Thief's covenant

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Now:

Two years might change a person, but rarely a city. As Widdershins slipped through the darkened alleyways that flowed into Davillon's central marketplace, she couldn't help but remember that hellish night. The sights and sounds and scents were the same. People still shouted their arguments or whispered their black-market deals, and footpads still waylaid lone wanderers through the nighttime streets, taking money and lives.

And demons, Widdershins reminded herself with a shiver, still lurked in the shadows.

She'd escaped the confines of the Finders' Guild with ease-troubling ease, when she thought about it. True, Olgun had indeed remembered their route, guided her through the maze of passages. Still, she'd been certain there would be armed guards waiting at the exit, or skulking in ambush along the way.

But she'd met few Finders, and those she encountered allowed her to pass without incident, either having seen her moments ago with Hubert, or simply assuming that anyone this deep into the guild's headquarters must belong there. And it only got easier still. Near the front door, Widdershins encountered no sign of life, save the pained moans of the woman she'd dumped unceremoniously in the closet. It was just one more worry to add to her growing collection.

She lurked now across the street from the Flippant Witch, and wondered again if she'd been right to come here. Olgun swore he could hide her trail from the creature hunting her, at least for a while. But she knew there were other ways to find her, and she feared she might be putting Genevieve in terrible danger.

All the same, Widdershins felt a desperate need to know that her friend was all right.

“This is stupid,” she berated herself, as she abandoned her hiding spot, flickering across the street in a blur of motion. “I told her to find someplace safe until opening time; she's probably not even in there. Just Robin and the other servants…” Her hand closed on the door's tarnished latch.

“Pardon me, mademoiselle. I wonder if I might impose for a moment of your-”

Considering the evening's prior events, it's perhaps understandable that Widdershins reacted as she did. With a closed fist, she backhanded the speaker across the jaw before he could finish, knocking him from the steps. He landed hard, looking up to find her already standing over him, blade drawn.

“…time,” the young man finished with an audible swallow, his voice rising several octaves, one hand clutched to his bleeding lip.

Widdershins frowned. This gangly, brown-robed youth didn't look much like either a guild assassin or demon conjurer. Nevertheless, she kept her rapier rock-steady against his neck.

“Of course,” he continued nervously, “if that's too much to ask, I'm more than willing to negotiate.”

“Who are you?” Widdershins barked at him. “What do you want?”

“Oh. That is, my name is Brother Maurice. And as far as what I want, well, I imagine that the first priority would be to have your sword just a bit farther from my throat.”

She stepped back, moving the blade away from Maurice's jugular. “Stand up.”

He did so, and it was only then that she finally noticed the tonsure shaved into the top of his head.

Maurice brushed the worst of the dirt from his chest, attempting to salvage some modicum of dignity. He carefully smoothed the front of his robe and met Widdershins eye-to-eye, though he couldn't entirely hide the fear lurking behind his own. Widdershins reluctantly lowered the rapier.

“I wouldn't dream of speaking for you,” the young monk told her, “but I find this arrangement substantially more comfortable.”

“Did you want something, Brother Maurice?” she asked bluntly, eyes darting in all directions. This felt too much like a deliberate distraction.

“My instructions,” he said, taking refuge in duty and orders, “are to deliver to you an invitation. That is, assuming you are the thie-ah, lady called Widdershins?”

Lying just seemed more effort than it was worth at this point.

“Yes, that's me. An invitation from whom? And for what?”

“From the archbishop William de Laurent. Apparently, you made an impression at your first meeting. He's quite anxious to speak with you at your earliest convenience.”

Widdershins blinked. “He…I…Why?”

Maurice shrugged. “I couldn't say. He told me to deliver his request; he didn't confide his motives, and I don't make it a practice to ask.”

“No, you wouldn't.” Widdershins shook her head, finally sheathing her rapier with a hiss that masked the monk's sigh of relief. “How did you find me, anyway?”

“His Eminence told me what part of town to start with.” The young monk raised his eyes heavenward. “I wouldn't dare speculate on the insights made available to the archbishop in times of need, but I imagine that knowing your name and, uh, profession was helpful. After that, I asked around until someone mentioned that you frequent this establishment.”

“You…you just went around Davillon's poor neighborhoods asking random strangers about a known thief?! You're suicidal, yes? I knew taking the cloth had to do bad things to the brain.”

“The gods watch over me,” Maurice said stiffly. “I was in no danger.”

