False Covenant

take even some of the children with them, it might be easier to…

“Yes?” Magali called, sidling up to the door. “Who is it, please?”

“We have treats!” The voice that called back was somehow odd, dissonant, but over the clamor and through the thick wooden door, Magali couldn't really make out what was wrong with it. It was probably her imagination, anyway…“Treats for the children!”

This hadn't been part of the evening's plan, so far as Magali knew, but she welcomed it. If the brats were busy stuffing themselves on pastries, then at least they wouldn't be cackling and screaming for a few minutes.

Without the slightest trace of hesitation, Magali threw open the door….

CHAPTER TEN

A few frantic moments of intense (and only borderline polite) questioning of Doumerge revealed a number of fascinating facts about the man Madeleine had previously known only as “Evrard.”

The remaining core of the family d'Arras had, for roughly a decade, dwelt in the heart of Rannanti, Galice's nearest neighboring-and often rival-nation. (Unconfirmed rumors suggested that, for much of that time, the d'Arrases weren't there to oversee their business interests, as claimed, but were in fact political prisoners-albeit well-treated and lavishly kept political prisoners-held against the possibility of future leverage.) Only a few years ago, the family had finally returned to their homes in the Galicien city of Vontagne, where most of them lived to this day. Evrard himself had arrived in Davillon some few months ago, not long after the death of William de Laurent.

As to why he had come-or indeed, anything else about the young aristocrat-gossip was heavy on speculation but frighteningly light on confirmed fact. Business or pleasure, politics or romantic interest? There were as many theories, if not more, as there were curious ears and whispering mouths to theorize. On only three points were the majority of the tales about Evrard in agreement: First, that he was the only d'Arras to have visited Davillon from Vontagne. Second, that he was not yet firmly attached to any of Davillon's respected citizens, either on a political or long-term romantic level.

And third, that-as he had mastered the blade-play of Rannanti as well as Galicien culture-he was purported to be one of the finest duelists of the modern era.

This last detail was more than enough to convince Madeleine to be grateful that Robin had stopped her from drawing steel on the man. Even with Olgun's aid, he didn't seem the sort of fellow with whom she'd care to cross blades. And the name he shared with the tower that had been the site of her greatest robbery was more than enough to explain his vendetta against her. But what none of this told her was…

“How?!” It was the fourth or fifth time she'd asked in the ninety seconds since she'd disentangled herself from the Baron d'Orreille and made her way-as rapidly but as unobtrusively as possible-toward the door. “How in the name of Khuriel's left sock did he know it was me? Nobody in the Guild would've told an outsider that! Nobody!”

Olgun's answering wave of confusion and concern wasn't much of a response, but it was all she really expected.

Time and again, as though it were deliberately conspiring against her, the press of the crowd threatened to shift her back toward the center of the room; and time and again, Madeleine forced herself the other way. The change of outfit, of carriage, of attitude, and of makeup from Widdershins to Madeleine had fooled many people who knew her far better than Evrard d'Arras did, but she found herself absolutely unwilling to take the chance. She was certain, to the depths of her gut and her soul, that if anyone would see through it at exactly the wrong moment, it would be he.

The rich aroma of roast meats and sweet wines was no longer enticing but cloying and overpowering, threatening to choke her. The hum of the throng had become a roar; the laughter, ear piercing and sinister. She wanted to cry, to scream, to punch or throw something. It was all too much, and she couldn't focus, not in the midst of all this. She had to get out, find somewhere private (and safe from discovery), and figure out what to do next.

Finally, finally the front door was in sight; the two servants whose job was purely to open and close said door, and perhaps take a cape or a coat from the occasional guest, almost near enough to speak to. Madeleine found herself gasping as though she'd just broken the ocean's surface after a deep and exhausting dive.

At which point, just as freedom was within reach, she learned two things. First, that it wasn't to be that easy. And second, that she'd been wrong: It was not, in fact, Evrard d'Arras who would be the one to see through her disguise at the worst possible time.

“We knew you'd be here. We-he sensed it!”

“Squirrel?! You little bedbug, I should-Gods! What happened to you?!”

Indeed, it was Squirrel, and indeed, he appeared to be someone a plague victim might well cross the street to avoid. His complexion was a sickly gray, nearly transparent, and his cheeks were so sunken that his face seemed little more than skin stretched over skull. His eyes were so bloodshot they had more red in them than white, his lips were chapped and bleeding, and if he'd changed clothes or bathed since she'd last seen him, it clearly hadn't taken. Swathes of his sleeves were actually matted to his skin by dried mud and other filth. It was probably only the overwhelming aroma of the party that kept his own stench from being lethal, or at least leeching the colors from nearby fabrics.

(He was also, she noted, wearing a blade at his belt, but it most assuredly was not the one she'd lost.)

All of which inevitably led to her second question, which was, “And how the frying frogs did you even get in here looking like that?”

And indeed, the closest of the guests and servants were beginning to glance their way, raising hands to mouths or stepping back in scandalized chagrin at the sight of what appeared to be a diseased pauper in their midst. Silence rippled outward, crossing the entire chamber, followed rapidly by a second ring of horrified and angry murmurs.

“I sneaked. I do a lot of sneaking now. More than I used to.” He giggled, then made an ugly snorting through his nose as he tried to stop. “Maybe even more than you do.”

“Uh, yeah.” Madeleine glanced around, saw her “fellow” aristocrats backing farther away, and several of the Marquise de Lamarr's guards pushing their way through the thick curtains of heavy fabrics and powdered flesh. “You should get out of here before they get hold of you, Squirrel.” And before you say something to expose me, you nitwit! “We can deal with our own little disagreements”- and figure out how you recognized me so easily! — “later on, yes?”

“Yes. Or no. I don't think I should leave. He wouldn't care for that at all.”

“He, who?” Before she could ask anything further, however, a warning surge of emotion from Olgun inspired her to glance over her shoulder. The guards were awfully close, now….

“Olgun? Would you mind?”

A faint tingle in the air, a rush of power that only she could feel, and several of the guests tripped as they attempted to clear a path for the nice men with swords. The result was a sudden collision of nobility, jamming men and women against their neighbors, and briefly but thoroughly blocking the path.

“Come on, you lunatic.” Recoiling even as she did so, Madeleine put a hand on Squirrel's shoulder-shuddering at the faint sense of grit and grease beneath her palm-and started steering him toward the doorway. “Let's get you out of-”

Apparently, even a god (or a god of Olgun's stature, anyway) could be thrown by a crowd as tightly packed and squirming as this one. A handful of men-at-arms he could sense easily enough. But a lone individual? By the time Madeleine felt Olgun's second warning, it was far too late to avoid the encounter.

“Well. I see that even in a host as distinguished as this one, you'll find a way to attract associates of your own quality.”

She didn't even have to recognize the voice; she actually recognized the smug. “Monsieur d'Arras,” she greeted him through clenched teeth, dropping her hands to her sides and turning his way. Am I even wearing makeup here? Seriously…!