Thief's covenant

hand, a signet of some sort. Diminutive as it was, the carving was of such exquisite quality that she could clearly identify the crest it bore: the head of a lion wearing a domino mask, the sort held on a small baton and so frequently exhibited at the aristocracy's masquerade balls.

And then her hand brushed against the smooth-worn surface of the man's discarded belt. Her fingers closed tightly, the edge of the leather biting slightly into her skin. Carefully, she drew it back, silently, silently…

Loud as a church bell at vespers, the basket of the rapier rang against the edge of the bench.

All conversation ceased, and three pairs of startled eyes swiveled toward Adrienne. With a muttered curse, she was out the door, thin legs pumping, the belt-along with the traitorous rapier-dangling from her right fist, streaming behind her like a pennant as she tore through the market.

A roar of outrage shook the air behind her, pursuing her across the square on demonic wings; she heard it clearly, even above the rumble of the crowd. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw the nobleman's servant burst from the shop, his employer and the proprietor following behind. In a smooth, practiced motion, the man slung the blunderbuss off his shoulder, bringing it up, muzzle gaping wide, a ravenous beast.

And the rapier, perhaps determined that it not be sullied by a petty street-thief, twisted as it swung, jutting suddenly between her ankles.

With a terrible clamor, Adrienne fell, crying out as though she'd already been shot. A small fruit vendor's cart loomed before her as she tumbled, all but begging her to hit it. She obliged, plowing into it headfirst, knocking it clear over and landing in a fruit-covered heap amidst the splintered wreckage. Hands and knees stung where rough cobblestones and splintered wood had peeled away layers of skin, and a shallow gash across her forehead had already bled enough to gum her left eye shut.

It was, by and large, neither the most graceful nor the most successful escape she'd ever attempted.

Painfully, feeling that her entire body had become a single enormous bruise, Adrienne began to climb unsteadily to her feet, only to freeze once more, half-crouched, at the sight confronting her.

Everyone between her and the leather-goods shop had cleared to one side or the other, opening a corridor for her pursuers. The servant stood in the center of the street, blunderbuss aimed in stone-steady hands. Adrienne found herself unable to swallow, to blink, even to breathe as she saw the tiny fuse shrinking down to nothing. It sparked, sparked once more, then vanished as it burned down to the weapon's reservoir. Even from this distance, Adrienne heard the muffled whumph of the black powder igniting.

“Claude, stop!” A fraction of a second before the weapon discharged, the old aristocrat appeared beside his servant and slapped the barrel upward.

A crack of thunder reverberated across the massive courtyard, eliciting shrieks from the watching throng. The ugly lead pellets passed several feet above their intended target and slammed with a loud crunch into the nearest wall, where they sent a puff of powder and several slivers of stone raining into the street.

Adrienne stared, shocked to the depths of her soul, at the nobleman she had just robbed-the nobleman who had just saved her life from his own man. For a brief instant, their gazes met, hers frightened, bewildered, unaccountably grateful; his own unreadable.

And then she was gone into the nearest alley, aches and pains forgotten, leaving the chaos and confusion far behind.

CHAPTER FOUR

Now:

It was not a pleasant place, this chamber. The walls, all five of them, were a dull ebon stone, set with equally dark mortar. The floor and ceiling, both black marble, were smooth and unbroken. The room possessed only a single door, and that substantial portal-constructed of a heavy, darkened wood-led to a small antechamber. An ingenious system of gears and pulleys prevented the outer door of that tiny vestibule from opening unless the inner door was firmly shut, and vice versa. Thus protected, and completely windowless, the shadowy inner chamber had never been exposed to the searing touch of day.

Really, really black, basically.

Standing within this room, lit only by a pair of torches that hung opposite the door, a visitor could truly believe he stood on the brink of eternity, staring into the primordial darkness that skulked beyond the borders of creation.

Between those flickering brands lurked the room's only other feature. Embossed into the otherwise blank wall were the head and torso of what, in the impotent lighting, might be mistaken for a man. The shoulders and arms were human in every particular, if perhaps too heavily muscled. The head was the proper shape, topped by an unruly mop of hair that billowed behind, carved into the wall with exquisite detail.

All of which was designed eventually to direct the viewer's attention to the figure's face.

The entity's features were hideous, terrifying as the fading memories of a recent nightmare, and equally as bewildering. Oh, this was not the mask of some horrific monster; no fangs, no fur, no scales. No, the face was human, beautiful even. It was also utterly devoid of mortal emotion. Surely this was the bust of some madman, a being incapable of experiencing, or even understanding, the urges, desires, hates, and fears that should have been his birthright. It was the face of pure need, pure hunger, an evil that sprung not from some cause, nor any great malevolence, but pure predatory instinct. Beast it was, wolf or serpent or lion, scarcely concealed behind a mask of man.

Before the great idol waited two figures. The first was Roubet, his eyes wide with a pungent blend of fear and greed. They darted between the graven image and the other man, a man clad in robes of midnight blue that almost, but not quite, blended with the surrounding darkness. This was a man who had paid Roubet well, since before he was forced from the Guard; a man he would address by no name or title other than “Apostle.”

Henri Roubet refused to admit, even to himself, that he knew the Apostle's other name, for fear of how that knowledge would be rewarded.

“You're certain they're coming?” the Apostle asked, glancing irritably at the fane's outer door.

The soldier and spy neither sighed aloud nor rolled his eyes, though he was tempted to do both at this third or fourth repetition of the question. “I'm certain, Holiness. They'll be here. I imagine they just need-”

A dull gong reverberated through the black walls, and the room began to rumble with the sound of grinding gears.

“-a bit more time,” Roubet concluded as the inner door slid aside.

There were six of them, of varying heights, varying demeanors. This one wore heavy leathers, stained dark and well creased; that one dressed in the bright and jarring plumage of the Davillon aristocracy, down to the razor-sharp rapier at his side; and a third was garbed entirely in black, nigh invisible against the ebon backdrop of the chamber.

They did, however, share a profession in common. And they were all quite good at it.

“Has Roubet explained why you're here?” the Apostle demanded without preamble.

“I'm willing to take a stab at it,” the leather-clad man replied. His voice was deep, gravelly, thanks to the jagged scar that ran across his neck. “I'm guessing you want someone killed.”

“If I want comedy,” their host rejoined, “I'll hire a jester. Of course I want somebody killed, you blithering imbecile!”

The leather-clad killer shrugged. “Ask a stupid question-”

The nobleman-or the assassin garbed as one-stepped forward, cutting off his companion. “It's been some time since you've asked us to meet with you personally. And while your errant Guardsman was somewhat terse, I could hear the excitement in his voice. I can only assume you've located Adrienne Satti.”

“Very good, Jean Luc. I'm glad to see there's at least one brain amongst you.” To the group at large, he continued, “Indeed, I have found our wayward cultist-something, I must remind you, none of you has managed in two years.” He met their eyes, reminding them one by one of his displeasure; and one by one, these hardened assassins turned away. “And indeed, I'll be calling on your talents to assist me with her final disposition. But for now, all I want you to do is locate her alias-Roubet will fill you in-so that you can find her when necessary. She is not your current target. I have an entirely other commission in mind for you.”