Thief's covenant

CHAPTER FOUR

Now:

It was not a pleasant place, this chamber. The walls, all five of them, were a dull ebon stone, set with equally dark mortar. The floor and ceiling, both black marble, were smooth and unbroken. The room possessed only a single door, and that substantial portal-constructed of a heavy, darkened wood-led to a small antechamber. An ingenious system of gears and pulleys prevented the outer door of that tiny vestibule from opening unless the inner door was firmly shut, and vice versa. Thus protected, and completely windowless, the shadowy inner chamber had never been exposed to the searing touch of day.

Really, really black, basically.

Standing within this room, lit only by a pair of torches that hung opposite the door, a visitor could truly believe he stood on the brink of eternity, staring into the primordial darkness that skulked beyond the borders of creation.

Between those flickering brands lurked the room's only other feature. Embossed into the otherwise blank wall were the head and torso of what, in the impotent lighting, might be mistaken for a man. The shoulders and arms were human in every particular, if perhaps too heavily muscled. The head was the proper shape, topped by an unruly mop of hair that billowed behind, carved into the wall with exquisite detail.

All of which was designed eventually to direct the viewer's attention to the figure's face.

The entity's features were hideous, terrifying as the fading memories of a recent nightmare, and equally as bewildering. Oh, this was not the mask of some horrific monster; no fangs, no fur, no scales. No, the face was human, beautiful even. It was also utterly devoid of mortal emotion. Surely this was the bust of some madman, a being incapable of experiencing, or even understanding, the urges, desires, hates, and fears that should have been his birthright. It was the face of pure need, pure hunger, an evil that sprung not from some cause, nor any great malevolence, but pure predatory instinct. Beast it was, wolf or serpent or lion, scarcely concealed behind a mask of man.

Before the great idol waited two figures. The first was Roubet, his eyes wide with a pungent blend of fear and greed. They darted between the graven image and the other man, a man clad in robes of midnight blue that almost, but not quite, blended with the surrounding darkness. This was a man who had paid Roubet well, since before he was forced from the Guard; a man he would address by no name or title other than “Apostle.”

Henri Roubet refused to admit, even to himself, that he knew the Apostle's other name, for fear of how that knowledge would be rewarded.

“You're certain they're coming?” the Apostle asked, glancing irritably at the fane's outer door.

The soldier and spy neither sighed aloud nor rolled his eyes, though he was tempted to do both at this third or fourth repetition of the question. “I'm certain, Holiness. They'll be here. I imagine they just need-”

A dull gong reverberated through the black walls, and the room began to rumble with the sound of grinding gears.

“-a bit more time,” Roubet concluded as the inner door slid aside.

There were six of them, of varying heights, varying demeanors. This one wore heavy leathers, stained dark and well creased; that one dressed in the bright and jarring plumage of the Davillon aristocracy, down to the razor-sharp rapier at his side; and a third was garbed entirely in black, nigh invisible against the ebon backdrop of the chamber.

They did, however, share a profession in common. And they were all quite good at it.

“Has Roubet explained why you're here?” the Apostle demanded without preamble.

“I'm willing to take a stab at it,” the leather-clad man replied. His voice was deep, gravelly, thanks to the jagged scar that ran across his neck. “I'm guessing you want someone killed.”

“If I want comedy,” their host rejoined, “I'll hire a jester. Of course I want somebody killed, you blithering imbecile!”

The leather-clad killer shrugged. “Ask a stupid question-”

The nobleman-or the assassin garbed as one-stepped forward, cutting off his companion. “It's been some time since you've asked us to meet with you personally. And while your errant Guardsman was somewhat terse, I could hear the excitement in his voice. I can only assume you've located Adrienne Satti.”

“Very good, Jean Luc. I'm glad to see there's at least one brain amongst you.” To the group at large, he continued, “Indeed, I have found our wayward cultist-something, I must remind you, none of you has managed in two years.” He met their eyes, reminding them one by one of his displeasure; and one by one, these hardened assassins turned away. “And indeed, I'll be calling on your talents to assist me with her final disposition. But for now, all I want you to do is locate her alias-Roubet will fill you in-so that you can find her when necessary. She is not your current target. I have an entirely other commission in mind for you.”

A smattering of confused murmurs arose from the group. The chamber's bizarre acoustics bounced them back as a veritable hissing chorus.

