But then, he didn't have to look at it now. He'd seen it once before, two years ago…
“Do you know why you're alive, Jean Luc?” the Apostle demanded. “Do you know why you aren't currently a part of my pet here, like your companions?”
“I…I…”
“Get a grip, man! It was you who told me of Adrienne's illicit activities. That buys you some leeway. I also need your connections in the city's criminal element to track her down-and guide my little pet to her doorstep.”
“Oh, gods, no! Please, you can't-”
“I can. My own people will accompany you. Both of you. Succeed, and all previous failures will be forgotten. Fail me again, though, Jean Luc…” He felt no need to complete the threat.
Jean Luc watched the demonic form collapse in on itself, flesh crumpling like old parchment before once more smoothing into a roughly human size. It couldn't be mistaken for mortal on close inspection, but seen briefly on the night-dimmed streets, it shouldn't draw attention.
And then, with a grin that wasn't remotely human, it bowed and gestured toward the door, allowing the weeping assassin to exit first.
“Again, Major, I would never presume to tell you how to do your job, but aren't you being just a wee bit excessive?”
Julien Bouniard glanced irritably at the black-frocked churchman-seated quite calmly, fingers steepled together before him, at the writing desk-and tried to blink back the first stirrings of what promised to be a right monster of a headache. The room was pristine, neat and organized; surprisingly so, considering that Bouniard's men had dug through it with rabid gusto last night, seeking any evidence the intruders might have left. Behind de Laurent, the young monk who had so meticulously straightened the room paced nervously, wringing his hands and muttering to himself. The three of them-as well as six guards in the hall outside, four standing on the grounds beneath the chamber's window, and two dozen more scattered throughout the house-awaited the archbishop's carriage, at which time the entire procession would head to the dignitary's next temporary domicile.
The Guardsman shook his head. “Excessive? No, Your Eminence, I don't think so. There's already been one attempt on your life, one that the Marquis de Ducarte will never live down. I don't think we want another.”
De Laurent's expression turned wry. “For my sake, or for the sake of whichever noble is next in line to be so dishonored?”
“Truthfully, Your Eminence, some of both. Look, your assistant knows enough to be concerned. Why don't you?”
The archbishop craned his head. “Brother Maurice,” he chided gently, “you'll wear a hole through our kind host's carpeting.”
“Good. Maybe you can use it as an escape route the next time someone tries to kill you.”
The high official smiled broadly. “There, you see?” he asked Bouniard. “Maurice worries quite well enough for the both of us. For me to fret would be redundant, and I so frown upon wasted effort.
“So,” he continued swiftly, before the vague reddening of the major's face boiled over into something unpleasant, “tell me about this young lady we're so worked up about.”
If de Laurent hoped to calm the incensed guard, he'd chosen his topic poorly. Julien's lip curled under, and he fumed visibly. “There's little to tell, Your Eminence. I'm going to find her, and wring her scrawny neck with my bare hands.” He waved dismissively, as if shooing away an insect. “Everything past that is pretty much ancillary detail.”
“My, but we're taking this personally,” the archbishop commented. “What do you have against this poor girl whom you're planning to murder on my behalf?”
Julien's frown grew even deeper, a feat of true muscle contortion that threatened to flip his entire face upside down on the front of his head. He'd been exaggerating, of course. He had no true intention of killing Widdershins, but the archbishop's quiet criticism was still a slap in the face.
“Your Eminence, I've a burnt-out husk of a building, one dead guard, another who'll be off work for a week until his head heals, and I very nearly found myself winging off to meet the gods myself!”
“And you believe this girl responsible?”
“At the very least, she played me for a fool,” the Guardsman admitted after a few deep breaths. “I'm still not entirely certain how she did it, but she played me, and managed, in doing so, to escape from a prison with a seventeen-year vomit record.”
“Vomit record?” de Laurent repeated cautiously.
“Escape,” he clarified apologetically, flushing slightly. “When someone escapes, we, umm, we usually refer to the prison as having vomited them out. Thrown them up, as it were.”
“I see. How droll.”
“Yes. Ah, well, my point is that no one's escaped from that particular gaol in seventeen years, Your Eminence. But she did it, and she used me to do it. That'd be enough to make me irritable even if I didn't have the rest of it to deal with.”
“I'd never have guessed,” Maurice whispered as his pacing carried him past the archbishop's shoulder.
“Down, boy,” de Laurent hissed, hiding a smile behind an upraised hand. “Do continue,” he said more loudly.
The Guardsman let the whispered exchange pass without comment. “I would have thought that her attempted assault on you would have put you in a fouler mood than I, Your Eminence. Even with the whole ‘forgiveness doctrine' bit, you seem remarkably unconcerned about this.”
“'Forgiveness doctrine bit.' Oh, it warms my heart to see that the Church's teachings are so happily embraced by the masses.”
“I-”
“Major, I believe I have told you-more than once, in fact, which is not a frequent experience for me unless I'm giving a classic sermon-that this girl…” He frowned. “What was the bizarre name you called her?”
“Widdershins. Most of Davillon's thieves have-”
“Widdershins, yes. I believe I've told you that Widdershins was not here last night to do me any harm.”
“Your Eminence, with all due respect-”
“A statement,” de Laurent noted to the young monk, “that is never followed by anything even remotely respectful.”
“Disgraceful,” Maurice confirmed.
“Indeed.” The archbishop smiled once more. “If I may take a wild guess, Major? You were about to tell me, in the most respectful manner imaginable, that I'm a foolish old man who forgives far too easily, can't tell an assassin's dagger from a butter knife, and wouldn't know real danger if it came up and bit me on something that I cannot, as an official of the Church, admit to possessing. Is that about the size of it?”
Julien's jaw clamped shut tighter than a chastity belt.
“Major,” he continued, leaning over his desk, all trace of good humor sliding from his face, “allow me to be absolutely, perfectly clear. I appreciate your concern for my well-being. I appreciate that you're trying to do your job to the best of your ability. And I will happily admit that I'm far less familiar with the bloodier aspects of life than you.
“At the same time, I am no stranger to violence. My life has been threatened more than once, and I have defended it more than once. I believe in the afterlife, and I even have the audacity to think that I'm headed to the more pleasant place when my time comes, but I'm in no rush to prove it. I am not an idiot, no matter what gossip you might hear, and I am not some ignorant old fool to be taken in by a pretty face.
“When this Widdershins burst into my chamber, she was wounded, and attempting to warn me of some coming danger. As you yourself informed me, she seems to have rather handily dispatched another disreputable fellow who was lurking about the house, one who most likely did intend me some amount of bodily harm. So tell me why I should be worried about this woman?”