Thief's covenant

violation of the Pact.”

“Only if we're caught, Your Eminence. And of course, that's where you come in. You and dear old Alexandre.”

Slowed by grief and aching bones, gazing longingly at the broken staff of office that lay across the chamber, he rose.

“Thank you,” he said, “for allowing me to offer final rites.”

“I had no personal quarrel with these men, Your Eminence,” said Claude, Apostle of Cevora and former servant of Alexandre Delacroix. “Nor with you. I'll make it swift.”

William did not want to die, not here, not now that he knew who and what it was he had come to Davillon to find. He briefly eyed the window, but it was a useless thought. Adrienne possessed the speed and grace to pull it off. Even in his youth, he himself had not.

So he held himself straight, determined to face his end with dignity. Who was Death, after all, if not another of the gods of the Pact?

He felt the first of the cuts as a fire in his gut. And William de Laurent died praying. Praying for the soul of the man who killed him, and for the life of a young woman who had already suffered enough.

Claude was long gone, leaving the room empty of all but corpses, before Bouniard and his constables made their way upstairs.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

One year ago:

Renard Lambert leaned precariously back in his chair, ankles crossed atop the table, and sipped absently from a goblet of wine of a far better vintage than the bottle indicated. Somebody, somewhere in Davillon, was going to be very disappointed with the contents of their forty-mark bottle.

Or maybe they wouldn't be. Not everyone could have as refined a palate as he did. It's what made label- switching a profitable venture. Which reminded him, he needed to swing by the Mahaut vineyards before the end of the week, make sure that they…

So lost was Renard in his thoughts, senses ever so gently clouded by the wine he'd already consumed, that it took him a moment to recognize the faint but insistent tapping at his door, a moment more to realize the implications.

Who the hell knows where I live?

The thief shot to his feet, one hand darting to the rapier hanging on the coatrack by the door. Slowly, deliberately, he slid aside the brass cap blocking the peephole.

“Hsst! Lambert! I know you're in there! Let me in!”

Slack-jawed, Renard opened the door, stepping aside as the girl flitted past. Sweat plastered her hair to her cheeks and forehead, and she carried a large and lumpy sack over one shoulder.

He stared at her; she stared at the room. Thick carpeting, polished brass-and-silver fixtures, bright paintings of random scenes and portraits of random faces-all were arranged in a display of opulence that obscenely straddled the line between tasteful and tacky.

“It's absolutely you,” she said, turning to face her host.

“Widdershins, what the-?”

She frowned, lips curling into a pert little moue. “You said I should come to you if I had any problems or questions,” she reminded him.

“Well, yes. The guild can be a difficult home to settle into. Most newcomers have a guide or a patron for their first few-”

“Then why do you look so unhappy to see me?”

“I-you-Widdershins, how do you know where I live?”

“Oh, that.” Widdershins made a dismissive gesture with one hand, dropped her sack to the floor with a loud clatter, and slid into the chair Renard had so recently vacated. A brief sniff at the goblet, and then she swiftly drained off its contents before he could protest. “I followed you a few weeks ago.”

“I-you…” Renard had the vague sensation he was repeating himself. “That's not possible!”

“I'm here, aren't I?” She shrugged. “If it makes you feel any better, you're really careful. You almost lost me twice.”

His face turning peculiar shades of red, Renard hauled a second chair to the table and sat across from his guest. “Why did you follow me?”

Another shrug. “I figured if I did need to take you up on your offer of advice, I might not want to do it at the guild. In case, you know, it was about the guild, yes?”

All right, that at least makes sense. “So what's your problem, then?” he asked, calming down.

“Well…” Widdershins nudged the bag on the floor with her toe, just enough for a smattering of coins and the tip of a solid gold candelabrum to tumble out. “There's got to be thousands of marks' worth of goods here. Maybe tens of thousands. I just-I didn't know if maybe there were different procedures for reporting and delivering the guild's share of something this big. And I'm a little nervous about just walking into the guild with that much hard currency. I know we're all supposed to be able to trust each other, but…Renard, are you all right?”

No, he was pretty sure he wasn't, given that his eyes were doubtlessly about to pop from his skull like champagne corks. “Widdershins, where in the gods' names did you get this?”

“Oh, I hit the d'Arras family tower. You wouldn't believe how difficult it-”

“You what?” The foppish thief literally felt the blood drain from his face.

“Don't tell me it was off-limits!” Widdershins cried, a twinge of fear in her voice. “I checked the lists, I swear I did! There was nothing-”

“No.” Renard shook his head, thoughts tumbling drunkenly over one another-though he himself was now quite sober. “No, d'Arras Tower isn't on the forbidden list.”

“Then what…?”

Months, maybe even years of planning. He knew, because she'd bragged to him about it enough times. Oh, but she is not going to be happy when she hears about this….

“Widdershins, how much do you know about the guild's taskmaster, Lisette Suvagne?”

“Oh, is that who I saw there?”

Renard dropped his head into his hands and groaned.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Now:

Clouds smeared the stars into glowing will-o'-the-wisps, orbiting the aura of the waning moon. The sky remained dry, its tears spent in the drenching rains of the previous night, though the air smelled heavily of more to come in the days ahead. Even the predators-the rats, the cats, and the two-legged variety-huddled shivering in their hidey-holes and contemplated staying in.

Beneath those apathetic clouds, Widdershins drifted, equally silent. Utterly lost in thought, barely cognizant of her surroundings, she darted through the city, alley to alcove, shadow to street corner, in an invisible dance. The streets slipped by, Widdershins drew ever nearer a destination that she hadn't yet realized she'd chosen-and still she remained focused inward, pondering the night's endeavors.

She couldn't decide precisely how much that little visit with the archbishop might have accomplished. She felt better, certainly: for her new confidant, for her greater understanding of her link with Olgun, and, perhaps most vitally, for her chance, however slim, to finally make things right with Alexandre.

So yes, the visit had been worthwhile in its own right. But she was nowhere nearer to solving her more