“I'm sure, by now,” the Apostle continued, rather than awaiting the obvious question, “that each of you has heard of the dignitary soon to grace our fair city with his presence?”

The room echoed again, not with puzzled whispers but a series of stunned gasps.

“I see that you have.” The Apostle smiled, a gleam of white amidst the unrelenting black. “Let me tell you what I require….”

The door slammed behind her with an awful ring of finality, the snapping trapdoor of a gallows. The private rooms of the Flippant Witch were plain, simple: six chairs and a single table in each, and nothing more. Nonchalant, or at least trying hard to appear that way, Widdershins confronted the trio who'd shepherded her in here. A jaunty smile fixed on her face as though glued to her jaw, she hopped up to sit on the table, her legs crossed demurely and dangling over the edge.

“Brock,” she greeted the hulking boulder of a man.

“I'm so pleased you remember me, Widdershins,” he rumbled, a cruel little grin playing at the corners of his mouth.

“What? No, actually, I didn't. I just have a habit of cursing in High Chicken when I'm startled. Brock! Brock-brock-brock-brock-brock-brock! Bu-caw!” She blinked coyly. “See? Like that.”

The grin slid from Brock's face, leaving a faint trail, and his teeth ground against one another. “Oh, you're funny,” he growled.

“I am? Really? I'm so glad you told me. Based on your expressions, I'd never have guessed that-that-”

Her voice broke into a nervous gulp as the glowering twist to Brock's visage shifted even farther down the spectrum from “unaamused” toward “homicidal.” Widdershins decided that, just maybe, Brock-baiting was not the healthiest pastime to engage in.

With his short-cropped dark hair and rock-solid jawline, Brock might even have been deemed handsome, if someone of a far gentler persuasion had resided behind his face. Though a member in good standing of the Davillon Finders' Guild, Brock wasn't actually a thief. He was, rather, one of the guild's “negotiators”-or, in more mundane terms, a leg-breaker. He was no less a blunt object than the weapon he favored.

He stepped nearer the table, his tread shaking the floorboards into spitting tiny puffs of dust. Widdershins's eyes, of their own accord, flickered to the enormous hammer at his side.

In her agitation, and in spite of her determination not to taunt the man any further, she blurted, “Gee, Brock, I didn't know you were a blacksmith. What-what were you planning to forge with that?” She chuckled nervously, and wished now she hadn't sat atop the table. Her position offered little room to retreat. “You know, when they talk about members of the Finders' Guild ‘forging' things, that's not really what they mean. See, most people in our line of work prefer pen and ink. It's really a lot more-”

“Shut. The hell. Up.”

She did just that, leaning back ever farther as Brock loomed nearer, until it seemed that she might wind up lying flat on her back in order to meet his gaze. He finally stopped, however, no more than a foot away.

“You annoy me,” he told her succinctly. “That's never a wise idea.”

“It's a habit,” she retorted instinctively. “What do you want with me?”

“What do I usually want from people, Widdershins? What they owe the guild. And you, girl, are a little behind.”

His fellow thugs smirked at the entendre.

Widdershins scowled despite herself. Lisette again-it had to be. Nobody else would be riding her yet about a job she'd just completed yesterday.

He could, she supposed, have been speaking of other, older jobs, but she'd never held back on those. Well, not much; everyone held out a little.…

“I don't know what you're talking about!” she insisted, indignant.

The others chuckled once more, having heard it a thousand times from a thousand mouths. Brock shook his head. “Of course you haven't,” he said snidely. “This is all a big mistake.”

“Well, yes, it is! And besides,” she added quickly as his hand settled on the heavy mallet, “if you kill me, the guild never gets what I supposedly owe them! They'd be unhappy with you for that, yes?”

“I'm not supposed to kill you,” Brock told her, his breath a caustic cloud mere inches from her face. “I'm not,” he added, sounding vaguely put out by the whole thing, “even supposed to break any bones. I'm just supposed to make sure that you remember our conversation.” He smiled an uneven, gap-toothed smile as his hammer slid loose with a slimy hiss. “I think you'll remember.”

“Oh, absolutely,” she told him, forcing a laugh through a dry mouth. “Never forget a word of it. You've set me straight, Brock. No sense in wasting any more time on me!”

