by Marmell, Ari
He did not pause to question what he was about to do. Those concerns he had made peace with long ago.
Then he was off once more, through the halls and out into the Davillon streets. A number of sentinels—both Church soldiers and City Guard—stood watch around the property, just another testament to the growing rift between the sacred and the secular. Yet these men and women, though skilled at their duties, were watching for vandals and other angry threats from without; not a one of them thought anything strange of an old man leaving midnight mass, assuming they even noticed him at all.
Once clear of the basilica, Sicard took a moment to orient himself. In the months that he'd been here, he'd done precious little traveling on his own. Always with an entourage, usually inside a coach, he'd had scant reason to learn the layout of the city's streets. He'd certainly never traversed the city in the dark, alone.
Unprotected.
A frisson of worry coiled around Sicard's spine like a hungry snake, but he swiftly shook it off. He'd been to the house once before, had memorized the route. He wouldn't get lost, not so long as he paid attention to his surroundings.
As for robbers or other hazards of the city? Well, either he'd make it to the Dunbrick District or he wouldn't; either the gods approved of his actions, or they didn't.
And either the rather disreputable individuals with whom he was supposed to meet would keep their promise of safe treatment, or they wouldn't.
After the relative silence of the cathedral, the hustle and bustle of the city, even so late, was something of a shock. Scattered merchants carried goods across town, making ready for the next morning's custom; somewhat less legitimate vendors hawked stolen, illicit, or simply socially unacceptable wares from dim venues. Sicard grinned briefly in morbid amusement, wondering what some of the dealers, fences, and streetwalkers would think if they knew they were propositioning the city's new bishop.
His route took him only briefly by the Market District or other crowded quarters, so he was bothered only sporadically by Davillon's nocturnal population, troubled only momentarily by the stale sweat, dried horse manure, and other lingering odors of the past day.
Sicard thought, as he walked, of William de Laurent. The archbishop had been one of his teachers and mentors in the seminary, and—though they'd never been that close—a friend. He'd survived a lifetime of laboring on behalf of the Church; two wars; half a dozen attempts on his life; and decades of the political infighting that plagued the clergy despite their best efforts to squelch it.
He'd survived everything the world could throw at him, until Davillon.
William would never have approved of what had happened in Davillon since he died; of this, Sicard was absolutely certain. He could only hope that the venerable archbishop would have understood what Sicard had to do to make things right.
The house, when he reached it, was—well, a house. Old but sturdy, small but comfortable, with once-fine paint only slowly starting to peel from the façade. A mundane, commoner's home in a mundane, commoner's neighborhood, it was one of many properties the Church owned throughout Davillon—one that had been left to them in the last will and testament of a devout parishioner, back when the city was on better terms with its shepherds.
A quick glance either way was enough to convince Sicard that he hadn't attracted any undue attention, and then he was across the street and through the door. The carpet and the sofas were thick with dust, save for those spots where the small group awaiting his arrival had seated themselves.
He didn't explain himself; if they were here, they already knew why. He didn't introduce himself; he'd never heard their names, and he had zero intention of telling them his. No, Bishop Sicard removed the old parchments from his satchel—parchments that were very clearly not liturgical or sacred in nature—and then, after a simple, “Does everyone know what's required of them?” began to read.
The chiming in the distance, resounding from the intricate clock tower atop the city's Hall of Judgment, informed Widdershins that her long wait had finally ended at four hours past midnight.
Her hopes that the evening might go even vaguely according to plan ended perhaps four minutes after that.
“Here we go, Olgun,” she announced in a whisper, rising from a crouch and taking a moment to stretch a few stiffening limbs. “Remember,” she continued—even though he already knew all of this, perhaps reminding herself of the objective—“we're just looking for loose coin. The marquis was certain to have money on hand in case something went wrong at the ball. Should be more than enough to cover…” She trailed off, uncomfortable giving voice to her current problems.
