”

It was, at the least, unexpected enough to stay her hand before she could slide the aperture shut once more. “What?”

“You heard me. Let's not waste either of our time pretending that this place is something it's not. I need to speak to the Shrouded Lord. Immediately.”

“You…” The woman clearly hadn't the slightest idea how to respond. “You're mad!”

“Getting there,” Julien told her. “Nearer every moment we stand here arguing, in fact. I'm unarmed. I'm planning no tricks. Now be a good little thief and let me in.” Then, at the narrowing of her eyes, “And don't even think it. I'm not alone.”

He waved, and at that prearranged signal, a lantern blazed from atop the roof, then just as swiftly vanished. Julien knew that Chapelle was already moving to a new vantage point, in case any of the thieves chose to converge on the source of the light. But it was enough to prove that Julien was being watched by eyes from both sides of the law.

“So,” the major continued, “your options are exactly these. You can refuse to let me in, and risk the possibility that what I've to say to your master is something he'd wish to hear. You can kill me, of course, but then you've committed the cold-blooded murder of a Guardsman-with a witness, no less-right outside your headquarters, and I'll just bet that that wouldn't make you popular with your boss, either. Or you can let me in, and allow me to speak with him, and let him decide what's to be done with me and the news I bring.”

Almost a full minute passed as the thief on guard duty struggled with a conundrum for which she obviously wasn't remotely prepared. And then, finally, Julien heard the clank of a heavy deadbolt. The door swung slowly open before him, and with a nervous swallow, a frantic prayer to Demas, and a sudden deluge of second thoughts for which it was already far too late, Major Julien Bouniard stepped across the threshold into the headquarters of the Finders' Guild.

Lisette wound her way along darkened corridors, hollow worms that twisted through the depths of the Finders' Guild. It was nothing but a modest and mildly dilapidated building on the surface, but the sprawling complex beneath was nearly as large and convoluted as the palace of Galice's king. Any poor soul who didn't know what he was doing could easily find himself lost for days on end down here-assuming one of the guards didn't end his visit prematurely.

Lisette's journey finally carried her into the gargantuan stone shrine roughly at the center of the complex. She settled to her knees atop a long, plush cushion that some thoughtful soul had placed before the idol, and offered up to her patron her heartfelt thanks.

Her reverie was interrupted perhaps fifteen minutes later by the gentle swish of a chapel door.

Gracefully, her gaze remaining locked on the god of Davillon's thieves, Lisette stood, a rising serpent. Only then did she look away from the stone deity, turning toward the newcomer and nodding her head in acknowledgment.

“He wants to see you,” the thief told her. He didn't say, and she didn't ask, who “he” was. Head high and haughty, she made her way to the smoke-filled chamber.

“I understand we've had visitors,” the Shrouded Lord announced without preamble.

“We have indeed,” she confirmed.

“Tell me.”

For long moments Lisette spoke, the triumph in her voice marred only by the occasional cough as the fumes in the chamber tickled her throat. Still longer moments passed in silence when she was done, as the Shrouded Lord sat immobile, considering her words.

The taskmaster grinned again, nothing but teeth. “I told you she would hand us enough rope to hang herself. It's time to tie us a noose.”

“I…” Was it her imagination, or was the Shrouded Lord hesitating? “Yes, I suppose we-”

Whatever he might have said was lost in a loud tapping at his chamber door. “Enter!”

One of the Finders-the same who had fetched Lisette from the shrine-stuck his head through the doorway. “You've got a visitor.”

“Can't you see that we're busy?” Lisette snapped at him, furious that her moment of triumph had been interrupted.

“I-yes, Taskmaster, but I think you two really need to see him.” Only then did Lisette recognize the underlying sense of astonishment beneath the man's words.

“Our little clubhouse seems popular tonight,” the Shrouded Lord observed before his lieutenant could speak further. “All right, escort him in.”

She wasn't certain what she was expecting, but a man clad in full uniform, sporting the fleur-de-lis of the Davillon Guard, was absolutely not on the list. Lisette couldn't help sucking her breath through her teeth in shock, and even the Shrouded Lord, obscured by the smoke and his ragged garb, seemed to twitch in surprise.

“He's been searched,” the thief behind the door announced. “Three times, at least. He's unarmed.”

“Go,” the Shrouded Lord said simply, and the thief vanished, pulling the portal shut behind him. “You're a brave man, Constable…?”

“Or a stupid one,” Lisette muttered, not entirely under her breath.

“Major,” the other man corrected. “And with your indulgence, I believe I'd like to forgo names for the time being.”

Lisette opened her mouth to object, thought better of it. Best see where this leads….

“Very well, Major,” the mouth growled from behind the shroud. “If we're forgoing the pleasantries, what the hell are you thinking?”

“I'm thinking that neither of us wants open bloodshed in the streets of Davillon, so with all due respect, perhaps you should tell me what the hell you were thinking?”