Widdershins wondered how the man could fit that much naivete into a frame that skinny. And yet-here he was. Nobody had harmed a hair on his tonsure.

All she could was shrug; given what she'd seen Olgun do, it wasn't as though she had any real standing not to believe. “All right, fine. Is there a particular place he wants to meet me?”

This, Maurice had been warned, was where it could get difficult. “The archbishop, unfortunately, is watched by too many eyes to go anywhere without being noticed. He apologizes for the inconvenience, but he fears you'll have to come to him.”

“At some House estate?” Widdershins's voice could have shattered glass. “Is he insane?!”

“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, her 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 facade. “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.

“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.”

“Your Eminence,” Widdershins began, unsure how to proceed, “I'm really not here to hurt you.” She wasn't consciously aware of her fingers pulling at the hem of her sleeve, nor of the fact that she was chewing idly on a lock of her blonde wig. “I-”

“I know that, Adrienne. That is what Delacroix just called you, yes?” De Laurent's smile held no mischief this time, merely the comforting expression of a gentle old man who knew more about the world-and probably about you-than you did. “It's such a pretty name. May I ask why you changed it?”

Widdershins, who'd expected to be the one asking questions, found herself caught off guard. “Adrienne is…wanted for some pretty awful crimes, Your Eminence. Widdershins is just a thief. Though I suppose you think stealing is bad enough.”

“I'm not here to judge you. And as long as it's just the two of us, you might as well call me William. ‘Your Eminence' gets so unwieldy. ‘Excuse me, Your Eminence.' ‘If you say so, Your Eminence.' ‘Hey, Your Eminence, can you pass the mustard?'”

Widdershins laughed. It was a clean sound, pure, washing away at least a tiny portion of the past weeks. De Laurent smiled gently.

When her laughter faded, he spoke again. “Aren't you going to introduce me to your other friend?” he asked softly.

Every muscle in Widdershins's body locked up. “Excuse me?”

“My dear, I'm an archbishop of the High Church. I've been known, on occasion, to ask a favor of the gods, something the common man might think of as magic. A nudge of good luck here, a flash of insight there. These events are not the result of sorcery, but neither are they simple manifestations of chance. Sometimes the gods even nudge things for me without my knowledge. Little coincidences-such as, for instance, a thief appearing at just the right moment to save my life from some particularly bold assassin.

“I know the presence of the divine, my dear. And you have a god looking over your shoulder.”

“His…his name's Olgun,” Widdershins admitted, uncertain how many more surprises she could stand in her life.

“Olgun. He's not a god of the Pact, or I'd have heard of him.”

“Do…” She swallowed. “Do you have to, I don't know, report him or something?”

De Laurent smiled. “Worship of a pagan deity is frowned on by the Hallowed Pact, but it's not forbidden. So long as he doesn't work against the Pact, or flaunt the fact that he's not abiding by all of its strictures, I see no reason why either the Church or our gods should see him as an enemy.”

She nodded. “I sort of picked him up at the same time I…stopped being Adrienne.”

“Do you want to talk about it, child?”

Without entirely knowing why, for the first time since she'd told the whole bloody and painful tale to Genevieve, she did.

“It was about six years ago,” she began, her voice fading, carried back across the sea of years to a far but never forgotten shore. “I was just a pickpocket on the streets, really. One day, I was watching the shops in the marketplace…”

Claude maneuvered through the front door as best he could, arms laden with parcels, and glowered at the servants who had taken so long to admit him. “Find a place for these,” he demanded, shoving the packages into the chest of a startled doorman, and suggesting by his expression just where the fellow might stick them. Barely waiting long enough for the man to take the weight, he spun and strode up the stairs, taking them two at a time in his long-legged stride.

Even as he approached the master's office, his scowl deepened. No doubt the old coot would have something else that needed doing, some new banal task that would occupy time Claude really didn't have. But he wasn't about to overtly disobey, and he certainly didn't want anything to go wrong with the archbishop's arrangements…

But Alexandre was neither hard at work on the books, nor shouting instructions to this servant or that. He sat behind his desk, staring dreamily off into space, a strange grin flittering about the edges of his mouth.

“Sir?” Claude asked, gently shutting the door behind him. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing's wrong, Claude.” Alexandre turned to him, still smiling. “I think…We have to keep this secret, of course, at least for now. Until we can make things right.”

“Um, of course, sir. Keep what secret, exactly?”

