“I-you…” Renard had the vague sensation he was repeating himself. “That's not possible!”
“I'm here, aren't I?” She shrugged. “If it makes you feel any better, you're really careful. You almost lost me twice.”
His face turning peculiar shades of red, Renard hauled a second chair to the table and sat across from his guest. “Why did you follow me?”
Another shrug. “I figured if I did need to take you up on your offer of advice, I might not want to do it at the guild. In case, you know, it was about the guild, yes?”
All right, that at least makes sense. “So what's your problem, then?” he asked, calming down.
“Well…” Widdershins nudged the bag on the floor with her toe, just enough for a smattering of coins and the tip of a solid gold candelabrum to tumble out. “There's got to be thousands of marks' worth of goods here. Maybe tens of thousands. I just-I didn't know if maybe there were different procedures for reporting and delivering the guild's share of something this big. And I'm a little nervous about just walking into the guild with that much hard currency. I know we're all supposed to be able to trust each other, but…Renard, are you all right?”
No, he was pretty sure he wasn't, given that his eyes were doubtlessly about to pop from his skull like champagne corks. “Widdershins, where in the gods' names did you get this?”
“Oh, I hit the d'Arras family tower. You wouldn't believe how difficult it-”
“You what?” The foppish thief literally felt the blood drain from his face.
“Don't tell me it was off-limits!” Widdershins cried, a twinge of fear in her voice. “I checked the lists, I swear I did! There was nothing-”
“No.” Renard shook his head, thoughts tumbling drunkenly over one another-though he himself was now quite sober. “No, d'Arras Tower isn't on the forbidden list.”
“Then what…?”
Months, maybe even years of planning. He knew, because she'd bragged to him about it enough times. Oh, but she is not going to be happy when she hears about this….
“Widdershins, how much do you know about the guild's taskmaster, Lisette Suvagne?”
“Oh, is that who I saw there?”
Renard dropped his head into his hands and groaned.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Now:
Clouds smeared the stars into glowing will-o'-the-wisps, orbiting the aura of the waning moon. The sky remained dry, its tears spent in the drenching rains of the previous night, though the air smelled heavily of more to come in the days ahead. Even the predators-the rats, the cats, and the two-legged variety-huddled shivering in their hidey-holes and contemplated staying in.
Beneath those apathetic clouds, Widdershins drifted, equally silent. Utterly lost in thought, barely cognizant of her surroundings, she darted through the city, alley to alcove, shadow to street corner, in an invisible dance. The streets slipped by, Widdershins drew ever nearer a destination that she hadn't yet realized she'd chosen-and still she remained focused inward, pondering the night's endeavors.
She couldn't decide precisely how much that little visit with the archbishop might have accomplished. She felt better, certainly: for her new confidant, for her greater understanding of her link with Olgun, and, perhaps most vitally, for her chance, however slim, to finally make things right with Alexandre.
So yes, the visit had been worthwhile in its own right. But she was nowhere nearer to solving her more immediate problems, or learning who was trying to kill her and William, who had slaughtered Olgun's cult.
“Help me, Olgun,” she whispered, her voice lost in the chilling breeze. “Tell me what I'm supposed to do!”
But the deity, as she'd expected, could tell her nothing at all.
She was still muttering peevishly when she rounded the next corner and realized she'd been heading, all this time, toward the Flippant Witch.
Widdershins stopped, her heels skidding on the dew-slicked cobblestones, and briefly debated going the other way. Someone could well be watching her-especially considering Bouniard's unexpected appearance at the manor-and she absolutely did not want to put Genevieve at any more risk.
But Olgun seemed certain she was in no immediate danger, and she really, really needed a friendly ear. Too much had happened to sort through by herself. With a deep, calming breath, Widdershins set out across the market square.
When she spotted the small but irritable crowd milling about out front, what poise she'd gathered shattered like a fallen vase. The usual drunkards and other flotsam that washed up on the tavern's doorstep every night-there was nothing unusual about them, save that they were outside, when the ale and beer and wine were inside. Her heart hammering at her ribs, Widdershins pushed past the belligerent lurkers and leapt the steps to the front door.
“Might's well give it up,” one of the ruffians behind her growled as the latch refused to budge beneath her grasp. He was a particularly brutish specimen, with dark blond hair matted into spiky clumps, a thin growth of beard sporting rust stains from an old razor, and clothes that hadn't been cleaned since he was last caught in the rain.
“I tried already,” he continued, the noxious fumes of his breath suggesting that he'd recently inhaled a plague rat. “They ain't open t'night, damn ‘em all!” He leered a gap-toothed grin. “Means I got me a few extra marks tonight, and no good place where to spend ‘em. You got a few free hours, you could earn ‘em.”
Widdershins turned her back on the man and shook the latch until not only the door, but the nearby windows rattled in their housing.
“I just tol' you-,” the oaf began irritably.
“Go away! We're closed!”
Widdershins recognized the voice. “Robin? Robin, it's Widdershins! You open this door right now! Open this bloody door, or I'm coming through it!”
When no response was forthcoming, Widdershins dropped to one knee and examined the various locks. Ignoring the foul-smelling fellow peering in fascination over her shoulder, she pulled a few wires and probes from her pouch and went to work.
The new locks were good; it took Widdershins five minutes to open the lot of them.
Widdershins began to push through the now more pliable portal, only to stop and glower as she felt the man behind her step forward.
“This is private,” she told him, her voice ice. “They're still closed.”
“Like fun!” he barked, his breath nearly knocking her through the doorway. “You're going in, I'm going in! Ain't nothing you can do to-”
Widdershins introduced her knee to the drunkard's gut, and the last of that foul air escaped his lungs in a single overpowering whoosh as he toppled from the steps. Widdershins was inside, the door slammed and locked behind her, before he'd finished bouncing across the cobblestones.
“Robin? Robin, where are you?” She was frantic; she knew it, heard it in her voice, and she didn't care. “Where's Gen?”
The tavern was unbelievably dark. The fireplace was cold and empty, the lamps quiescent. Only a handful of torches cast tiny fingers of illumination through the ebon depths of the common room.
It took Widdershins a moment to orient herself. Slowly, hands stretched before her until her vision fully adjusted, she crept toward the bar.
“Robin? Gen?”
A soft sniff called to her across the darkened gulf. Slowly, as her vision adjusted, the furniture began to loom from the shadows.