Lisette struggled to hide a smirk-partly because she enjoyed seeing someone else speaking to the Shrouded Lord without simpering to him, mostly because she was pretty sure she knew what was coming. If the Guard was just as furious at Widdershins's actions against the archbishop, was prepared to hold them against the guild, it was just that much more impetus to hunt her down and-

“Sending an assassin into a city gaol, ‘my lord'? Murdering Guardsmen? Are you trying to start a war?”

Oh, shit…

“Because I'll tell you, ‘my lord,' if we have to petition de Laurent to find us a way around the ban on conflict within the Pact, we're fully prepared to-”

“Major, shut up.”

The Guardsman's mouth clacked shut.

“Are you going to tolerate this from him?” Lisette demanded, desperate to get the man out of the chamber. “We should-”

“Taskmaster? Kindly follow the major's example and be silent!”

Her face nearly as red as her hair, burning with an almost painful fury, she obeyed.

“Wonderful. Now…” The Shrouded Lord leaned forward, seeming almost to drift closer within the smoke. “Tell me, Major, exactly what happened.”

“What makes you so certain,” he asked when the tale was concluded, “that this has anything to do with the Finders' Guild?”

“It was well organized,” the major told him. “He had partners to set the fire, distract the guards. It was well funded, considering how much he was able to offer in bribes. And this all happened in front of a hall full of convicts. It took some doing, but I found a few willing to identify the fellow as one of yours.”

“I see. And you feel certain that he was there for Widdershins?”

“I am.”

Lisette seethed, but there was precious little she could do.

“Hers was the only door open; she was the only one missing,” the Guardsman continued. “I can't say if he was there to free her or to kill her, but either way, a Guardsman is dead because of it. If you're going to start coming into our house, we cannot justify allowing-”

“Major, I respect the risk you took in coming here. And while I know you didn't do it for our sake, an open war would indeed be as bad for us as for you-perhaps worse. So let me assure you, I did not authorize any operation within your gaol, either to free or to kill one of your prisoners.”

“I see. But I can't just accept that on faith and forget that it ever-”

“Nor am I asking you to. Taskmaster?”

“What?” she asked, voice sullen.

“You will spread this announcement for me. Whoever is responsible for this act has one day to come forward. If he does so, he will be turned over to the Guard for punishment.”

“That's hardly a convincing-”

“If he does not, and I later learn who he is, it will be I doling out punishments.”

“Oh.”

The major looked as though he wanted to object, then thought better of it.

“Further,” the Shrouded Lord added, turning his gaze toward the Guardsman once more, “should you succeed in identifying the rest of the conspirators before we do-assuming you have real proof, Major-nobody in the guild will lift a finger to shelter them from you, nor to take vengeance for their arrest and sentencing.

“I should think that this-in addition to your being allowed to leave here unharmed-should be more than sufficient to avert any additional conflict that might arise from this unfortunate misunderstanding?”

“I should think so,” the Guardsman agreed, unable to keep a touch of relief from his voice.

“Excellent.” The Shrouded Lord pulled a small rope all but hidden in the smoke, and the door opened once more. “Show this fellow out,” he ordered. “Politely.”

“Ah, of course,” the thief acknowledged. And then he was gone, the major trailing behind.

“I assume you had no prior knowledge of this, Taskmaster?”

“Of course not,” she offered, her tone sullen.

“I'm so glad.”

“This doesn't change what Widdershins did. We still have to-”

“No.”

Lisette's jaw dropped.

“I am gravely disappointed in Widdershins's actions,” the Shrouded Lord told her, his sepulchral tones weighted down with a light frosting of regret. “But even if Jean Luc's accusations are true-”

“We've no reason to assume they're not, my lord,” Lisette insisted, panicked as she felt her long-awaited victory slipping through her fingers. “It fits her pattern. Underreporting her takes, refusing to pay us our due…There's no reason to think that she wouldn't-”

“I will hear it from her. The assassin has been useful in the past, but he's not one of us. I will hear her confession, or her denial, from her own mouth, as I would any other of my thieves. More to the point and as I was saying,” he continued, trampling the objections forming on Lisette's lips, “even if the assassin's told us the truth, Widdershins is also clearly mixed up in something larger, something that seems to involve rogue elements within my own guild. And I won't have that sort of thing in my house, Taskmaster. So listen and listen well, Suvagne. I want her brought in alive.”

Though these were his chambers, and it was his custom to dismiss visitors from his presence when their audience was concluded, the Shrouded Lord rose to his feet with those words. Two steps backward and he'd vanished into the smoke-hued curtains, leaving Lisette to fret and fume in the thick haze.

“How'd it go, lad?” Chapelle asked, falling into step behind the stiff-legged major.

“I'm alive,” Julien said, holding out an open hand. “So I guess as well as I had any right to expect.”

The old sergeant placed the younger man's rapier into the waiting palm, waited for him to strap it on, then handed over his bash-bang as well.

“I think I learned something important,” Julien said finally. “The Finders aren't behind what happened. They don't want a war any more than we do, and they're worried de Laurent might just authorize one.”

“Assuming,” Chapelle noted, “that you can believe a word they said to you.”

“Assuming that, yes.” The rest of the walk was silence, broken only by their heavy footsteps.