“She's alive, Claude. She's alive, and maybe…maybe she'll come back to me.”

The servant's eyes widened briefly, then narrowed. “Perhaps, sir, you'd better tell me everything.”

And he stood, listening, with his hands clasped behind his back so Alexandre couldn't see the violent clenching of his fists.

The candle guttered madly, little more than a floating wick in a pool of gooey wax by the time the young woman's narration finally ended. She'd left out almost nothing-nothing save Alexandre's own worship of Olgun, for that was not her secret to tell. Her throat was raw, and she was surprised, albeit only mildly, to discover that her cheeks were damp once more.

William de Laurent leaned back in his chair. He folded his hands in his lap to prevent himself from overstepping the bounds of propriety, for at that moment all he wanted was to reach out and comfort this poor girl who had suffered so much, persevered through hardship and horror the likes of which few could imagine.

“You are truly blessed,” he said at last, his own voice hoarse with suppressed emotion.

She couldn't help it; she laughed, loudly and bitterly. “You have a unique sense of fortune then, William.” She punched the name ever so slightly, as though pointedly reminding him that he'd given her permission to use it.

“You misunderstand me, Adrienne. Yes, I said Adrienne. You no more stopped being Adrienne when you took the name Widdershins than this desk”-here he thumped a fist against the solid wood-“would become, say, a mule, just because I were to call it one.

“But what I mean is that you have a strength about you that enabled you to come through all this. That is a blessing. And more to the point, it amazes me utterly that Olgun-and I mean no offense to your god, you understand-hasn't gotten you killed by now.”

“What?” Widdershins blinked twice, her own mounting indignation both channel and counterpoint to the deity's own sudden ire. The air around her tingled. “Olgun's saved my life more times than I can count! He's gotten me out of some unbelievably tight spots, and he's usually the one trying to talk sense into me! What could possibly drive you to say something like that?!”

“Again, you misunderstand.” The archbishop leaned toward her, resting both elbows on the desk. “Adrienne, Olgun never told you the full import of what you did for him two years ago, did he?”

Her stomach tightened, and for a frantic moment she fought a sudden urge to flee. “What do you mean?”

“You saved Olgun's life.”

This time, the laughter died before it left her throat. It sounded absurd-save a god's life, indeed! — and yet, it felt right.

“Adrienne, there are a great many theories and philosophies within the High Church. Sitting around and debating the unknowable is something that overeducated old men like me enjoy so much, we've made it part of our official ecclesiastical duties. And one of the things on which we choose to speculate is the nature of the gods themselves.

“Why do you suppose the gods seek our worship?” he asked her. “What do you suppose they would do-they would be-without us?”

“Olgun?” Widdershins asked hesitantly. There was nothing, nothing from the god save an embarrassed silence.

“Consider that most of the gods of the Pact come to us from the scattered tribes and communities before the founding of Galice. That a god of great import in one city might oversee a single bloodline or guild in another. That they are older than modern society, and yet so few of them-or at least, of those we still acknowledge-demand observances that would be considered immoral to contemporary thought.

“Some of us in the Church believe that our worship actually shapes the gods-not so much as they shaped us, of course, but what traits the bulk of a god's worshippers believe he has, he has. What emotions we believe he feels, he feels. And without our faith, without mortals to honor and revere him, he would cease to be. He would…Well, in all ways that matter, he would die.”

“No.”

“You are Olgun's last living worshipper, Adrienne. If you perish, so, I fear, does he.”

“But I'm not the only one who believes in him!” Widdershins insisted, half lunging from her seat, all but tripping herself in the folds of her gown. “You believe in him now!”

“I believe, but I do not worship him. That's what they need from us. Devotion, not simple acknowledgment.”

Widdershins wanted to scream, to lash out, to cry, to deny it all, and she couldn't quite figure out why. Was it just the idea of bearing such an enormous responsibility? Wasn't it enough that she was liable to get herself killed by her own thoughtless actions? She had to take responsibility for the life of an “immortal,” too?

“If I'm the only one keeping him alive,” she said, brightening as she saw her way clear of the archbishop's smothering web of revelation, “then he'd be doing everything in his power to protect me! So what the figs is all this about him getting me killed?”

De Laurent smiled gently. “Listen to what I've been saying, Adrienne. Our worship gives them life, power, and personality. I would imagine that the fewer worshippers a god has, the more each individual shapes his nature. Your relationship is, if you will, monogamous. Just you, just him; something, I might add, that is absolutely unique in my experience. Neither of you is consciously aware of it-well, I'm sure you're not, though I guess I ought not speak for a deity-but you've been shaping each other's disposition since the day of the murders.”

