Thief's covenant

toward the door.

Widdershins would be angry when she heard; she doubtless still believed that she actually wanted to find Roubet and kill him herself. Well, let her believe it. Renard knew better. And he knew that someday she'd understand, maybe even thank him.

Genevieve certainly would, looking down from wherever she might be.

He grinned suddenly, even as his hand touched the latch. It wasn't like him to be so spiritual. That's what he paid the guild priests for.

One last glance behind, taking in the cluttered room that reeked of unwashed clothes (and, with a growing insistency, spilled blood), and Renard sighed. Damn, but that girl was awfully hard to watch out for. As it was, the Finders would be expecting some sort of punishment-quite a lot of punishment-for her part in the recent massacre. He'd have to make sure he and the priests were on the same page, explain that her actions had prevented the rise of a power that might have threatened the guild, even the Shrouded God himself. Most of them wouldn't believe it, but at least it would quell the uproar. Still, maybe he should ask her to consider lying low for a few weeks…As though there was a chance in hell she'd agree.

And there was so much else to do, as well: rebuilding the guild's membership, appointing a new taskmaster, figuring out what to do with Lisette now that she'd proved herself utterly untrustworthy…. Perhaps she'd make a good public example, show the others the dangers of working against their leader, but that might just entice her followers and allies to further conspiracy…. Gods, but the work never ended! Sometimes, Renard wondered if it had even been worth taking the damn position in the first place.

Renard Lambert, Shrouded Lord of the Finders' Guild, disappeared into Davillon, grumbling over the inconveniences of love and duty.

With a low groan of exhaustion, Major Julien Bouniard of the Davillon City Guard tore his gaze from the mounds of paper littering his desk like so many bird droppings, and clasped two fingers to the bridge of his nose. It was late, long past the end of his shift. The candles and lanterns guttered, the low background hum faded as the day shift trickled out to go home, the night shift out to their assigned patrols.

Julien knew that he could have, should have, given up and gone home, taken a fresh crack at this in the morning. It had been going on for days, now, form on top of form, briefing on top of briefing. But he'd ordered his men to get this whole mess done and over with as rapidly as possible, and Julien Bouniard wouldn't ask anything of them that he wasn't willing to do himself. So, with a frustrated shake of his head, he determined to return to work for at least another hour, opening his tired eyes-

And nearly leaped out of his skin through his own mouth when he saw that the thin wooden chair across from his desk was no longer vacant.

“That was an interesting yelp,” the Guardsman's visitor said dryly, prodding at one ear with a finger. “I think you've just deafened every dog within two city blocks.”

Julien glared, one hand clenched at the tabard covering his chest, the other on the butt of his flintlock. “Gods above, Widdershins! If you're trying to kill me, pull steel and have done with!” A few deep breaths seemed to calm him; at the very least, he stopped clutching at his breast as though he was having heart palpitations. “I'm not as young as I used to be,” he told her more steadily.

You have no idea, she thought with a touch of bitterness. What she said was, “Really? I am. I gave up aging a few years back. Nothing to be gained from it, really.”

“Indeed. Did you have any particular reason for coming here, in gross disregard of all logic and common sense? Or were you just hoping to startle me into an early grave?”

“Tempting as that may be,” she said, “no, that's not why I came.” She frowned. “Actually, Julien…” The guard's eyebrows rose. Any time she called him by his first name, he felt the irresistible urge to count his money. And perhaps his teeth.

“Yes?” he prompted.

She sighed. “I wanted to find out if you're still determined to pin de Laurent's and Al-um, Delacroix's deaths on me.”

Bouniard frowned. “If I am, you took an awful risk in coming here to ask me.”

Widdershins laughed aloud. “Julien, you've not even the vaguest comprehension of the sorts of places I've been recently. No disrespect to your abilities, or those of your men, but this place holds no real fear for me anymore.”

“What makes you think,” Bouniard asked slowly, his voice deliberately noncommittal, “that we have any reason to suspect-”

“Bouniard, please don't waste my time. We both know you've suspected me since I escaped your stupid prison. We both know that you were looking for me within moments after finding out that William-that is, the archbishop-was dead.” The Guardsman filed that little slip of the tongue away for future study, but chose not to interrupt. “And we also know,” she continued, suddenly angry, “that you've found, or at least should have found, if you're doing your job, enough evidence in Delacroix's house to implicate the real killer! So kindly stop stonewalling me so we can both get on with our respective evenings!”

All gods damn the woman, how did she know about these things?! Yes, the Guard had searched Delacroix Manor-gingerly, reluctantly, forced into it by the murders therein. They'd found evidence indeed, and to spare: a hidden shrine, devoted to a worship of Cevora far older and more primal than his modern, Pact-approved incarnation. And they'd found a number of disturbing writings, as well as ritual workings whose purpose Julien couldn't comprehend, but which the Guard priests told him had been banned since the earliest days of the Church.

Was there enough to convict anyone for the murders of Alexandre Delacroix and William de Laurent? No, not really; but there was certainly enough to draw a number of conclusions.

All of which was a moot point. None of this was public information, not when it involved a family as powerful as Delacroix was-or, well, had been.

“I can neither confirm nor deny anything you might have heard, Widdershins,” Bouniard said stiffly. “I can, however,” he continued hastily as she drew breath for another tirade, “assure you that we've no longer any reason to assume it was you. You're free and clear. Of this, anyway.”

The young woman all but deflated in her chair. “Thank you,” she said softly. Then, “How's Maurice?”

“Maurice? Oh, the monk.” Julien shook his head. “Heartbroken. Still, I think some small good may have come of this. Last I heard before he left, he was talking about petitioning his superiors to transfer orders. Planning to become a priest, I understand, follow in de Laurent's footsteps.” The Guardsman shrugged. “I think the Church could do worse.”

Widdershins smiled faintly. “That they could,” she agreed. “Well, I must be off.” She paused yet again. “Unless you're planning to arrest me for breaking gaol?” she asked, only half teasing.

Bouniard's mouth twisted in an odd moue, trying to smile and frown at once. “I should,” he admitted. “But… just maybe I was a bit, ah, overzealous in arresting you in the first place.”

Widdershins's eyes widened, and it was her turn to clutch at her chest melodramatically.

“Don't push it,” he warned. “I'm suddenly wondering where you're off to in such a hurry.”

“Nothing sinister, Bouniard-not that I'd tell you if it was. My tavern's reopening tomorrow night. I want to make sure it's ready.”

“Your tavern?”

Widdershins's face fell. “Genevieve left it to me.”

Bouniard nodded. “I'm sorry,” he told her, and Widdershins was startled to realize that he meant it. “I know you were close.”

“We were.”

“If it helps at all, Widdershins, we've arrested Brock's surviving partner. Fellow named Louvel, part of the break-in at the gaol as well. He'll get whatever justice I can bring down on him, I promise.”

“Thank you,” she said softly.

Feeling an intense need to break through a suddenly awkward moment, Julien said, “If you own a tavern now, does that mean you won't be stealing anymore?”

She grinned, brightening at least a bit. “It might, Bouniard. You never know.”

“I hope so, Widdershins. I don't want to catch you doing anything illegal again, understand?”