“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.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
One year ago:
Renard Lambert leaned precariously back in his chair, ankles crossed atop the table, and sipped absently from a goblet of wine of a far better vintage than the bottle indicated. Somebody, somewhere in Davillon, was going to be very disappointed with the contents of their forty-mark bottle.
Or maybe they wouldn't be. Not everyone could have as refined a palate as he did. It's what made label-switching a profitable venture. Which reminded him, he needed to swing by the Mahaut vineyards before the end of the week, make sure that they…
So lost was Renard in his thoughts, senses ever so gently clouded by the wine he'd already consumed, that it took him a moment to recognize the faint but insistent tapping at his door, a moment more to realize the implications.
Who the hell knows where I live?
The thief shot to his feet, one hand darting to the rapier hanging on the coatrack by the door. Slowly, deliberately, he slid aside the brass cap blocking the peephole.
“Hsst! Lambert! I know you're in there! Let me in!”
Slack-jawed, Renard opened the door, stepping aside as the girl flitted past. Sweat plastered her hair to her cheeks and forehead, and she carried a large and lumpy sack over one shoulder.
He stared at her; she stared at the room. Thick carpeting, polished brass-and-silver fixtures, bright paintings of random scenes and portraits of random faces-all were arranged in a display of opulence that obscenely straddled the line between tasteful and tacky.
“It's absolutely you,” she said, turning to face her host.
“Widdershins, what the-?”
She frowned, lips curling into a pert little moue. “You said I should come to you if I had any problems or questions,” she reminded him.
“Well, yes. The guild can be a difficult home to settle into. Most newcomers have a guide or a patron for their first few-”
“Then why do you look so unhappy to see me?”
“I-you-Widdershins, how do you know where I live?”
“Oh, that.” Widdershins made a dismissive gesture with one hand, dropped her sack to the floor with a loud clatter, and slid into the chair Renard had so recently vacated. A brief sniff at the goblet, and then she swiftly drained off its contents before he could protest. “I followed you a few weeks ago.”