Thief's covenant

blotted out several dozen figures and totals throughout the ledger. It would take the greedy bastard days, if not weeks, to recalculate it all. Then, flipping several days ahead in the accounting ledger, she scrawled her message across the page in a neat but hasty hand:

Thanks for the gold, my lord. I'm sure I'll enjoy it more than you would. But look on the bright side. Now you won't be tempted to go out and spend it all, having fun, when you should be at home balancing your books.

Sincerely, someone a lot richer than they used to be.

A smirk crawling its way across her face, Widdershins closed the ledger and arranged the scattered chaos atop the desk, nearly as she was able, as it had appeared when she found it. Let the baron discover her little thank-you in his own good time.

“Now,” she told Olgun, stepping to the window and glancing outward, “the only issue is getting away from here, yes?” She scowled at the rising sun. “I don't suppose you could whip up some clouds, or maybe even a nice morning mist, could you?” she inquired doubtfully. Olgun scoffed.

“All right. Can you at least take a little of the weight off me?” She glanced meaningfully down at the sack full of gold marks.

The bag grew slightly but noticeably lighter.

“That's just fine. It won't need to be long.” She opened the pane, stretched down as far as she could, and allowed her bag to fall the remaining few feet to the grass. She followed quickly after, scuttling down the side of the house. Glancing around warily to ensure that nobody was up early and working in the garden, she hefted the sack over her shoulder and then did the only thing she could.

It was one of the primary rules of thievery. When hiding, sneaking, and trickery are all out, the correct answer is “run like hell.”

Whether some god other than Olgun watched over her that morning or whether she simply ran through a free-floating pocket of good luck, she made it across the Doumerge Estates without being spotted. (She even managed to make a quick detour and complete her promised delivery to the cherub fountain, despite Olgun's objections.) Then she was at the outer wall, leaped without slowing-again boosted by unseen hands-and vanished into the nearby alleys.

Birds, squirrels, and other disgustingly pastoral creatures sang and chirped their greetings to the rising sun. The streets of Davillon's marketplace filled rapidly: merchants setting up shop, patrons looking for a good deal while the market remained uncrowded and the proprietors remained in a good mood. The trickles of humanity grew, first into streams, then veritable rivers. Flowing through the streets that were the veins and arteries of the town, these were the lifeblood of Davillon.

Above the growing throng at the market's edge, one woman rolled over in bed to face the window, blinking blearily against the sunlight. She'd taken to her bed only a few hours before, and had no intention of rising with the dawn. With a muffled curse, she slammed the shutters and drifted back to sleep, carried into dreams by the low tones of the bustling market.

She woke again around noon, gave some brief thought to staying in bed a while longer-she never opened the tavern more than four hours before sunset, anyway-but decided, reluctantly, that the place needed a good cleaning after last night. Grumbling under her breath, she rose to her feet, shivering as her flimsy shift failed utterly to keep the chill autumn air at bay.

Some hours later, washed, dressed, and breakfasted, she emerged into the sweeping tides of market-goers and allowed them to carry her a few doors down the street to her destination.

To the casual observer, Genevieve Marguilles was stunning. Luxuriant blonde tresses, the sort that most noblewomen tried (in vain) to achieve with expensive wigs, cascaded down her shoulders. Her eyes were a gleaming brown, golden in the right light; her features soft; her figure the envy of women ten years her junior. She wore today a long, burgundy skirt beneath a smoke-gray tunic and a snug bodice that emphasized attributes that, on her, didn't really require additional emphasis.

Yes, Genevieve was beautiful. And had that been the end of it, she'd already be twelve or fourteen years married to some aristocratic fop chosen for his political connections by her father.

But that wasn't the end of it. Her gait was uneven, leaning heavily leftward as she walked. From birth, her left leg had twisted slightly inward, bending awkwardly at the knee, and though the details of her deformity were hidden by the long, flowing skirts she favored, she could not hide its effect on her stride. It was something to which she'd long since grown accustomed, but for Gurrerre Marguilles, patriarch of the House Marguilles-and, not incidentally, her father-it was the touch of death for any political marriage. To offer an “imperfect” child to the scion of a noble house would have been an insult.

Sensing that she wasn't wanted (not that the proud Gurrerre had tried to hide the fact), Genevieve spent her childhood and teenage years associating with a “lower” class of people. She made many friends among the commoners of Davillon, and while it took some time to grow accustomed to a life where not everything was provided at whim, she ultimately persevered. She'd struck out on her own, taking with her enough of her family's funds to open her tavern. Her father didn't approve of his daughter working among the lower classes, and certainly wasn't happy with her chosen vocation, but neither could it be said that the old man was sorry to see her depart. He made the occasional attempt, for form's sake, to coax her back into the fold, and otherwise they happily left one another alone.

Today, Genevieve found herself in a jovial mood, no doubt due to the extra sleep in which she'd indulged. Waving cheerily at several market regulars, she climbed the five shallow steps to the door of the Flippant Witch. It was a squat building, fairly plain, nothing more than a large common room, a small storeroom, three tiny private parlors, and a kitchen. It boasted no decoration, save for a tiny blue stone with a white cross: the symbol of Banin, the Marguilles' household deity and one of the few portions of her old life Genevieve hadn't abandoned. But despite its modesty, it was a popular spot for those who couldn't afford the “prestigious” drinking establishments. Her prices were reasonable, the food and drink tasty, the staff friendly.

To Genevieve, it was more than her tavern. More so than the house in which she'd grown up, more so than the small cluster of rooms in which she slept, the Flippant Witch was home.

Which was why, when she stepped into the darkened taproom and spotted a trio of men sitting around the nearest table, her initial reaction was one of anger, rather than fear.

“Who the hell are you?” she demanded angrily, one hand darting to the steel stiletto tucked in her bodice. “How did you get in here?”

All three stood, largely concealed by the ambient shadow, and the biggest stepped toward her. Despite herself, Genevieve retreated until her back struck the wall. She thought briefly of making a run for freedom, but she knew the intruder could easily catch her before she managed to open the door.

“What-what do you want?” she asked, voice shaking. “I don't have much money here. We-we haven't opened for business. If-”

“Shut up.” His voice was as deep and unfriendly as she'd expected. “We don't want your money. And,” he added as Genevieve gasped and went deathly pale, “we don't particularly want to hurt you.” He stepped nearer still, pressing the frightened proprietor tightly against the wall. She was near enough, now, to strike with her small weapon, but she knew better than to try. “All we want,” he continued, “is for you to help us out with something. After that, we'll leave you alone.”

“What do you want?” she asked again, staring up at this mountain in man's clothing.

“Just to find someone we hear is a frequent visitor to your lovely tavern. And it is a lovely tavern, by the way. Do you know a young woman who goes by the name Widdershins?”

Hours later, the sun setting at her back, Widdershins wandered the crowded boulevard, whistling a jaunty tune. She wore a tunic of verdant green and earth-brown breeches topped by a green-trimmed black vest, a combination that made her look vaguely like an ambulatory shrubbery. Her chestnut hair hung in a loose tail, her rapier swung freely at her side (the intricate silver basket now reattached), and her coin purse overflowed with the smallest portion of the baron's liberated gold. All in all, the last couple of days had been magnificent, and she was determined to share her good cheer.

And, Olgun aside, the thief possessed only one close friend in Davillon with whom she might share it.

Widdershins had gone directly home after her escape from the Doumerge Estates, detouring just long enough to retrieve her pack from the filthy alley. The following day-or what remained of it after a well-earned slumber-she'd