“This will go easier,” he told her, hefting the mallet, “if you don't fight.”

“Probably,” she agreed, slamming her shins with crushing force up between Brock's legs and into one of his few tender spots. “But ‘easy' is boring.” She smiled at the shocked expressions of the other enforcers, even as their boss slid to the floor with an agonized whimper. “Wouldn't you agree, boys?”

They needed only seconds to shake off their stupor, to advance on the tiny thief, snarls on their faces and blades in their fists. But in those precious moments of confusion, Widdershins rolled backward, rising to her feet in the center of the table, rapier in hand. The wood creaked beneath her weight, shifted precariously, but held. The blade carved tiny circles in the air as she waited, watching, as the thugs fanned out to flank the table.

Widdershins had time for precisely two thoughts. The first was a brief prayer of thanks for Genevieve's high ceilings; the second a tense whispered instruction to Olgun to “Watch my back!” And then there was no more time for thought at all.

The first enforcer, a scar-faced man with a scraggly blond beard and matching yellow teeth, lunged across the table's edge, attempting to cut Widdershins's ankles out from under her with a wickedly curved dagger. It was, at their respective heights and angles, an impossible parry. The sensible move would have been for Widdershins to step back out of reach.

Which, of course, would have put her squarely in line for a similar attack from the man's companion, a smaller, rat-faced fellow with pockmarked skin. And it would have worked, if Olgun hadn't been bellowing a warning in Widdershins's mind. She indeed stepped backward, but instantly kicked out behind her with her other leg. The thug's vision filled with a blur of soft black leather, and by the time he'd realized that what he saw was the business end of a boot, it had already spread his nose across his left cheek with an unfortunate snap.

The bearded man, having brilliantly reached the conclusion that things weren't going as planned, hurled himself up onto the table, rising in a knife-fighter's crouch. Widdershins, stooping slightly herself, circled warily. She stepped right and he moved to follow, neither looking away, neither daring to blink. Step, follow. Step, follow. Step…Widdershins could barely keep from grinning. Gods, but the man was a nitwit! Follow…The bruiser scowled, uncertain why this impudent bitch was smirking at him. Step, follow.

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…”

Genevieve understood. “So no wars between them. The Church forbids it.”

“Precisely.” Renard nodded, but his frown remained. “Still, the guild's nervous about making a nuisance of itself with a High Church official present. The archbishop just might have the authority to sanction an exception to laws forbidding an open conflict. Or he might not. Honestly, even our priests aren't entirely clear on the issue. In any case, we don't want to give him cause to consider it, or give the city cause to ask him. Better to lie low and sit this out. So the guild is snatching up what funds they can, and the Shrouded Lord-Lord, not God,” he interjected as Genevieve's face grew puzzled once more. “-is allowing you-know-who to be as heavy-handed as she likes, in hopes of cowing the more rebellious elements into submission-”

He knew it was a mistake even as the words marched across his tongue, but he couldn't snap his teeth fast enough to trap them.

“Cow me into submission?” Both her friends could see the fog of an indignant huff settling around Widdershins.

“Perhaps a poor choice of words,” Renard backtracked hastily.

Widdershins gave no indication of having heard him. “Who do those dried-up, incompetent, wrinkled, useless old half-wits think they are?!”

“Widdershins, such language!” Renard commented sarcastically. “Why, keep this up and you'll be calling them ‘poop heads' within the hour, and then what will the children of Davillon think?”

Her glare bored into him, leaving scorch marks in his expensive finery. “I should teach the whole lot of you something-”

“Widdershins, please!” The dandy's tone finally broke through her mounting rant. “You and I both know that you've got a reputation for being, shall we say, precipitous-and not entirely undeserved, at that. So you worry them. It's nothing personal, and you're not the only one. Let it go.”

“You're absolutely right, of course, Renard,” Widdershins told him with a gentle smile, her voice suddenly calm, even mild.

He squinted at her, not believing a word of it.

“In any event,” he barged ahead, “as long as she thinks you're holding out on your cut, that's all the excuse she needs.”

“What are you telling me, Renard? That I better pay up, even though I don't owe anything?” Much.

“If you have any emotional attachment to your kneecaps, yes. I'd hate to see your legs broken, Widdershins. They're such nice legs.”

