CHAPTER SEVEN
Four years ago:
The men and boys awaiting atop the roof were, to the last, disreputable-and given the sorts of people Adrienne was accustomed to dealing with, that was saying something. They were neither the fiercest nor the filthiest with whom Adrienne had ever dealt, not by any stretch, but something about them set warning bells to chiming in the back of her mind.
Perhaps the naked blades that had greeted her when she'd first clambered on the rooftop had something to do with it.
“Adrienne,” Pierre continued his introductions, oblivious to her discomfort, “these are my friends. This is Joseph; that one's-”
Joseph, powerfully built, with a thick head of autumn-red hair, approached with unkind purpose. His black trousers and tunic-they all, Adrienne couldn't help but note, wore black trousers and tunic-hissed as he walked, conspiratorial whispers of cloth on cloth. At his side hung a curved knife that only barely failed to qualify as a sword (and probably resented it).
Adrienne flinched, but it was Pierre, not herself, on whom Joseph advanced. His fists clenched on Pierre's tunic and lifted him clear off his feet with only a modicum of strain. The young man's face paled and his boots kicked helplessly, inches from the roof.
“First off, you little turd,” Joseph growled, “no names. Your little whore doesn't need to know who we are.”
Adrienne bristled, her face flushing, but Pierre nodded his, understanding as best he could. “Got it,” he croaked. “Anything else?”
“Yes. Next time you want to bring someone in on one of our projects, you ask first!” Joseph shook him until his face purpled and his teeth clacked together like castanets.
The whisper of steel on leather heralded the touch of a rapier against Joseph's throat. Standing very still, his arms steady despite Pierre's dangling weight, Joseph turned his head as far as he could without tensing his neck against the blade.
“Let him go,” Adrienne commanded, trying to infuse her voice with a confidence she didn't feel, and at the moment couldn't even remember. “I mean it. Put him down.”
“You draw one drop of blood with that, girl, you and your boyfriend die on this roof. You know that, right?”
Adrienne had begun to sweat profusely-the pommel had already grown sticky with it-but she kept the fear from her voice. “You won't see it, though.”
Joseph stared, and Adrienne stared back. No less steel-hard or razor-sharp than the rapier itself was the glare that bound them, one to the other.
Finally, without expression, Joseph dropped Pierre, with an audible thump and a whoosh of breath, to the roof. His own face a strange alloy of embarrassment and gratitude, Pierre struggled to his feet and scurried across the stone to stand beside her.
“Thank you,” Adrienne breathed.
“You're welcome,” Joseph replied formally, gingerly pushing the blade away from his throat with a forefinger. And then he laughed, hard, bent double with breath-stealing guffaws.
“Gods and demons, Pierre!” he exclaimed once he finally had the breath to do so. “You sure know how to pick them, don't you!” His laughter gradually depreciated into a faint chuckling, then faded into the night. “All right, you're both in. Let's do this.”
“Wonderful!” Pierre exclaimed, all traces of injured pride vanished from his expression. “Thank you, Joseph. You won't be disappointed.”
Adrienne's jaw fell slack.
“I better not be,” Joseph warned. “All right, everyone gather round. I don't plan to say this more than once.”
A dozen footsteps crunched across the rooftop, drowning out Pierre's gasp as something yanked on his sleeve, practically ripping it from his arm. He spun, hands rising to defend himself.
“Gods, Adrienne, you scared the-”
“What is wrong with you?!” she demanded in a strained, almost painful whisper. “After what he just did, we should be getting the hell out of here!”
Pierre shrugged, perplexed. “He was just a little upset, Adrienne. He's fine now.”
“Upset?! Pierre, the man picked you up and shook you like a cat!”
“That's just his way. He doesn't mean anything by it.”
“And they drew blades on me!”
“Well, you surprised them, that's all.”
Fire blazed in the girl's features. “And he called me a whore!”
“But that was before he knew you, my sweet. Come, Adrienne, there's no call for this. Stop being unreasonable, and let's join the others before we miss what he's got to say.”
And with that, Pierre strode across the roof, his companion's incredulous gaze following behind. Adrienne shook her head, sheathed her rapier, and gave more than a moment's thought to leaving the whole lot of them here to play while she went and found something less deranged to occupy her. Dodging runaway wagons, perhaps, or throwing horse droppings at City Guardsmen.
She'd do no such thing, of course, and heaved a heartfelt sigh when she admitted she'd do no such thing. Muttering darkly, her feet dragging, she shuffled over and took her place in the circle of conspirators.
“So desperately glad you could join us, Adrienne,” Joseph snipped as she pushed between Pierre and the man beside him, an unwholesome fellow with brittle blond hair who bore a strong resemblance to a scarecrow.
“Stuff it sideways and clench, Joseph.”
Pierre gaped, horrified, but the other thieves laughed uproariously, Joseph louder than any. “Oh, I like her a lot,” he told the rooftop at large. “I may have to make you a regular on my jobs, Adrienne.”
“What say you tell us what this one is before you worry about dragging me into the next, yes?”
“Fair enough.” Joseph cleared his throat, taking in each and every face that looked eagerly (or, in one case, not so eagerly) back at him. “As some of you know, I've been cultivating friendships, and spreading the occasional bribes, among the servants of certain-”
“Let's skip the foreplay,” the scarecrow demanded in a voice rather like a cheese grater running across gravel. “No disrespect or nothing, but there's not any of us gives a rat's ass how you got the information. What'd you find out?”
“You, Anton,” Joseph rumbled, “are a boor.”
“Long as you make me a rich boor, I can live with it. Spill.”
“Well, since you asked so politely, it appears that Alexandre Delacroix was unavoidably detained on a recent business trip to Guillerne. Now, due to other business commitments here in Davillon, he's rushed his trip back. You know, pushing the horses, traveling into the night, that sort of thing.”
“And?” Pierre asked, his voice excited-and, Adrienne couldn't help but sneer, more than a touch sycophantic.
“And,” Joseph continued, “according to the messengers who came ahead, he should be arriving in town tonight. In about, oh, an hour or so.
“Which gives us,” he added to the silent circle around him, “just enough time to get ourselves out of town and hit the carriage before it comes within sight of the city wall.”
Adrienne had obviously never met Alexandre Delacroix-neither she nor anyone else on that roof, save perhaps Pierre when he was much younger, would ever have been in any position to do so-but few citizens of Davillon, regardless of social class, hadn't heard of him. Delacroix was an aristocrat's aristocrat, the sort of fellow whose horses and hounds were richer than most people. If his ilk ever mingled with Adrienne's type, it was only because Davillon didn't have enough streets to keep them from crossing each other's paths.
As she'd heard it, or at least as she vaguely remembered hearing it, House Delacroix was one of the city's oldest, with a rather storied history to boot. For some years, the House had lain in shambles, its fortunes shattered by a series of bad investments, and the whispers that it would soon be banished from the aristocracy had been so prevalent that even Adrienne had heard them. And then, scarcely more than a year ago, the Delacroix fortunes had turned just as swiftly as they'd gone bad, until Alexandre Delacroix was once again among the wealthiest of the city's nobles.