The thief rocked backward, found herself sprawled crookedly across the plush, upholstered cushions. I don't want to hear this!

“You're a risk taker, Adrienne. You told me you always have been. You also told me it's gotten worse in the recent past, that you've been taking chances even when you knew they were dangerous, even stupid.”

“Because of Olgun,” she whispered, hands clenched at her sides. “I've made him more prone to taking risks…”

“Which he has been, albeit unintentionally, channeling back into you,” de Laurent concluded. Then, at the look of betrayal that shone so clearly on her face, he quickly added, “You should hold no malice for Olgun over this. I doubt he was any more aware of this than you.” He paused long enough to give a hefty shrug that lifted his entire cassock. “And even if he knew, there's little he could've done about it. Even the gods can no more escape what they are than can man.”

“Is that true?” Widdershins demanded, her attention clearly focused elsewhere. De Laurent felt nothing at all, but the young woman nodded slowly, accepting whatever silent response she'd received.

“All right,” she said a moment later. “That explains a lot of what's happened to me-not least of which is my attempt to rob you, which has to qualify as ‘stupid' if anything I've done ever has. But it doesn't get us any nearer to figuring out what's going on, or who's trying to kill you.”

“You seem awfully convinced it's not your thieves' guild,” de Laurent noted, stroking his chin. “Are you so certain?”

“I was there, William. I told you, I saw no evidence of ritual in their chapel. More to the point, they didn't have the first clue what I was talking about when I accused them of sending that thing after me.”

“These are thieves, Adrienne. I'm sure lying is something at which they're more than a little proficient.”

“I'm a thief, William,” she retorted. “Telling when thieves lie is something at which I'm more than a little proficient.”

“I see.”

“Besides, why would they want to kill you? That would draw exactly the sort of attention that the guild usually bends over backward-and bends other people over backward-to avoid.”

“Maybe.” The old man leaned slightly forward, as though suddenly intent on memorizing the patterns of swirls and whorls in the polished wood of his desk. His fingers idly traced the designs, over and over.

Widdershins remained patient for almost a full minute. “You,” she blurted out finally, “are trying to work up the nerve to tell me something.”

De Laurent smiled sheepishly. “It's not that I don't trust you at this point, especially given what you've confided in me. It's just that this is a Church matter, not one I can discuss lightly with anyone.” He paused again, considering.

“I'm not in Davillon to determine whether it's time to appoint a new bishop, and which of the various candidates I should recommend. Oh, I'll do that while I'm here-it's well past time anyway. But that's an excuse, nothing more.”

“Then why-?”

“There are ways other than worship,” de Laurent told her, apparently changing the topic, “for a god to draw power, though none as long-lasting or as steady. That's why people offer tribute, or sacrifice animals, and why some of the more vicious cults still practice human sacrifice, for all that the Hallowed Pact forbids such travesties. An item, or a life, dedicated to a god brings that god power.”

“I'm sure that's very interesting, but-”

“Recently, the pure of faith in the High Church have felt something, Adrienne. We've received dreams, visions, omens. There is, at the risk of sounding terribly melodramatic, a dark power growing in Davillon, and I can assure you it's not because someone's been successfully proselytizing. And I'm now all but certain that it is this power that spawned the inhuman minion hunting you, and sent it to destroy Olgun's cult two years ago. I've come to learn what it is, and if possible, to deal with it.” He frowned. “And yet, beneath its darkness, there's an almost familiar-”

He clamped his teeth together as his guest bolted upright, head cocked as though listening to a voice he couldn't hear-which, no doubt, she was. In a flash, she was standing beside the window, back pressed firmly against the wall. Taking a quick breath, the thief made ready to sneak a peek, but first she needed a favor.

“Olgun,” she whispered, “it's kind of dark out there.”

It was more than just a request for help. It was her way of saying she'd already forgiven him for anything he'd done, deliberately or not, her way of saying, “Things are the same as they always were.”

And Olgun replied, a torrent of relief and more than a little joy coloring the rush of power she felt as the air took on its characteristic charge.

Widdershins crouched before the window. With only the top of her head exposed, she rapidly scanned the ground. Her vision, sensitive as a cat's thanks to Olgun's efforts, ranged over topiary and stone-cobbled path, over bushes, around trees.

