Thief's covenant

Thus it was, when he heard the door chime that particular evening, he hunched his shoulders, gritted his teeth, and ignored it. Another damned highborn fop, he'd no doubt, come to petition the archbishop for some favor or other that His Eminence will politely refuse. Such it had been since the day the clergyman arrived: petitioner after petitioner, most in the guise of social visitors for Alexandre himself, but all inevitably asking if they might take just a moment to “pay their respects.”

With a shudder, he directed his attentions back to the desk. For over an hour, he'd attempted to balance a set of numbers that refused to properly add up. He rubbed at the bridge of his nose and glanced again at the report. “Gains and Losses in the Wool Market, as Pertain to Our Interests in Outer Hespelene.”

Shutting the ledger with an angry thump, Alexandre shot from his desk, oblivious to the fact that his chair knocked over a potted plant by the window, and stalked from the room.

Recognizing the conflagration in his eyes and the glower on his face, the servants hastily cleared his path. He stomped as he walked, shoes mercilessly crushing the carpet. He wished one of the servants would say something to him, block his path, do something, anything, to justify a screaming fit. He felt guilty-most had gone above and beyond the call in recent weeks-but only a little guilty.

So preoccupied was he, he almost missed it.

Alexandre halted so abruptly that his shoes snagged in the carpet. He had just passed by an open door, and he'd seen…No. He couldn't possibly have seen what he thought he had.

Backtracking, he peeked his head around the door frame. There, seated in a small tea room, was the guest heralded by the recent door chime. No empty-headed aristocrat, as he'd expected, but a Church nun in the traditional blue and silver, presumably here to speak to His Eminence on some ecclesiastical matter or other.

Except Alexandre knew that this was no more a nun than he was. She'd made a reasonable attempt at disguise: Her skin was duskier than Alexandre remembered it, her lips fuller, her cheeks more sunken.

But even beneath the makeup, and wrapped in that ridiculous wimple, Alexandre would have recognized that face anywhere. It was a face carved so deeply in his memory that it ached, a face he'd seen in a thousand dreams.

Alexandre slammed the door fully open, his pace carrying him into the center of the room before it rebounded from the wall. A livery-clad servant, leaning down to serve the guest, bolted upright, nearly overturning both the carafe and the goblet upon his silver tray. For her own part, the young nun rose and curtsied deeply, her head bent low.

“Forgive me, my lord,” the steward stammered, steadying his shaking tray with a white-gloved hand. “I wasn't expecting you, and you'd ordered us not to disturb you with visitors to His Eminence, and…” The slender fellow swallowed nervously as the master continued to ignore him.

Gamely, he tried again. “My lord, this is Sister Elspeth, here for a conference with the archbishop. Sister Elspeth, this is-”

“Get out.”

“But, my lord-”

“I said get out. If you haven't heard from me in ten minutes, or if you hear any hint of a disturbance from this room, you are to summon the guards-both my own and the city's-immediately.”

“But-”

“Go!”

The young lady kept her head low, even after the door drifted shut, briefly serenading the room with an audible, and slightly ominous, click.

“It's truly a privilege to meet you, monsieur,” she began, her voice low. “I've heard so much about-”

“Give a feeble old man some credit, Adrienne. Did you really think that disguise would fool me?”

With a resigned sigh, Widdershins raised her head. She couldn't help but notice how many more lines were laid across his face, how truly old he seemed.

“I was actually hoping,” she admitted slowly, “that I wouldn't run into you at all.”

“In my own house?” He sounded moderately incredulous.

“Maurice told me you were keeping to yourself and all but ignoring the archbishop's visitors. You picked a rotten day to change your routine.”

“Maurice? The archbishop's attendant?”

Widdershins nodded. “I'm here by invitation, Alexandre.”

“Right.” The old man tensed. “I suppose His Eminence is tired of living?”

Had Widdershins not frantically grabbed for the back of the chair, she might well have fallen. His words hit her harder than Brock's hammer ever had.

“They issued a description of you, you know,” the aristocrat continued. “'Widdershins,' they said your name was. But there are so many brown-haired girls, it didn't occur to me…” Angrily, he shook his head. “Well, this is where it ends, Adrienne, or Widdershins, or Elspeth, or whatever you want to call yourself. I've kept my household guards ready since His Eminence arrived, and the constables are only a shout away. You can't escape, not this time.”

“Alexandre…” Adrienne found herself physically reaching out, had to stifle a cry when he flinched from her outstretched fingertips. “Gods, you can't believe this!” she demanded softly, imploringly. “You can't honestly think I killed all those people! Our friends!”

“You disappeared, Adrienne,” he replied flatly. “I didn't believe it then, but you never came back. Never came to me.” His mouth twitched, a buried expression struggling to escape his cold facade. “I kept telling myself, ‘She'll be back any day. She'll be back, and we'll straighten all this out.' But you never came back, Adrienne.”

“I was scared, Alexandre! I was frightened of the Guard, I was frightened of the-the thing that killed my friends.…” A tear ran down her face, threatening to smear the careful and precise application of makeup that was supposed to have kept her unrecognized. “And I didn't want to drag you down with me!” The older man blinked. “I didn't know what else to do!”

“So you went back to the streets,” Alexandre snapped angrily. “You went right back to stealing, and doing everything I spent years teaching you to avoid.” He frowned thoughtfully, curious despite himself. “Why didn't you leave Davillon, start over somewhere else?”

“I don't know anything outside of Davillon,” Widdershins admitted miserably. “I wouldn't have known where to start. To me, everything more than a mile past the city walls might as well be the Outer Hespelene!”

Alexandre couldn't help but smile, thinking back to his ledger. Well, no danger of boredom now, at least.

“Adrienne,” he said, his voice thawing, “I want to believe you. I've wanted to believe, for the past two years. But I don't know if I can, and I can't imagine what I might do about it now. If you'd only come to me then!”

Widdershins nodded glumly. “Alexandre,” she said simply, “we can talk about this-we have to talk about this-later. But something more is happening here, something important. It has to do with the people who did try to kill de Laurent. They're the same people who killed our friends! I really am here by invitation, and I've got to talk to the archbishop. Please…please just give me a little time.”

For long, long seconds he stared, motionless, unblinking. And then, so slowly she was certain his neck must snap, he nodded once.

“I'll escort you upstairs myself,” he told her, almost firmly enough to mask the maggots of doubt that wormed their way through his voice.

Widdershins's breath rushed from her lungs in a veritable gust of relief. “Thank you. You've got no idea-”

“Adrienne,” he interrupted, “understand something. If you're lying to me now, if so much as a single thread on His Eminence's frock is ruffled…” He clasped her arm with bruising force, his gaze burning with the gods' own fire. “I will have my guards right outside his door. Should anything untoward befall him, the only question will be whether they kill you quickly before I get my hands on you. Am I perfectly, crystal clear?”

Widdershins nodded dumbly. Ignoring the perplexed servants, they swept up the stairs, several of the manor's guard falling into step behind them.

They wandered halls through which Widdershins had strode, run, danced in happier years. Upon each, as it truly was, she could see phantom images of what had been, overlaid in strokes of shadow and pigments of memory. Here, what she recalled as a bare wall was adorned with brilliant tapestry, a golden griffin swooping from a