spent in circumspect travel to several bolt-holes scattered throughout the city, secreting a portion of her gains in each.
Now she fully intended to enjoy a moderate allotment of her newfound wealth. And so, ignoring the aggravated glares of passersby who would now have the melody she was whistling stuck in their heads, she sauntered across the market, up the shallow stairs, and through the front door of the Flippant Witch.
A cheerful fire crackled in the imposing stone hearth. Lanterns hung at irregular intervals, lighting a common room that was crammed near capacity with thirsty market-goers and city-dwellers. The noise level was not much below that of the baron's party two nights past, but it was friendlier, somehow less abrasive.
Several regulars called or waved gaily as she entered, and she happily waved back, teeth bared in a wide grin-a grin that grew even wider as Robin sidled up to her with a shy smile of her own. The slender serving girl-a few years younger than Widdershins herself, with short-cropped black hair and drab wardrobe-was often mistaken for a boy at first glance. It was an effect she cultivated deliberately, due to some truly unpleasant experiences about which she rarely spoke.
The Flippant Witch, Widdershins noted, attracted more than its share of hard-luck cases.
“The usual, Shins?” Robin asked softly.
“Not tonight, kiddo,” Widdershins laughed, ruffling Robin's hair. “Scyllian red, oldest you've got. I want to celebrate.”
“Obviously,” the girl gasped, shaking her head. “Shins, I can't serve anything that expensive without Genevieve's permission, you know that.”
“Fine with me. Where is she, anyway? I wanted to talk to her tonight. I-”
They were interrupted by a raucous call from a nearby table whose inhabitants rather loudly demanded to know where their ales were.
“Gotta go,” Robin apologized, sounding not at all contrite. “Genevieve's working the bar tonight. I'm sure she'd love to talk to you.” With another smile, the girl slipped through the crowded tables, assuring the impatient patrons that she'd be right with them, and could they just give her one more moment….
Still smiling, Widdershins amiably shoved through the intervening space, working her way toward the heavy oaken bar. Other than the fact that it was missing the compulsory large mirror-that would've been far too expensive, especially given the all-too-real danger of it being shattered by flying tableware during some of the Witch's wilder nights-it perfectly fit the popular image of the “typical tavern.” On the left rose several hefty kegs of ale and beer; on the right, rack upon rack of bottled spirits. Between them stood the door to the storeroom. The kitchen was located away from the bar itself, along the left wall. The succulent aroma of roasting venison wafted forth, a benediction from various culinary gods.
And standing in the midst of it all, her face a mask of worry, stood Genevieve Marguilles, owner, proprietor, and one of Widdershins's very few friends.
“Genevieve!” the thief called happily, bellying up to the bar. “I've got to tell you about the other night! You won't believe…”
Her voice petered out, the last trickle of a drought-dried stream, and the grin fell from her lips at the look on her friend's face.
“Genevieve? What's wrong?”
Even as the golden-haired innkeep drew breath to speak, a hulking form rose from the nearest table, an impending avalanche looming ever nearer. Clutching tightly at her rapier, Widdershins turned about, and the last of her good cheer drained away.
In a voice that perfectly matched a body far taller and far broader of shoulder than any human should be, the colossus spoke. “Hello, dear Widdershins. If you think you can spare us a span from your hectic schedule, the Finders' Guild would really like a word with you.”
CHAPTER THREE
Six years ago:
In the hustle and bustle of the bazaar, nobody would even have noticed the girl as she passed between the rough-brick walls of the various shops, or the flimsy wooden panels of the far more temporary and far more numerous vendors. She looked like any other market-goer, if perhaps younger than most. Her hair was tied back out of her face, without any regard for the fashion of the day. Her tunic and gown, although faded by age and use from their former canary yellow and light lavender, were clean and well cared for. A heavy satchel hung at her side, and she all but skipped through the throng-just another low-class shopper, or perhaps the servant of a House fallen on hard times.
In point of fact, Adrienne Satti was neither. She had no regular home, be it house or House. Her face was clean because she'd scrubbed it so in a public fountain the night before, and her garments were clean because they'd been someone
Adrienne moved through the market, and slowly her satchel started to accumulate various goods, a smattering of pastries, and the occasional coin purse lifted from an oblivious passerby.
All of which made it a decent day, but not a
For long hours, until her feet ached and her face gleamed with sweat even in the day's modest warmth, she prowled the shops, watching for an opportunity that never arose. A great many members and servants of the aristocracy were out today-Adrienne recognized more than a few House crests-but there never seemed to be enough separation between their eyes and their purses to be worth the risk.
And then, just as she thought about calling it a day and trying to find a halfway clean flop with the money she had, she saw them entering a leatherworker's shop. The elder fellow boasted a dignified, regal demeanor, exuding that pride which came only with fantastic wealth. Other than a thin tract of gray that ran across the back of his head, he was bald as a snake's belly. His features were sharp, hawkish, especially the beak he called a nose. His tunic was wine purple and ruffled, his half cape of midnight blue, his trousers a rich red. It looked as though a bruise had thrown up on him, but then
His servant was rather less remarkable: hair, tunic, hose, boots, belt, cloak all dull, muted browns and grays. He wore a goatee and a thin mustache, and his hair dangled in a single tail. At his left hung a suede pouch, most probably his employer's funds for the day's purchases; at his right, an old-fashioned cut-and-thrust sword, broader than a modern rapier. Over his left shoulder, he carried a gape-mouthed blunderbuss-not the most accurate of weapons, but brutal enough to shred any man unlucky enough to be on the business end when it discharged.
But what attracted Adrienne's attention was not the aristocrat's fruit-hued outfit, nor even the weighty purse toted by his well-armed porter. No, it was the noble's own weapon: a magnificent rapier, swinging from his left hip. The basket was convoluted, ornate, yet excellent protection against an enemy's thrust. The young pickpocket had seen fancy weapons, and more than her share of functional ones, but rarely had she seen the two combined with such a perfect elegance. Even allowing for the meager percentages offered by the average street-level fence, that rapier could fetch enough coin to keep Adrienne in comfort for months!
Leaning against a cart across the street (and ignoring the irritated glower of the vendor), Adrienne removed a shoe and rubbed at her sore feet, surreptitiously watching the shop. Within, the peacock and his servant engaged in an animated discussion with the proprietor, who lifted a long strip of leather from the rack behind him, holding it up for inspection. The elder aristocrat nodded once and removed his own belt, laying it carefully upon a small wooden bench beside him.
Adrienne froze, slack-jawed. Why didn't the man just
Not that she was about to complain; gift horses, mouths, and all that. With nervous alacrity, Adrienne darted inside, keeping to the racks of uncut hides, invisible among the shadows and folds of leather. She could hear the conversation now: talk of the pedigree of the animal from which the leather was cut, negotiations over price. The thief crept nearer still, scarcely daring to breathe. She saw, glinting dully on the ring finger of the aristocrat's right
