Thief's Covenant Part 12

Alexandre's smile vanished once more. "What have I told you about profanity?"

The girl sighed, though she couldn't help but smile at the pedantic change of tone. "A true lady never curses," she parroted back at him.

"And do you know why?"

Adrienne blinked. He'd never gone into it, and she'd a.s.sumed it was another of the endlessly labyrinthine laws of etiquette. "Umm, because it's not ladylike?" she ventured.

"No. Because a true lady should have the wit and the imagination, or at the very least the restraint, to express herself without resorting to such base vocabulary.

"Now," he continued, releasing her hands and rising, oblivious to the strange expression his comment had inspired on his protege's face, "I think it's time we see what Jeanette has for us for supper. Then I'll send word to Franois to be ready for another session bright and early tomorrow morning." He looked meaningfully at her. "Can I count on you to behave, Adrienne?"

The young woman sighed. "If he can keep from sticking any more needles in me, I promise to stand still."

"Good. Once he's done, I'll have Beatrice start work on your hair." He grinned evilly as he strode toward the exit. "You thought standing for the dress took patience..."

Adrienne slumped dejectedly in her chair. "Oh, fu-"

"Yes?" Alexandre asked, face gone stiff, frozen in the doorway with one hand on the latch. "Oh, what?"

"Figs."

"That's my girl." The door clicked shut.

NOW:.

"All right, all right! I'm coming, confound it all!" Through the living room of a small house, its interior neat and crisp as a military barracks awaiting inspection, the old man moved toward the front door. In one hand, he carried a small lantern, for he'd already doused the lights in preparation for bed. In the other, he carried a heavy bludgeon with which, even at his age, he was more than skilled enough to crack a skull or two. He wasn't expecting trouble, no, but neither was he expecting visitors-and one didn't reach an age to retire from the Guard of Davillon without knowing how to take precautions.

It took him an extra moment to work the lock and the latch on the door, what with both hands being full, but eventually he hauled the portal open a crack, just enough to see who waited on the other side.

"Well, I'll be...Come in, Major, come in!" The door swung wide in invitation.

"Thank you, Sergeant," Julien Bouniard told him as he stepped across the threshold, doffing his plumed hat.

"None of that, Major," Cristophe Chapelle told his former protege with a smile far wider than any he'd offered during their years of working together. "No longer a sergeant, me. Unless you want me to call you 'Constable'?"

Julien smiled in turn. "There was a time the thought of calling you anything else would have terrified me out of a week's sleep."

"Well, I suppose you can go with 'sir' if it makes you comfortable." Then, still grinning, "Have a seat, Major. I fear I haven't anything prepared this late, but I could offer you a brandy."

It was a test, as much as an offer, and Chapelle saw in the younger man's face that he knew it. "Nothing for me, thank you," Julien demurred as he selected a chair.

"Not a social visit, then, is it?" The old soldier sat across from his guest. "Let me see. You obviously think of yourself on duty, but you're not precisely here in an official capacity. You need my advice on something, don't you?"

Julien couldn't help but chuckle. "You haven't lost a step, I see."

Chapelle harrumphed. "I could return to the job tomorrow if they wanted me." Then, more seriously, "Tell me about it, lad."

And that he did, from Widders.h.i.+ns's arrest to the bizarre incident at Rittier's manor, from the man he'd been forced to kill to the murdered guard they'd located only afterward.

"Monstrous!" Chapelle agreed, puffed up with enough indignant fury that he'd clearly forgotten he was no longer part of the Guard. "For them to come into one of our headquarters..."

Julien nodded. "I don't know what Widders.h.i.+ns is up to, or the rest of the Finders' Guild. I don't know if His Eminence is still in danger. But I do know that things are heating up, at a time where Davillon really can't afford them to. And I have no b.l.o.o.d.y idea what the Shrouded Lord could possibly be thinking, since he should be as anxious to avoid tumult during de Laurent's visit as the rest of us!"

Chapelle's turn to nod, but otherwise, he let the major continue uninterrupted.

"We can't let the guild think they can get away with something so brazen. But we can't afford an open war, either-not even if we could find some theological grounds to allow for it."

"And you want my advice, lad?"

"Ah-not exactly, sir. What I need is your help."

Again, Chapelle saw where Bouniard was hesitantly directing him. "You already have a plan, then. But it's not one that the Guard would let you carry out, so you need someone you can trust from the outside."

"That's about the size of it."

"I won't a.s.sist you in anything illegal, Major."

"I'd never dare expect you to, sir," Julien a.s.sured him. "It's not that the Guard would disapprove, exactly, so much as they'd probably find me unfit for duty, by reason of insanity, if they knew I was considering it."

Chapelle leaned back in his chair, suddenly wis.h.i.+ng he'd gone for the brandy after all. "Oh, Demas, I'm not going to care for this at all, am I? All right, let's hear it...."

The chamber seemed even darker than before, as though the shadows within had sp.a.w.ned, layering each new generation upon the foundations of the old. Jean Luc hated coming to this place even under the best of circ.u.mstances. Today, though he brought news to mitigate it, he would have to admit that he'd failed a commission.

The highborn a.s.sa.s.sin stood roughly at attention near the center of the room, equidistant from the heavy, black-hued doors and the "evil wall" across from them. In the torchlight, he could just make out the hideous visage staring from within the darkened stone. The dancing illumination created the nerve-racking illusion that the face was laughing at him.

The pall of silence was chipped away by the muttering of the other killers arrayed behind him, the crackling of the torches, and the steady footsteps of the Apostle, who once again paced before the graven image, pondering Jean Luc's report.

Finally, he halted directly before the embossed idol and faced the a.s.sembled a.s.sa.s.sins.

