Thief's Covenant Part 2

As the royals launched back into their debate regarding the values of particular guests, the young lady drifted, unnoticed, into the throng. "Well, that was interesting," murmured the woman who currently called herself Madeleine Valois. "I thought we'd been found out."

Heartfelt agreement, tinged with a patina of relief, flowed from her unseen companion, followed by a sense of inquiry.

"No, I'm not worried about the baron. That clown wouldn't comprehend a real threat if someone hid a manticore in his chamber pot. I was afraid the d.u.c.h.ess might have recognized me, though. Thankfully, I'm not important enough for close examination."

Another surge of emotion, almost but not quite nostalgia.

Madeleine-who had once been Adrienne-nodded. "And it was a long time ago, yes. But enough worrying." Sliding through the forest of humanity, she continued to survey the house, absorbing every detail. "All right, he's not allowed any of his guests upstairs, so I'll wager that's where he keeps most of his valuables." Irritably, she shook her head, careful not to dislodge her wig and reveal the thick brown hair beneath. "I wish I had the opportunity to examine the layout up there," she complained. "It would make this all so much easier. Ah, well. We're only human, yes?"

Somehow, without the use of a single coherent word, Olgun growled something impolite.

Madeleine flickered a mischievous smile. Right. As if she would wake up one morning and just forget that she had a G.o.d riding around in her head.

Gradually, she allowed the flow of the party to edge her ever nearer the door. It was time for Madeleine Valois to make her farewells, preparing the way for a different and uninvited guest.

Several pairs of eyes watched as Madeleine Valois made her graceful exit from the Baron d'Orreille's soiree. Most were potential admirers, sorry to see so lovely a creature depart from their midst.

One was not.

All the houses of Davillon boasted their own guards. Even if most never saw the slightest action, it was simply Not Done to go without. Some were veritable armies unto themselves, while others consisted of anyone who could stand up straight and look competent while making parade-ground turns in formalwear or old-fas.h.i.+oned armor.

Doumerge's guards were largely of the latter category, which meant that the baron's hiring requirements were rather more lax than those of the City Guard. And that meant that, though his ruined hand had cost him his commission in said Guard, Henri Roubet had never lacked for a position.

This wasn't the first party at which the crippled solider had spotted the Lady Valois, though she had never spotted him in turn; it was part of his job, after all, to remain inconspicuous and out of the guests' way. But tonight was the first time he'd gotten a good enough look at her to be certain that she was who he thought she was.

Madeline Valois was, indeed, Adrienne Satti. It was a bit of news for which his employer-his real employer, not the weaselly fool of a baron-would pay well.

To those who dwelt outside the law, within the slums and poor districts, and among the population of the so-called Finders' Guild, she was neither Madeleine nor Adrienne. She was Widders.h.i.+ns, a simple street-thief like a thousand others. Tonight, Madeleine had done her part admirably; now it was Widders.h.i.+ns's turn to take over.

Two blocks south of Doumerge Estates, sandwiched between a large bakery and a winery, lay a narrow alleyway that was nigh invisible in the late hours. Filled with refuse from both establishments, emptied once a week by underpaid city workers, it was ignored by those few who noticed it at all.

At the moment, however, it boasted an abnormally large human population: that is, one. Madeleine edged her way down the alley, away from the boulevard. Knees bent, back pressed tightly against the winery, feet pus.h.i.+ng against the opposite bricks, she pa.s.sed above the reeking filth. Her gown lay in her lap, clasped tightly in her left arm; she wore, now, a bodysuit of supple black fabrics and leathers that had lain hidden beneath the forest-green velvet. At the end of the alleyway, she reached out, straining to grasp the pack she'd stashed earlier that evening. Though her entire weight s.h.i.+fted and she feared she'd dislodged herself from her precarious perch, her fingers brushed against the satchel. She quickly grabbed it and yanked it up.

Still without setting foot on the cobblestones, her nose wrinkled against the stench of refuse, she stuffed the gown roughly into the bag and removed a second, smaller bundle. This prize, carefully unwrapped, revealed deerskin gauntlets, hood, thin shoes of black leather, and a belt whose pouches and pockets contained, among other things, a candle stub, a one-handed tinderbox, a tiny hammer and chisel, and the finest set of skeleton keys and wire picks available in any market, black or otherwise. Finally, her tool of last resort: a rapier, blade blackened with carbon and ink, the basket-hilt removed so that the weapon could hang flat against her back.

