“Robin, what makes you think Monsieur Marguilles has any say over what happens?”
The girl blinked, and despite her grief, Widdershins laughed at the befuddled look.
“Genevieve's will explicitly grants ownership of the Flippant Witch to someone else.”
“But Gen didn't have a will!” Robin exclaimed. “She kept putting it off.”
Widdershins smiled sadly. “You're forgetting the kinds of people I work with, Robin. By the time Marguilles gets here to take possession of ‘his' tavern, I'll have a will so perfect that Genevieve herself wouldn't have recognized it as a fake.”
“Is…is that right?” The girl sounded doubtful. “I mean, would Gen have approved?”
“More than she'd have approved of her father selling her home to some stranger, I think.”
Robin felt herself starting to smile as well, for the first time in almost a week. “And this new owner would happen to be…?”
Widdershins casually buffed her nails on her vest. “Of course,” she finally admitted, “I don't know the first thing about running a tavern, so that's pretty much going to be your job. It means, I'm afraid, that I have to insist on paying you more, but I'm sure you'll understooof!!”
Trying her hardest to gulp in some much-needed air, Widdershins gently disentangled herself from the world's most aggressive hug. “I take it you're happy with the decision,” the thief croaked.
“You could say that,” Robin replied.
“Is that why you tried to crush me to death just now?”
Startlingly, the girl's smile grew wider. “I thought it might be best to get you out of the way before you changed your mind.”
For a long moment, Widdershins just stared at her, and then nearly collapsed with laughter.
“Which reminds me,” Widdershins remarked afterward, tousling Robin's hair fondly. “I have a thing or three I've been putting off, myself. Now that the bar's taken care of…” And you, too, she added silently, “I really ought to get to them. You get this place ready to open by tomorrow night or it's coming out of your pay, you hear me?”
Even from outside, Widdershins could faintly hear the young girl whistling as she once more swept the already pristine floor of the common room.
Standing in the midst of a filthy bedroom, heaps of clothes and assorted bric-a-brac hiding the old, termite-eaten floor, Henri Roubet desperately shoved the pieces of several outfits into a satchel already bulging at the seams.
He wasn't entirely certain how it had all gone wrong, but he knew that it couldn't possibly have gone any worse. The Apostle was dead, his men were dead, and Widdershins had not only seen his face but heard his name! He'd flinched even then, when Jean Luc introduced him, but he'd figured it didn't matter. She was going to be dead, and he was going to be rich.
Well, so be it. He was still good at his job, bum hand notwithstanding, and the Apostle had paid him more than enough over the years. He could start over in some other city without difficulty, live for quite some time before he even had to worry about finding a new position. In fact, much as he'd have enjoyed the riches promised him, this might even prove the better option. In another city, the weight of his past and the suspicion of the Guard wouldn't be hanging over his shoulder. He just needed to-
He froze, satchel falling from limp fingers at the feel of the cold metal mouth kissing his skull. Nobody could have snuck up on him here! Just dropping a damn pair of trousers made the floorboards in this pesthole squeak! And yet there the man was, visible just out of the corner of Roubet's eye, flintlock pressed to the back of his head.
“Why?” the former Guardsman asked softly.
“Because Widdershins isn't a murderer,” Renard Lambert said to him. “And Genevieve would never have wanted someone like you to turn her into one.”
Henri Roubet closed his eyes tightly as the hammer fell.
Renard glared for a few moments at the corpse of Henri Roubet, then casually stuck the flintlock back in his belt. He tugged briefly on the fingers of his glove, blew on them to clear them of any excess powder, and turned toward the door.
Widdershins would be angry when she heard; she doubtless still believed that she actually wanted to find Roubet and kill him herself. Well, let her believe it. Renard knew better. And he knew that someday she'd understand, maybe even thank him.
Genevieve certainly would, looking down from wherever she might be.
He grinned suddenly, even as his hand touched the latch. It wasn't like him to be so spiritual. That's what he paid the guild priests for.
One last glance behind, taking in the cluttered room that reeked of unwashed clothes (and, with a growing insistency, spilled blood), and Renard sighed. Damn, but that girl was awfully hard to watch out for. As it was, the Finders would be expecting some sort of punishment-quite a lot of punishment-for her part in the recent massacre. He'd have to make sure he and the priests were on the same page, explain that her actions had prevented the rise of a power that might have threatened the guild, even the Shrouded God himself. Most of them wouldn't believe it, but at least it would quell the uproar. Still, maybe he should ask her to consider lying low for a few weeks…As though there was a chance in hell she'd agree.
And there was so much else to do, as welclass="underline" rebuilding the guild's membership, appointing a new taskmaster, figuring out what to do with Lisette now that she'd proved herself utterly untrustworthy…. Perhaps she'd make a good public example, show the others the dangers of working against their leader, but that might just entice her followers and allies to further conspiracy…. Gods, but the work never ended! Sometimes, Renard wondered if it had even been worth taking the damn position in the first place.
Renard Lambert, Shrouded Lord of the Finders' Guild, disappeared into Davillon, grumbling over the inconveniences of love and duty.
With a low groan of exhaustion, Major Julien Bouniard of the Davillon City Guard tore his gaze from the mounds of paper littering his desk like so many bird droppings, and clasped two fingers to the bridge of his nose. It was late, long past the end of his shift. The candles and lanterns guttered, the low background hum faded as the day shift trickled out to go home, the night shift out to their assigned patrols.
Julien knew that he could have, should have, given up and gone home, taken a fresh crack at this in the morning. It had been going on for days, now, form on top of form, briefing on top of briefing. But he'd ordered his men to get this whole mess done and over with as rapidly as possible, and Julien Bouniard wouldn't ask anything of them that he wasn't willing to do himself. So, with a frustrated shake of his head, he determined to return to work for at least another hour, opening his tired eyes-
And nearly leaped out of his skin through his own mouth when he saw that the thin wooden chair across from his desk was no longer vacant.
“That was an interesting yelp,” the Guardsman's visitor said dryly, prodding at one ear with a finger. “I think you've just deafened every dog within two city blocks.”
Julien glared, one hand clenched at the tabard covering his chest, the other on the butt of his flintlock. “Gods above, Widdershins! If you're trying to kill me, pull steel and have done with!” A few deep breaths seemed to calm him; at the very least, he stopped clutching at his breast as though he was having heart palpitations. “I'm not as young as I used to be,” he told her more steadily.
You have no idea, she thought with a touch of bitterness. What she said was, “Really? I am. I gave up aging a few years back. Nothing to be gained from it, really.”