Thief's covenant

tonight. In about, oh, an hour or so.

“Which gives us,” he added to the silent circle around him, “just enough time to get ourselves out of town and hit the carriage before it comes within sight of the city wall.”

Adrienne had obviously never met Alexandre Delacroix-neither she nor anyone else on that roof, save perhaps Pierre when he was much younger, would ever have been in any position to do so-but few citizens of Davillon, regardless of social class, hadn't heard of him. Delacroix was an aristocrat's aristocrat, the sort of fellow whose horses and hounds were richer than most people. If his ilk ever mingled with Adrienne's type, it was only because Davillon didn't have enough streets to keep them from crossing each other's paths.

As she'd heard it, or at least as she vaguely remembered hearing it, House Delacroix was one of the city's oldest, with a rather storied history to boot. For some years, the House had lain in shambles, its fortunes shattered by a series of bad investments, and the whispers that it would soon be banished from the aristocracy had been so prevalent that even Adrienne had heard them. And then, scarcely more than a year ago, the Delacroix fortunes had turned just as swiftly as they'd gone bad, until Alexandre Delacroix was once again among the wealthiest of the city's nobles.

Unsurprisingly, given this history, the aristocrat made a habit of overseeing his House's businesses personally-it was just such a journey from which he was now returning-and would doubtless carry with him a great deal of coin. His guards would be worn out by the lengthy pilgrimage, exhausted by the rushed march home. And by striking beyond sight of the walls, the bandits could ensure that no detachment of the City Guard might come to his aid.

It was a solid plan, so far as it went, but it left one question unanswered, one Adrienne found herself reluctant to ask.

What was to happen to Delacroix and his retainers? Adrienne Satti had been a thief for much of her life, but while she'd shed blood on occasion when forced to defend herself, she had never murdered anyone.

But though her lips parted and the question hovered, tantalizing with a feather light touch upon the tip of her tongue, she never gave it breath. And as the band of thieves climbed down the rickety stairs and crept toward one of the many refuse hatches in the city walls, visions of gold marks consumed all other thoughts, filling her head until there was no room left for the question.

They lurked, muscles tense and breath held, some in the leafy cover of the thick branches and obscuring foliage, some atop the paltry rises that bulged occasionally beside the roadway, and some lying flat beside that road, invisible in the night.

Adrienne sat at the highest vantage, clinging to the topmost branches of a towering tree. It was not a position she'd been asked to assume; no one came to her and said, “Hey, Adrienne, you're brand new and unproven, so why don't you be our lookout?” But as the lightest and most dexterous of the assembly, she could manage a perch where the others could not. So there she sat, greenery (well on its seasonal way to becoming orangery and brownery) tickling the back of her neck and her hands, sticks poking her in sensitive places. A gentle breeze, the soft breath of night, washed over her, danced a waltz with her hair, carried the scent of autumn's fallen leaves and the faintest hint of colder days to come.

And it carried, too, the indistinct but growing sound of hoofbeats, tired and unsteady, and the grinding rumble of heavy wheels.

She hissed down at the top of Pierre's head, his hair the only part of him visible in the moon's feeble glow. “Get ready!”

With a nod, he shimmied partway down the tree, passing the message along to the next in line.

Curiosity kept her up there a moment longer, peering intently as the small procession rounded the bend, their lanterns casting tiny moons against the night-dark road. Two men on horseback appeared first, each dressed in heavy leathers and thick cloaks, each carrying a rapier at his belt and a blunderbuss strapped to his saddle.

Four horses in harness clopped next into view, hauling the trundling carriage. Flanked by a second pair of guards, accoutered identically to the first, it made an impressive sight. The wood was stained a rich, dark hue, the doors and windows edged in silver that might or might not have been the real thing. It boasted no other decoration, save the family crest embossed in brass upon each door.

It was difficult to make out at this angle, but something about that crest nagged at her, like the refrain of a familiar tune that she couldn't quite place…

The carriage turned, following the curvature of the road, and Adrienne's heart sank. It was a familiar crest all right, though she'd seen it but once, and then only briefly.

A lion's head, mane flared, wearing a handheld domino mask.

Alexandre Delacroix was the man from whom she'd stolen the rapier that now hung accusingly at her side; the man who had stopped his servant from killing her, who had saved her life when any court in the city would have upheld his right to take it. And here she was, lurking atop a roadside tree, waiting for the right moment to attack him, to rob him, to…

To kill him, she admitted finally to herself as her sunken heart began to beat wildly about her chest. No, she wouldn't put sword through his gut or gun to his head, but she knew that it would happen. Joseph and his men would never reach the carriage so long as the guards lived, and they could never allow Delacroix to survive as a witness to the murder of the guards. The aristocrat had to die; and she'd gone along anyway, blinded at the thought of the riches to be won.

Would she have gone through with it, had the carriage conveyed anyone else? She didn't know; she never would. But it didn't, and she couldn't.

“Pierre!” she hissed as loudly as she dared, her voice barely rising above a whisper. “Pierre, we have to stop this! Pierre!” But he couldn't hear, having already dropped to the base of the tree so that he might take his position.

Adrienne slid as much as climbed her way to the ground. More than one splinter jabbed painfully into her palms and fingers before her feet touched soil, but she barely noticed. Her first instinct, nigh overwhelming, was to run as fast and as far as she could, to distance herself from the coming horror. Indeed, her feet pounded one after the other, carrying her at a dead sprint, dirt and leaves crunching underfoot.

Only when she smelled the horses, the wood, and the leather-when she glanced up and saw the road, and the first of the noble's guards looming before her-did it fully occur to her that she was not running away. In another second, two or three at most, she would be seen. She had exactly that long to make the most important decision of her life.

“Go back!” she called at the top of her lungs, her arms waving over her head. “Ambush! Bandits! Look out!” She didn't even know what she was shouting, really, only that she must warn them, must make them listen before it was too late.

She was certain, at first, that she'd failed, that she'd dashed headlong to her own grave, as the nearest guard slid his blunderbuss from the saddle and aimed it squarely at her. For a moment, she was back in the marketplace of Davillon two years ago, waiting in trembling helplessness for the lead to fly, to shatter her skull or her ribs or gods knew what else. This might even be the same man who'd almost shot her that day. In the dark of the moon, the face-with its red-brown goatee and mustache, and its cold, reptilian stare-certainly looked like the man she remembered.

But the weapon didn't fire. Even as the one guard covered her, unblinking, the others leapt into action. The remaining three guards-no, five, for a third pair of riders she'd never noticed were following behind-reined in their mounts, drawing into a tight circle around the carriage. They moved with practiced efficiency, so that the walls of the vehicle provided cover, so that their fields of fire overlapped, allowing no safe avenue of attack. The one who watched Adrienne slowly moved to his own station, motioning her forward, his barrel never once wavering. Uneasily, she followed.

“What the hell is she doing?!” Joseph's voice was harsh, strangled, his throat clenched around the words as tightly as his fingers around his weapons. “She's ruining everything!”

“I–I don't understand!” Pierre stammered, his own features gone more than a little pale. “I–I don't-”

“Don't what?!” Joseph barked, raging. “This is your fault, you bastard! You brought the bitch along!”