The dark-colored sack in which her tools had been wrapped, she folded tightly and jammed through her belt. The larger pack-stuffed with the gown, jewelry, and everything else that identified Madeleine Valois-would remain ensconced at the end of the alley.

A few quick breaths to steady herself, and she reached over her head to grab the overhang. She tightened her fists and pulled her legs away from the far wall, lifting them smoothly up, her weight supported only by her hold on the roof. Her stomach muscles, though toned through years of practice, still screamed in agony as first her feet, then her knees, cleared the roof over her head and curled over. A final heave, arms straining, and she lay on her stomach at the edge of the winery's roof.

For a few minutes-more than a few, if truth be known-she simply lay, gasping as she regained her composure. She quirked her lips in annoyance at the question she felt from her divine pa.s.senger.

"Maybe, but this way was quicker," she whispered.

Olgun's response was amused, and more than a little teasing.

"No, I did not do that just to prove I could!" she snapped at him.

Some emotions were more easily translated into words than others. The one he projected now was definitely the equivalent of, "Yeah, right."

Grumbling, Widders.h.i.+ns rose to her feet-ignoring the twinges in her abdomen-and moved across the rooftops. A step to this roof, a leap to that, a quick scamper up a nearby wall.... Perhaps a quarter of an hour later, she settled on a building across a wide lane from the gates of the Doumerge Estates.

The boulevard was the border between two worlds. Behind, the square, squat buildings of the district's shops. They, like most of the city's newer construction, were of cheap stone or haphazardly painted wood, all business. Before her, a row of manors. Sloped roofs, ornate cornices and b.u.t.tresses, fluted gutters and snarling gargoyles, all in marble or whitewashed stone, all old enough to have acquired an arrogance utterly independent of those who dwelt within. The straight lines and angles of poverty facing off against the graceful arches of wealth.

Widders.h.i.+ns had dwelt in both, and wasn't certain she was entirely comfortable in either. Crouching atop the flat roof, melding into the shadows, she settled in for what would surely be a long and boring wait.

Long and boring, as it turned out, were ridiculously optimistic. Endless and mind-numbing would have proved more accurate. The hours lazily meandered by, and the impulsive thief found herself near to bursting with the strain of waiting. Finally, as the moon rowed her way across the sea of night, the manor finally began to excrete its guests in sporadic fits and spurts. The stars wheeled their courses across the nighttime firmament; bats and nightbirds flapped past overhead; cats fought in nearby alleys, hissing and spitting all the while; and time plodded toward morning.

Not long before dawn, when she felt she could take it no longer, the lanterns in the upper-story windows flickered and died, suggesting that Baron Weasel-face had finally retired to his burrow for badly needed (and blatantly ineffectual) beauty sleep. The downstairs lights continued to burn, no doubt for servants who, having stood and watched as rich people grew fat on fancy foods, were now compelled to clean up after the satin-wrapped and brocaded swine.

"Hsst!" she hissed, her throat vaguely hoa.r.s.e from the yelling that had pa.s.sed for conversation during the baron's party. "Olgun! Wake up!"

Her mind was filled with a sense of self-righteous-and vaguely drowsy-protest.

"Sure you weren't," she needled at him. "You were just practicing snoring, so you'd be sure to get it right later on, yes?"

Olgun's response very strongly resembled an indignant snort.

"Whatever. It's time."

She c.o.c.ked her head in response to an unvoiced question.

"Of course I'd rather wait a bit longer," she lied, actually fidgeting foot to foot. "But the night's not just old, it's getting arthritic. We have to go now."

The faint scrabbling of loose shale s.h.i.+fting as she set foot on the roadway was the only sound of her swift and graceful descent. Had anyone been watching the wide boulevard in the faint light of the street lamps, he'd have seen nothing more than a quick wink of blackness, a wisp of shadow, no more alarming than a running tomcat and dismissed just as readily.

The polished stone wall surrounding the Doumerge property was near ten feet tall, and impressively smooth. No cracks or seams provided even the most infinitesimal handhold. A rope and grapple might have provided a solution, but Widders.h.i.+ns, who preferred to work light, carried no such thing.

She never needed one.

"Olgun?" she prodded, breaking into a dash as she neared the barrier. "Would you be so kind...?"