“Fine,” she sighed. With a grunt of disgust, she thrust her hand deep into a pouch at her belt and scattered a large handful of coins across the tabletop. “Start with this. I'll see what I can do about getting Li-uh, you-know-who the rest of her precious coins. Before his Eminencialness shows up.”

Renard nodded, scooped the marks into his own pouch, and rose. “I imagine I can buy you a few days with this. Assuming,” he added with a twinkle in his eye, “that I don't decide to just go spend them on a fabulous dinner and a bottle of good red.” His smile faded at the look on her face. “Uh, right. I'll let you know if you still have reason to worry.”

“I always have reason to worry, Renard.”

“Of course. Widdershins, be careful,” he said seriously. “Don't do anything unwise.”

“Who, me?”

“Hmph. Mademoiselle Genevieve, it was an exquisite pleasure to meet you. Your establishment is lovely, though not nearly so much as its owner.” With another flamboyant bow, he swept from the room like an arrogant wind.

“An interesting fellow,” Genevieve commented blandly-too blandly, Widdershins might have said-as the door shut behind him. “Not at all what I expected from a thief. He was actually quite pleasant.”

“Don't even think it, Gen. He's not safe to associate with.”

“I associate with you, don't I?”

“Not that sort of association!”

“Ah.” She looked up suddenly, accusing. “Shins, you told him you weren't holding back on the guild!”

“I'm not,” the young woman insisted stubbornly, and then quailed beneath the barkeep's disapproving glower. “Well, no more than anyone else!” she protested somewhat less vehemently. “Really! It's expected of us, Gen! That's why the percentages are so high, because they know they won't get a full accounting!”

“Shins…”

“I'm doing them a favor! If I reported my take honestly, it would throw off their accounting system! They'd get too much from me. It would mess up their numbers, or they'd start expecting the same of everybody! It's my duty to hold back on them!”

Genevieve crossed her arms and began idly tapping a foot. It sounded like a small woodpecker, patiently chipping away at the floor.

Widdershins's face fell. “Who are they to tell me what to do anyway?” she mumbled petulantly.

“They're people who can get you in a whole mess of trouble if you don't do as they say, Shins.” Genevieve frowned. “And from the looks of things, they're going to get me in trouble too.”

“I'm sorry, Gen,” the thief breathed. “You're right. I'll pay up. I promise.”

“Good.”

Genevieve said nothing more, but by the time Widdershins departed later that night, the worry still hadn't entirely faded from the barkeep's eyes.

Lisette Suvagne, taskmaster of the Finders' Guild, second only to the Shrouded Lord among Davillon's thieves, prostrated herself on the worn carpets of the chapel. It was a posture, a reverence, an obedience she would offer to no man or woman-one that she loathed to the depths of her soul. She was fire, was Lisette. From her blazing red hair to her powder-keg temper to her burning ambitions, she was the embodiment of flame. Only her outfit, all greens and blacks, failed to promise a searing heat. Any mortal who had demanded such submission from her would have died in the asking.

But it was no mortal to whom she offered her devotion today. Here at the center of the guild's complex, in the looming stone shrine that smelled thickly of herbal incense, stood the city's only known idol to the Shrouded God from which the leader of Davillon's thieves took his own title. It loomed against the far wall, a stone icon slightly taller than a man. Though tradition held that the Shrouded God was one of the divinities of the Hallowed Pact, nobody in the modern day-not even the eldest of the guild-remembered his name. They called him simply by his title when they offered their prayers of thanks for a particularly rich haul or a narrow escape from the thief takers of the Guard.

The figure was clad simply, in sculpted images of soft boots, thick pants, and snug tunic centuries out of fashion. A heavy hood of thick black cloth-real, not hewn from the rock-covered the idol's head. Guild tradition mandated that none but the Shrouded Lord might ever look upon the face of their god-and even then only during the ceremony that established him or her as the guild's new leader. Terrible curses both ancient and powerful were said to guard against blasphemy, ready to strike down any who would dare peer beneath that hood; and though Lisette wasn't certain she believed in such curses, her faith stayed her hand no matter how great her curiosity grew.

Faith in her god, who watched over her, and faith in herself that one day she would be permitted to look upon him properly, as she took her rightful place as the next Shrouded Lord.

There was, perhaps, no honor among thieves-but in the form of Lisette Suvagne, there was certainly fanaticism.