There!

Advancing up the walk, in what would have been full view if there had been a sun in the night sky, came a column of City Guards led by Julien Bouniard. They moved at a brisk march, hands on hilts, and Widdershins had no doubt at all why they were here.

Had Alexandre betrayed her after all? Had he allowed her to stay just to stall her while he yelled for the Guard? Panic tried to force its way up her throat like a bad meal, and she swallowed hard to keep it down.

No. No, that wasn't him. If he'd planned to turn her in, he'd have done so, confidently and openly. But however they knew, they were here now. Time later for asking questions.

“A problem?” de Laurent suggested from behind her.

“Major Bouniard and a whole mess of constables. Which I guess, yeah, is a problem.”

“They may not be here for you at all.”

Widdershins smirked. “You break any laws lately, William?”

“Stay,” the archbishop all but begged. “I'll speak for you, Adrienne. Maybe I can help you reclaim your life.”

She stared, and for a moment, she almost agreed. But, “No. No, I can't risk it. Maybe later.

“And William? Thank you.” She reached out, rested a hand fondly on his arm.

Just like that, she was gone, scampering down the outside walls and vanishing into the trees, well out of sight of the constables on the path. Pieces of habit and wimple fell away, revealing her ubiquitous black, as she vanished into the night.

And all the archbishop could think to say, wrapped up as he was in worry for Widdershins's safety, was, “At least she opened the window this time.”

“Claude!”

The servant halted, his feet on two different steps, and allowed his lord and master to catch up to him on the stair. “What is it, sir?” he asked blandly.

“There are Guardsmen on the premises, Claude!” His voice lowered into a conspiratorial hush. “How could they have found out so swiftly that she was here?”

“I couldn't say, sir. But we'd best check on her and His Eminence, don't you think?”

They darted up the stairs, trying to keep themselves to a brisk walk, rather than the headlong charge that would alert the other servants that something was amiss. They had perhaps a minute before the Guardsmen reached the door, maybe two or three more before the soldiers talked their way past the doormen and made it upstairs. Teeth grinding in impatience, Alexandre flitted down the hall, Claude on his heels. They swept past the hanging paintings and the various idols of Cevora until finally they reached the men assigned to watch the archbishop's door and burst as one into the room. Eyes alert for danger, the two men-at-arms followed them inside.

De Laurent turned away from the open window. “Missed her by just an instant, I'm afraid. But I don't believe she'll have any trouble eluding the soldiers outside.”

“Delighted to hear it,” said Claude, even as Alexandre broke into a relieved grin.

And then, before the archbishop's horrified eyes, the servant turned and sank a long-bladed dirk into the aristocrat's gut. Alexandre's eyes grew wide and he clutched at the blade, hands fluttering like wounded birds, before he toppled to the floor.

Claude grinned a horrid grin, and a second blade appeared in his fist even as Alexandre's men converged on him….

William de Laurent knelt over the bloodied guard, lips moving in heartfelt prayer for the man's departed soul. He felt the blood soaking into his cassock, the ugly warmth on his knee, but he would not rise until he was done.

“I'm impressed, Your Eminence,” Claude told him. “You're handling this with remarkable aplomb.”

“No more impressed than I,” the archbishop retorted as his prayer wound to a close. “Your god must be sneaky indeed, to have hidden the stain on your soul from me. You know that what you've set in motion is a violation of the Pact.”

“Only if we're caught, Your Eminence. And of course, that's where you come in. You and dear old Alexandre.”

Slowed by grief and aching bones, gazing longingly at the broken staff of office that lay across the chamber, he rose.

“Thank you,” he said, “for allowing me to offer final rites.”

“I had no personal quarrel with these men, Your Eminence,” said Claude, Apostle of Cevora and former servant of Alexandre Delacroix. “Nor with you. I'll make it swift.”

William did not want to die, not here, not now that he knew who and what it was he had come to Davillon to find. He briefly eyed the window, but it was a useless thought. Adrienne possessed the speed and grace to pull it off. Even in his youth, he himself had not.

So he held himself straight, determined to face his end with dignity. Who was Death, after all, if not another of the gods of the Pact?

He felt the first of the cuts as a fire in his gut. And William de Laurent died praying. Praying for the soul of the man who killed him, and for the life of a young woman who had already suffered enough.

Claude was long gone, leaving the room empty of all but corpses, before Bouniard and his constables made their way upstairs.