As she drew within a few feet of the wall, her boot came down on something that simply wasn't there, an invisible step or perhaps the interlaced fingers of unseen hands. With Olgun's boost, she cleared the wall entirely, tucking in tight to avoid the short but wicked spikes that topped it.

The shock upon landing was considerable, though she tumbled into a forward roll to absorb as much momentum as she could. Half kneeling in the baron's dew-coated gra.s.s, she gingerly tested both ankles, both knees; as often as she'd done this, she was convinced each time that she'd injured something. Only when each and every joint proved fully mobile and free of pain did she rise and take in her surroundings.

Large, flowering bushes of diverse hue decorated the property at random intervals that someone had probably thought were tasteful. A few trees grasped gently at the stars above, while sculptures and fountains of stone dotted the estate. Even in the dark, Widders.h.i.+ns could see two satyrs, a naked nymph, and a urinating cherub. The entire place emitted a sickly sweet scent, as though the combination of so many flowering plants and blossoms brought out the worst in each. No wonder Doumerge always appeared faintly ill.

It all just oozed excess. Widders.h.i.+ns felt her mouth curl in a faint sneer at what Baron Doumerge was-what she herself had almost become, a lifetime ago.

"Olgun?" she asked, her tone again little more than a breath. "Dogs?"

A pause, an answer.

"Ah. And do you think you should maybe do something about that?"

Self-satisfied gloating.

"You already did." It wasn't a question.

Another affirmative.

Widders.h.i.+ns sighed. "I hope you didn't hurt them."

Olgun sent a flash of horror running through her, so strong that she felt herself shudder.

"All right, I'm sorry!" she hissed. "I know you like dogs. I know you wouldn't hurt them! I wasn't thinking!"

The G.o.d sniffed haughtily.

"Look, I said I was sorry! Let's move on already, yes? We're running out of night."

At an easy jog, flitting from shadow to shadow, Widders.h.i.+ns crossed the property. She pa.s.sed, on the way, a large brown hunting hound wearing a spiked collar. The dog sniffed once in her direction, wrinkled its nose with a slight yelp, and ignored her.

One of these days, she thought to herself, I'm going to ask Olgun exactly what it is that he does to them-or what it is he makes me smell like to them!

And with no more difficulty than that, she was at the wall of the manor. Dropping to her belly, Widders.h.i.+ns wormed her way below the first-floor windows. It'd be embarra.s.sing to come this far just to be discovered by some lovelorn servant staring out at the stars. Only when she'd reached a stretch of wall unbroken by gla.s.s did she return to her feet.

Each mortared spot between the bricks was a rung, the entire wall a ladder placed solely for her own convenience. In less time than it takes to tell, she was ten feet above the ground, sidling sideways toward the nearest darkened window.

She took a moment to curse the craftsmen's guilds for making gla.s.s so much cheaper in recent years-this would have been much simpler in the days of open panes or oilcloth-covered windows-before her questing fingers produced a thin length of wire from her pouch. She inserted it between the window and the pane with one hand, clinging to her perilous perch with the other. Within seconds, she felt resistance, heard the faint clack as the strip fetched up against the window latch. It required a few tries, but finally the tiny metal hook lifted from its eyelet and fell away with a tiny ping.

In a span of seconds, the wire was back in her pouch and Widders.h.i.+ns was inside the darkened room.

That was the good news. The bad was that she'd just come to the end of any real knowledge she possessed about the manor's layout, as she'd never found the opportunity to examine the second floor.

"Keep your eyes and ears-or whatever-open," she told Olgun in her inaudible whisper.

After listening for a full minute, ensuring that her own heartbeat was the only sound in the room, she took the tinderbox from her pouch, along with a candle stub, and struck sparks until the wick caught. Keeping her back to the window, she quickly examined the small chamber.

Between the comfortably padded chair, the heavy mahogany writing desk liberally dusted with sundry sc.r.a.ps of parchment, and the overburdened bookcase that skulked dejectedly against the far wall, she knew this must be Doumerge's study. Moved by a sudden sense of idle curiosity that could just as easily have come from her or her empathic ally, the thief-turned-aristocrat-turned-thief leafed hurriedly through the nearest stack of writings. It contained little of any real interest: various calculations on the worth of this product or that market; some letters of identification, presumably for servants running errands in the baron's name; and a few attempts at romantic epic poetry so teeth-gratingly, mind-numbingly, soul-shrivelingly awful that it might have doubled as a form of interrogation. With a quiet "Bleah!" of disgust, Widders.h.i.+ns dropped the parchment back into place and moved to the door, as though afraid that the verses might leap off the page and pursue her screaming down the hall.

