Thief's covenant

Renard, classy and urbane Renard, stuck his tongue out at her.

“All of which,” she concluded, “has taken us kind of away from the point. Which was, why were you skulking about in here?”

“I,” Renard sniffed, “do not skulk. I sneak. I prowl. I have even, upon occasion and at need, been known to lurk. But I have never once-”

“-managed to keep silent for two minutes straight,” Widdershins interrupted. “Would you shut up and answer the question?”

“Make up your mind. Which one?”

“Renard…”

“All right,” he said, taking a seat at the table. “The truth is, I witnessed you guiding our lovely host over in this direction, and I snuck in before you got here. I need to talk to you, Widdershins, and I'd rather not have anyone else know of it.”

“You snuck through my tavern?” Genevieve exclaimed, disbelief pushing her lingering fear to one side. “A tavern full of people? Dressed like that?!”

Renard smiled affably. “Indeed I did, my dear. As Widdershins has already so graciously testified, I am quite nearly as good as I think I am.” His tone finally came over completely serious. “Widdershins, are you hurt?”

“A little banged up, but nothing serious. Brock and his cronies got the worst of it.”

“Oooh, that's not good. He holds a grudge.” Renard sighed. “Well, better that than the alternative, I suppose.”

“Renard, please get to the point. Why is the guild angry at me?”

Another sigh. “I think we both know who ordered the attack on you, don't we, my dear?”

Widdershins nodded, but said nothing. It wouldn't do to mention names in front of an outsider, not even one she trusted.

But…

“Even she'd need an excuse, Renard. She doesn't have the authority to just decide to take out a member.” Not yet, anyway.

“No, she doesn't. But the guild is cracking down on anyone who, um, forgets to pay their dues in full. They're gathering up all outstanding funds, since the plan is to suspend all major operations for the duration of the visit. Avoid any unpleasant attention, and all that.”

Widdershins paused in the act of reaching for the decanter. “Visit? What visit?”

“You haven't heard?” Renard boggled, and even Genevieve stared in puzzlement. “You hang out in a tavern, you frequent the homes of the rich and powerful, and you haven't heard?”

“So I don't pay attention to the small talk. What are you on about?”

“Shins,” Genevieve told her, “William de Laurent is coming to Davillon.”

Widdershins's eyes looked as though they might pop from their sockets and careen across the table like billiard balls. William de Laurent, archbishop of Chevareaux, was the greatest High Church official west of the Blackridge Mountains, inferior only to the twelve cardinals and the prelate himself. If he was coming here, important affairs of church and state were quite clearly afoot. Possibly even the appointment of a new bishop to Davillon, a position that had sat unoccupied since Bishop Fontaine had died of a fever a couple of years before.

All right, so that would obviously be important to the city, the aristocracy, and the devout masses. But, “Why does the Finders' Guild give a fig about that?”

“Because,” Renard said, idly stroking his whiskers with a well-manicured finger, “if anything untoward happens during His Eminence's visit, the duchess and the Guard will come down on us so hard they'll be picking bits of us out from between the cracks in the cobblestones.” His attention flickered to Genevieve, who somehow managed to look vaguely puzzled through an otherwise impenetrable mask of worry.

“Have you never wondered, my dear, why the city doesn't just smash us flat?”

“I'd sort of assumed,” Genevieve offered hesitantly, “that someone else would just take your place. At least this way, they can keep an eye on you.”

“Well…” Renard frowned, and Widdershins couldn't help but snicker. So much for impressing the lady, Lambert.

“Yes, that's true,” he confessed. “But it's more than that. There've been times when they wanted to get rid of us, but the city's never declared war on the guild itself. It wouldn't be worth the bloodshed and financial repercussions, sure. Primarily, though, it's because of the Hallowed Pact.”

The barkeep glanced at her friend. “He's not seriously trying to tell me that the gods want Davillon to leave its thieves alone.”

Widdershins shrugged. “I'm not up on my theology, but yeah. The Shrouded God-”

“Our patron,” Renard interjected with an oddly reverential tone.

“Yeah.” Widdershins rolled her eyes so only Genevieve could see. “He's supposed to be one of the Pact, though I couldn't tell you which one. And since Davillon's patron is part of the Pact, and Demas of the Guard is part of the Pact…”

Genevieve understood. “So no wars between them. The Church forbids it.”

“Precisely.” Renard nodded, but his frown remained. “Still, the guild's nervous about making a nuisance of itself with a High Church official present. The archbishop just might have the authority to sanction an exception to laws forbidding an open conflict. Or he might not. Honestly, even our priests aren't entirely clear on the issue. In any case, we don't want to give him cause to consider it, or give the city cause to ask him. Better to lie low and sit this out. So the guild is snatching up what funds they can, and the Shrouded Lord- Lord, not God,” he interjected as Genevieve's face grew puzzled once more. “-is allowing you-know-who to be as heavy-handed as she likes, in hopes of cowing the more rebellious elements into submission-”

He knew it was a mistake even as the words marched across his tongue, but he couldn't snap his teeth fast enough to trap them.

“Cow me into submission?” Both her friends could see the fog of an indignant huff settling around Widdershins.

“Perhaps a poor choice of words,” Renard backtracked hastily.

Widdershins gave no indication of having heard him. “Who do those dried-up, incompetent, wrinkled, useless old half-wits think they are?!”

“Widdershins, such language!” Renard commented sarcastically. “Why, keep this up and you'll be calling them ‘poop heads' within the hour, and then what will the children of Davillon think?”

Her glare bored into him, leaving scorch marks in his expensive finery. “I should teach the whole lot of you something-”

“Widdershins, please!” The dandy's tone finally broke through her mounting rant. “You and I both know that you've got a reputation for being, shall we say, precipitous-and not entirely undeserved, at that. So you worry them. It's nothing personal, and you're not the only one. Let it go.”

“You're absolutely right, of course, Renard,” Widdershins told him with a gentle smile, her voice suddenly calm, even mild.

He squinted at her, not believing a word of it.

“In any event,” he barged ahead, “as long as she thinks you're holding out on your cut, that's all the excuse she needs.”

“What are you telling me, Renard? That I better pay up, even though I don't owe anything?” Much.

“If you have any emotional attachment to your kneecaps, yes. I'd hate to see your legs broken, Widdershins. They're such nice legs.”

“Fine,” she sighed. With a grunt of disgust, she thrust her hand deep into a pouch at her belt and scattered a large handful of coins across the tabletop. “Start with this. I'll see what I can do about getting Li-uh, you-know-who the rest of her precious coins. Before his Eminencialness shows up.”

Renard nodded, scooped the marks into his own pouch, and rose. “I imagine I can buy you a few days with this. Assuming,” he added with a twinkle in his eye, “that I don't decide to just go spend them on a fabulous dinner and a bottle of good red.” His smile faded at the look on her face. “Uh, right. I'll let you know if you still have reason