"The information you bring," he intoned, "is indeed valuable, more so than you know. I thank you for it.

"The fact remains, however, that you royally bollixed up a sensitive and equally vital task, one that fell squarely within your area of expertise. For this, you may find my thanks less palatable."

The leather-clad killer snarled, paring his nails with a long dagger. "How the h.e.l.l were we supposed to know some d.a.m.n thief'd show up and spoil it?"

"You weren't supposed to know that at all," the Apostle admitted, hands raised in a dramatic shrug. "Then again, six of you were a.s.signed to this undertaking, but only two of you were actually in the house. That strikes me as poor resource management."

"We figured Jean Luc could handle it!" the a.s.sa.s.sin protested. "I mean, even the six of us together couldn't fight through the marquis's guards, and once it was just a matter of sneaking, we thought that a smaller group-"

"Had all of you been there, doing the job for which you were hired, Adrienne would never have won past you. Now, not only do I still have to track her down, I've got to find someone else to handle the archbishop."

"Someone else?!" The killer's voice was choked with rage, and the others behind him growled their agreement, all save Jean Luc, who was rapidly developing a sinking sensation in his gut. "You can't take us off this! You owe us-"

"For a job you failed to complete," their employer interjected, slicing off their protests like a gangrenous limb. "I'd say that makes us even.

"However," he continued more reasonably, before the argument could heat up, "I do have another task in mind for you. It doesn't pay as much as the archbishop would, but I think we can work something out."

The a.s.sa.s.sin looked far from happy, his face twisted in a scowl, dagger still clutched in his fist, but he wasn't entirely beyond the bounds of reason. "All right, let's hear it."

"In a moment, my impatient friend. I need to pray, seek guidance for my next step. I'll ask you all to bide just a few minutes. Except you." He pointed imperiously at Jean Luc. "You, come stand beside me."

The aristocratic killer blanched, though it went unnoticed in the cloak of shadows that draped the room, and reluctantly shuffled forward.

The Apostle turned to face the image and began to chant in a low, sonorous rumble, his lips, tongue, and throat twisting themselves around words that came from no language Jean Luc had ever heard. It sounded..."guttural" wasn't a strong enough term. Chthonic, perhaps, not just inhuman but inhumane.

A single horsefly circled the room once, buzzing softly, and then set down on the floor and spat up something tiny and unidentifiable, coated in blood. The insect convulsed as though suffering some sort of fit and then burst, adding its internal fluids to the tiny viscous pile already deposited.

A second horsefly appeared. It, too, vomited something strange into the minuscule but growing ma.s.s, and then ruptured. It was followed just as swiftly by a third, a fourth, a fifth, and then the chamber shook with the drone of a thousand horseflies, and even the dullest of the a.s.sa.s.sins knew that something was very wrong.

From every conceivable hiding place they came. From the corners of the room, the edges of the door, the folds and drapes of clothing, even the ears and nostrils and mouths of the horrified killers they flew, buzzing angrily, forever adding to the swelling thing upon the floor. The room filled with a nauseating, acrid odor, a miasma of rot and decay. The air blurred visibly with the heavy stench.

It wasn't until the leather-garbed a.s.sa.s.sin glanced down at his arm to see it shrivel and shrink, muscle and flesh disappearing from under the skin, that he knew what was happening.

And with that knowledge, so came pain. Suddenly, the men couldn't just see the horrific fate befalling them, they could feel it, now consciously aware of each and every fly-sized morsel that detached itself from their innards to be regurgitated across the room. Four mouths gaped open, to scream, to cry, perhaps to beg. Nothing emerged but an atrocious gurgle as various fluids mixed within their lungs. Blood and bile erupted from between cracked and drying lips; eyes collapsed as aqueous humors bubbled through punctured membranes and ran in monstrous tears down sunken cheeks. Limbs folded as bones and tendons liquefied beneath the unrelenting a.s.sault.

The shape on the floor began to pulse, palpitating in time with some unseen heart. With each beat, the ma.s.s s.h.i.+fted. Crests and ridges that formed with one pulse didn't quite subside with the next; hollows and cavities remained despite the press of fluids.

For long minutes the horror grew, and the helpless men writhed on the floor, deflated from within, until nothing remained save four sopping, gummy sets of clothing, each with a ring of teeth lying neatly nearby.

Jean Luc fell to his knees and retched, his stomach heaving long after it was empty of anything to purge. His expression thoughtful, the Apostle stood over him, watching the ongoing transformation.

The ma.s.s on the floor resolved itself into a clearly humanoid shape. It twitched once, twice, and rose to its feet. Even as it stood, a rough skin blossomed across its surface. Fingers flexed, testing muscles; eyes rolled up from within, sliding into formerly hollow sockets. Finally complete, it loomed above the watching mortals, death incarnate, and Jean Luc was certain that the abhorrent fate of his companions was nothing compared to what this monstrosity held in store for him. If Jean Luc could be grateful for one thing in this night of terrors, it was that the room's feeble lighting prevented him from seeing more details of the beast.

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, G.o.ds, 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 a.s.sa.s.sin 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 n.o.ble is next in line to be so dishonored?"

"Truthfully, Your Eminence, some of both. Look, your a.s.sistant 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 Widders.h.i.+ns, 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 G.o.ds 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, flus.h.i.+ng 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 pa.s.s without comment. "I would have thought that her attempted a.s.sault 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 ma.s.ses."

"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 cla.s.sic sermon-that this girl..." He frowned. "What was the bizarre name you called her?"

"Widders.h.i.+ns. Most of Davillon's thieves have-"

"Widders.h.i.+ns, yes. I believe I've told you that Widders.h.i.+ns 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.