Her hand was on the latch when Olgun yelped a warning. Unable to repress a startled gasp, Widders.h.i.+ns fell back, instinct alone keeping her soundless as a snowfall as she snuffed the light of her candle and vanished, an insubstantial phantom, into the darkened study.

m.u.f.fled footsteps trod slowly down the hallway, pausing once for a brief instant by the study. Widders.h.i.+ns modulated her breathing, as motionless as the statues in the garden, until the footfalls resumed and slowly faded away.

"Thanks," she whispered to her unseen guardian. "Though you didn't have to yell."

Olgun's reply was more than a little perturbed.

"Yes, I should have been paying more attention!" she admitted, her voice rising slightly. "I made a mistake. It happens. I've already thanked you! What more do you-what? I did so mean it! All right, fine! See if I thank you again anytime soon!" Widders.h.i.+ns pressed her ear to the door, making absolutely certain this time. "Condescending creep," she muttered as her gloved hands once more worked the catch. "Thinks he's so much better, just because he happens to be a G.o.d...."

Still murmuring-though low enough that none but Olgun could hear-she drifted out into the hall. She was prepared, if necessary, to search room by room until she found what she needed, but here, at least, her task proved easy. No need to hunt down Baron Doumerge's bedchamber; the prodigious snoring was more than sufficient evidence.

At least, Widders.h.i.+ns a.s.sumed it was snoring. Judging by the sheer volume and variety of tones, the noise could just as easily have been a cold-stricken lumberjack chopping down a copse of trees with a wild boar.

"All right," she breathed, "here's where it gets tricky." Ready to dive in any convenient direction should she be interrupted, she crept toward the bedchamber.

The door opened inward, unfortunately, meaning that she couldn't grease the hinges. The baron probably ordered his servants to keep them oiled-little disturbs the idle rich so much as petty annoyances-but Widders.h.i.+ns hated trusting to luck. Then again, what was luck, really, but divine intervention?

"Olgun? Could you take care of any creaks or squeaky hinges?"

Petulance was his only reply; well, that and the emotional equivalent of a wet raspberry.

"Olgun," she coaxed in a breathy undertone, "you're not still mad at me, are you? It was such a little argument...."

With an obvious roll of nonexistent eyes, the G.o.d twiddled his equally nonexistent fingers at the door. Widders.h.i.+ns felt the tingle of Olgun's power in the air around her.

"Thank you, sweetie," she teased. "I'll rub your tummy later, all right?"

Grumble.

Widders.h.i.+ns lightly pressed the catch and opened the door just enough to squeeze through the gap. The sound of the baron's somnolent rumblings intensified, and the young woman experienced the sudden sensation that she was stepping into the gullet of some fantastic beast that would gobble her down as an appetizer.

As the sensation faded and the chamber steadfastly insisted on remaining a chamber, she shut the door and consciously commanded each and every muscle in her body to relax as she waited for her vision to adjust to the near darkness. Thankfully, the window faced west (can't have the baron awakened by something as inconsiderate as the dawn, can we?), from which direction there currently shone a sliver of the vanis.h.i.+ng moon.

The room was gaudy, the living s.p.a.ce of a man who'd never outgrown the childhood conceit that more is always and automatically better. Paintings, bejeweled weapons, and even a few small tapestries jammed the walls, resembling nothing so much as a bargain bin at a market stall. A tacky chandelier in the shape of Geurron's golden pyramid hung above the bed. The dresser sitting beneath a large silver mirror was covered in knickknacks, doodads, and diverse baubles, from gilded brushes to jewel-inlaid boxes to haphazardly scattered jewelry.

Widders.h.i.+ns ignored it all. Anything stolen from Doumerge Estates would be too easily traced-anything except hard currency. A man as paranoid as the Baron d'Orreille would certainly keep a strongbox of coin close at hand for emergencies. It was this, and no other, that she sought in the man's bedroom, mere moments before the first stirrings of dawn. Sure and silent, she crept from corner to corner, eyes and hands roving, examining. The baron continued to snore, obliviously if not peacefully, as his room was methodically ransacked.

