The thug neither knew nor cared what the hell the lunatic was talking about. “Pistol and sword on the ground, guard. Now-and slowly.”
Brass and leather scraped across the stone floor, the only sounds in a hall now grown deathly silent. Prisoners huddled in the cells, some with faces pressed to the bars so that they might see, others turned away to make it damn clear that they didn't see.
“Kick them away.” More scraping on the stone.
“Get down on your knees.” He was rewarded with a brief flicker of fear in the guard's face, but the man did as he was told.
Pockmark moved forward, tiny crossbow aimed squarely. Just a few steps closer, near enough to absolutely ensure a kill shot, not so close as to give the man a chance to grab at him. He had to get this done and get out before any of the constables returned from outside, or any of the men he'd bribed became aware that fellow guards had died tonight. He had to tell Brock, had to-
The thunder of a flintlock roared through the hall, echoes bounding almost playfully off the heavy walls. Pockmark staggered back, agony flaring through him, fire burning in his chest. He heard a distant twang as his own weapon discharged harmlessly into the ceiling, then fell from disobedient fingers. His hands went to his ribs, came away dripping.
But…but…Oh.
For just a moment, Pockmark's eyes focused on the bash-bang in the guard's fist-not the one the man had when he came in, but the one belonging to the unconscious constable beside whom he'd knelt.
“Well…Shit.”
They were, as last words go, not terribly inspired. But Eudes felt, before the floor rushed at him and the world went away, that they were at least an accurate assessment.
A few seconds, long enough for the pounding of his heart to subside at least a bit and his breath to come more easily to his lungs, and Major Julien Bouniard rose to his feet. He even managed to be almost steady at it. His own weapons once again firmly in his grasp, he scanned the poorly lit hall, alert for any new attack, but it seemed the man he'd just killed was alone.
Three steps, check the body-indeed, quite dead-and then a sprint down the hall, ignoring the rising chorus of catcalls and questions from within the crowded cells. Only one door was ajar, only one prisoner missing, and he couldn't even find it in himself to be remotely surprised.
Julien wasn't certain precisely what had happened here-when Widdershins had escaped, who the dead man might have been, whether he'd come to free Widdershins or with a darker purpose in mind-but one thing, at least, he knew.
The thieves and criminals of Davillon had brought their struggles and their corruption into the house of Demas. And that was simply unacceptable.
Clarence Rittier, the Marquis de Ducarte and likely successor to the rule of Davillon should anything befall the duchess (gods keep her), was as much a bull of a man as the Baron d'Orreille had been a weasel. His features were squat and broad, as though he stared at life with his face pressed up against a window, and the rest of him followed suit. His coarse brown hair was currently masquerading behind a wig of longer brown curls, his cuffs were properly billowed, his coat and breeches were of the finest brown cloth-and despite the best efforts of his personal tailors, it all looked little shy of ludicrous on him. You can put a bull in formal wear, but he'll always be a bull.
The ballroom of his manor house churned with chatting, dancing, and aimlessly wandering aristocrats. So packed in were they, Rittier was quite certain he would soon see them hanging from the rafters, their finery flapping listlessly about them. The guest of honor himself, William de Laurent, hadn't made his appearance, probably would not for some hours, and most likely found the entire fiasco as arduous as the marquis did. But such was the price to be paid for power and privilege in Galicien culture.
Rittier turned, surveying the irritating creatures currently infesting his private domain, and nearly ran smack dab into one. A striking young woman with blue-green eyes, a wig of blonde tresses, and a velvet green dress cut distractingly low was drifting past as he pondered, and he scarcely pulled himself up short in time to keep from running her down.
Another social butterfly. “I beg your pardon, mademoiselle. How clumsy of me. Pray forgive me.”
“Hmm? Oh!” The girl curtsied, her expression vaguely vacant. “No harm done, my lord.”
“I'm so glad to hear it. Might I have the honor of your name?”
“Madeleine Valois, my lord,” she told him. “This is a most excellent soiree, my lord, if I may say so.”
Ninny. “A pleasure to meet you, Madeleine. I'm so glad you're enjoying my party.”
“Me too,” she breathed vapidly.
Fists and teeth clenched of their own accord. “Well, Mademoiselle Valois, I fear I have other guests I must see to. If you'll excuse me?”
She curtsied once again, giggling softly. Rittier fled the landing as rapidly as courtesy permitted.
Madeleine rolled her eyes at the marquis's back and swallowed a laugh. But while tormenting the nobility might be a hoot, it was growing near time for Madeleine to vanish for the night.
She regally climbed the broad and carpeted stairs, which opened onto an indoor balcony that offered a full view of the ballroom below. Once she was certain nobody watched her, Madeleine ducked beneath the balcony's guardrail, dropping out of sight of anyone on the lower floor. She darted swiftly to the nearest door, allowed herself (and Olgun) a brief moment to listen for any sounds behind it, and slipped inside.
It appeared to be a guest room, or so she guessed from the plain bed, dresser, and wardrobe she spotted before the door clicked shut. The chamber once more plunged into darkness, interrupted only by the twinkle of stars just barely visible through the tree overhanging the room's only window.
Within seconds, Widdershins had stripped off the velvet gown, rolling it into a careless parcel. The chill air of the room raised goose bumps across her flesh. More than a little uncomfortable standing around only partially clad, she slipped into the black-hued tunic and gloves she'd withdrawn from a large sack she'd kept well hidden beneath the folds of her dress. (She took a moment to thank the gods of the Pact that those stupid bell skirts were all the rage this year. She could probably have smuggled two backpacks, three extra outfits, and a trained mule under that thing. True, stuffing the gown into the sack meant breaking the hoops, and they wouldn't be cheap to replace, but you couldn't have everything, could you?) She shoved the bundled dress into the sack, followed by that abominable wig. Belt of tools and picks now strapped to her waist, rapier at her back, hair tied back with thick black yarn-she was ready to go.
“Madeleine Valois has left the party,” she whispered softly. “She asked me to make her apologies.”
Olgun chuckled.
“All right,” she continued, voice low, “it doesn't much matter what we get, as long as there's no doubt who it belonged to.” Widdershins padded back to the door as she spoke, soundless as the ghost of a cat. “As soon as we-”
Her right foot struck something limp and yielding, something that scraped across the carpet with a faint rustle, something she'd apparently stepped over and missed through sheer dumb luck when entering the darkened room.
Statue-still, Widdershins strained her senses. Sight was useless in the black; her ears detected no hint of noise save her own pounding heartbeat; her nose-wait! She did smell something, something with a familiar tang.
With agonizing slowness, Widdershins silently retrieved her flint-and-steel box with one hand, and what appeared to be a tiny iron cube with the other. It was, in fact, a miniature lantern, one she'd acquired at no little expense. The oil reservoir within was pathetic, allowing for a burn of less than five minutes. But it was easily concealed, and directional to boot. Widdershins lit it now, keeping the aperture at its narrowest, and directed the tiny beam at her feet.