For long moments, she remained hunched, arms outstretched, until her muscles quivered and screamed for relief. Only then, her prayers and her penance complete, did she allow herself to rise lithely to her feet. A final bow to her one true lord, then she swept from the room to go and confront the man who-for now, only for now! — dared believe he held equal authority over her.

She stalked through several short corridors, finally stepping through an open archway into a chamber of haze. A steel portal slid shut behind her with ghostly silence, and Lisette bowed at the waist-the closest she would ever come to kneeling before any human-before her mortal liege, the sovereign of thieves across the length and breadth of Davillon.

The Shrouded Lord.

“Rise, Lisette.”

She straightened and glared at the phantom before her.

No matter how often she saw it, the effect remained impressive. The chambers of the Shrouded Lord were thick with the musky smoke of several incense braziers that were never permitted to burn out and were larger by far than the one that perfumed the chapel. The great hood and ragged garb that was the uniform of the guild's leader blended perfectly with the haze, with the curtain before which he sat, with the cloths draped over his throne. It was impossible to tell where man left off and smoke or curtains began.

Brilliant. And also melodramatic almost to the level of cheap opera, but the thieves would have their traditions, no matter how theatrical. She wondered briefly, as she always did, which of her fellow Finders actually wore the hood. Nobody but the guild's own priests, who chose and oversaw the ascension of each Shrouded Lord, ever knew who spoke from behind that mantle.

“Report,” he commanded in a bored tone.

Though she seethed internally, Lisette's voice was all business. “Laremy and Golvar have reported an average of a seven percent increase in dues since instituting our new policies. Assuming we can sustain this rate until the archbishop's arrival, we should have no difficulty maintaining standard expenses for the duration of his stay.”

“And if not?” the Shrouded Lord asked.

Lisette shrugged. “Then we tap into emergency reserves for a few weeks. But I don't think the numbers can drop low enough from present levels to pose any real problems. In fact, I'd like to propose that we maintain these policies once de Laurent has departed. We-”

“Write it up and submit it. I'll consider it then.”

Bastard. “Of course.” She cleared her throat, irritated in part by the incense, as she gathered her thoughts. “In terms of specific payments-,” she began, but again she was interrupted. The Shrouded Lord raised a hand, a phantasmal gesture amidst the smoke.

“What's this I hear about Brock attacking one of our people?”

Damn the man! How does he learn these things so quickly?

“I've had to sic several of our enforcers on a number of our members, my lord, as part of the fund-raising. Perhaps you might be more specific?”

The misty form leaned forward in his chair, or at least it seemed to. She couldn't entirely tell through the smoke. “Don't be dense, Taskmaster. We both know who I'm talking about.”

Lisette frowned, absently fidgeting with the scabbard at her waist. “She was underreporting her take. I treated her no differently than anyone else!”

“Ah, Lisette. I believe, in fact, that Widdershins owes roughly a third as much as anyone else with whom Brock has ‘talked.' You know I prefer to use him only as a last resort, since he tends to break things. And people. Are you truly still so angry with her after all this time?”

I spent a year in planning the d'Arras job! she wanted to scream at him. It was a masterpiece, greater than anything the city had ever seen! It might even have made me the Shrouded Lord, and that little bitch comes along and-

But it was a tirade the Shrouded Lord had heard a dozen times before-minus the bit about Lisette taking his mantle, of course-and he hadn't found it convincing then either. Perhaps new sins would build upon the old and finally tip the scales, but it hadn't happened yet.

When Lisette said nothing, the hooded form only nodded. “I see. I would hate, Taskmaster, to ever get the sense that you're abusing your position over a private vendetta. Our enforcers are to be used on guild business only, not personal. And Widdershins is to be treated like any other Finder. If she gives you a reason-a real reason-you may deal with her accordingly. Not until then.”

“I understand, my lord.” The words were more bitter than the smoke.

“Good. Write up the rest of your report, Lisette. I don't think I need to hear it just now.”

Jaw clenched, Lisette bowed once more and backed from the room.

Still, by the time she'd reached her own quarters, her fury had cooled. All right, fine. She'd deal with Widdershins “like any other Finder.” She would be very careful, very specific in her orders to Brock.

But then, she'd also remind Brock that if things got a little out of hand-well, it would be her job as taskmaster to see to his punishment….