Drowned out by the sound of the baron's nocturnal symphony, all but smothered by the thick quilts and comforters of the bed, the room's other occupant almost completely escaped even Widders.h.i.+ns's methodical examination. Only as the thief reached the far corner of the bed did she spot the young woman-a high-cla.s.s courtesan, to judge by the clothes carefully laid out on the floor and the smeared makeup that still smudged her face-slumbering beside the n.o.ble rodent. Widders.h.i.+ns went statue-still, but the woman remained asleep, if not deeply so. Her eyelids twitched as dreams pressed against them from within, and every few breaths a tiny portion of her voice would escape with a slight moan.

Widders.h.i.+ns, whose desperation had more than once driven her to within a finger's breadth of the profession herself, during her hungriest years, had to force down a sympathetic sigh.

At least she's got access to a high cla.s.s of clientele. Somehow, though, that wasn't much of a consolation. Chewing the inside of her cheek, Widders.h.i.+ns resumed her hunt.

It was, perhaps unsurprisingly, under the bed that Widders.h.i.+ns finally found her prize: a heavy mahogany box, equipped with the finest steel lock that money could buy. She knew it was the finest, because it took her two full minutes to open it. Inside, hundreds of gold marks glittered, newly captured stars, wealth enough to live on for many months.

This was, by far, the most dangerous moment of her night: transferring the h.o.a.rd, or as much as she could, into the heavy black sack.

Fortunately, unlike most people who worked alone, Widders.h.i.+ns never worked alone. Olgun would warn her if anyone approached, or if the baron began to awaken. Furthermore, her "plunder sack" was woven of a heavy cloth, intended to at least partly m.u.f.fle the inevitable clank of coins. Nevertheless, handling the cache was a slow and arduous process, one that wreaked havoc on the nerves, and Widders.h.i.+ns was covered in a sheen of sweat by the time she was through. The sky had grown bright enough that she could see the stirrings of dawn even through the window's western exposure. It was time, and past time, to go.

She looked up, one last glance to make sure all was well-except that it wasn't. The Baron d'Orreille remained fast asleep, but his companion had sat halfway up in bed, clutching the sheets to her naked breast, staring in terror at what, to her eyes, must have been little more than an inky blot moving through the darkened room.

Widders.h.i.+ns was around the bed in a silent flash, one gloved hand covering the courtesan's mouth. The woman fell back with a terrifying squeak, but otherwise made no sound at all.

Still in absolute silence, Widders.h.i.+ns leaned in until her lips were practically on the woman's cheek. She felt the contours of a bony face-clearly, even with clients as wealthy as the baron, the job didn't pay all that well.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Widders.h.i.+ns breathed in a voice that even a whisper would have been hard-pressed to hear. "But I need you to keep quiet." She smiled, knowing that the other couldn't possibly see the expression, hoping maybe she'd feel it. "Fifty gold marks. All yours, for keeping your mouth shut." She couldn't just give her the coins-doubtless she'd be searched, thoroughly, when the theft was discovered. But..."The peeing cherub statue. Look in the water right under his-uh..." The thief was grateful that the darkness hid her sudden blush. "Well, you know."

The woman clearly had no good cause to believe what Widders.h.i.+ns said. But fifty marks was more than she'd make in months, and so far, the thief hadn't hurt her. Widders.h.i.+ns hoped that would be enough to convince her.

The courtesan nodded, her face barely moving beneath Widders.h.i.+ns's hand. Widders.h.i.+ns breathed a silent gasp of relief and vanished from the bedside.

Moving with far less speed and far more care-it is simply impossible, however eloquent one might be, to convince a sack of gold to be silent, and Olgun could only m.u.f.fle the sounds so much-the black-clad intruder crept back up the hall, returning to the relative safety of the study. Widders.h.i.+ns glanced at the window, but found herself unwilling to leave just yet. Doumerge's tawdry display of excess had really rubbed her the wrong way, and she felt an overwhelming need to express her displeasure.

If she was also, perhaps, angry at the reminder of what her life could have become, well, neither she nor her divine companion chose to acknowledge the possibility.

With Olgun impatiently tapping a nonexistent foot, Widders.h.i.+ns resumed her examination of the ledgers and parchments on the desk. No need for a candle now, for the sky was light enough that she could see clearly. She was pus.h.i.+ng this too far, leaving it too close, but by the G.o.ds (well, by one G.o.d, anyway), she wouldn't leave until she was well and truly done. And despite his impatience, she knew Olgun would have it no other way.