With nothing more than a single deep breath, Widdershins broke into a sprint. Her feet came down with an impossible speed and grace on the shingles of the roof and made not a sound. Thanks to both her own ingrained talent and the aid of her divine partner, a cat made of cloud would have surely been louder. The edge of the roof came up fast, frighteningly fast, and Widdershins didn't so much as slow. A gazelle-like leap, propelled by what felt like invisible fingers interlaced beneath her feet, and she soared across the gap to the next building.
Where she landed with a faint scuffle and a brief stumble—neither sufficient to draw the slightest attention, but enough to make the young thief blush in humiliation.
“Wow,” she whispered. “Maybe I'm a little out of practice.” Then, “If I get even the slightest hint of ‘I told you so,’ I'm trading you in for a boyfriend!
“What? I don't know where. Look how many gods Galice has! I'm sure there's a bazaar somewhere that trades in divinity. I just have to find—Oh, figs.”
From her new vantage, on a rooftop nearer the northern end of the property, Widdershins could see what might otherwise have escaped her notice. A band of figures—perhaps six or seven of them, little more than silhouettes in the shadows—were scaling the outer wall of the Ducarte estate. They were good, very good; if Widdershins hadn't already been a master of all the tricks herself, and had her night vision not been ever so slightly enhanced by Olgun's power, she would have missed them.
And if they were that good, that stealthy, it could only mean one thing: She wasn't the only member of the so-called Finders' Guild planning to take advantage of Clarence Rittier's party.
“Olgun?” It was almost a whimper. “Things actually do go right for some people, yes? I mean, it's not just a foolish dream I have, is it?”
She was fairly certain that the god more or less shrugged inside her mind.
Widdershins's first instinct was just to leave. She had no real authority to make them go away; there were more of them than her; and she was somewhat unpopular with several factions within the community of Davillon's thieves, thanks to a minor misunderstanding some months ago that had resulted in the deaths of about a dozen Finders. It hadn't been her fault—not really—and the guild's leader, the enigmatic Shrouded Lord, had cleared her of any wrongdoing, but not everyone was eager to let the matter lie.
On the other hand, Widdershins had spent days planning this heist, there might not be another plum opportunity to match this one for a while, and—most importantly—there was more than just her own avarice riding on this.
With a grumble, a sigh, and an angry pout (which, she would have been mortified to learn, was really far more cute than it was menacing), she dashed once more for the roof's edge.
Not even a boost from Olgun would have allowed her to cross the entire boulevard separating the estate from her current vantage. Instead, she dropped over the eaves and clambered down the wall, her fingers finding holds as easily as if someone had placed a ladder for her convenience. A quick dart across the road, so thickly concealed in shadows that they might have been sewn to her outfit, and she was at the property's outer wall. A quick leap, a yank with both arms augmented by Olgun's strength, and she'd vaulted the wall to land smack-dab in the midst of the other larcenous newcomers. This close, she recognized the lot of them, and had no doubt whatsoever as to who the leader was.
>
“Evening, Squirrel,” she said, hands well away from the hilt of her rapier (but near enough for a lightning draw if necessary). “Out for a walk, maybe?”
Simon Beaupre—or “Squirrel,” to most people in the Guild or the Guard—very nearly toppled over in a tangle of long, gangly limbs and equally long, black hair. A lengthy stiletto, essentially a prepubescent rapier, was halfway from its sheath before he recognized the phantasm that had just dropped in on them.
“Gods and demons, Widdershins!” He brushed the dangling hair away from a youthful, narrow face and glared as menacingly as he could (which wasn't very). “Are you trying to get yourself stabbed to death?” The other miscreants with him—all roughly his age, but of a wide variety of builds and miens—grumbled their agreement and sheathed their weapons as well, all pretending that their hearts weren't beating so hard as to bruise the insides of their chests.
“If I were,” Widdershins said primly, “I'd have thrown myself at people who were actually, you know, dangerous. What are you doing here, Squirrel? Little boys should be in bed by now.”
The various “little boys”—several of whom were actually older than Widdershins, and none of whom were more than a couple of years younger—glowered at her once more.
All but Simon himself, who, having now recovered his breath, allowed his attentions to roam, as they so often did when the two of them met, everywhere but Widdershins's face. She repressed a brief shudder and wished she could take the time to go scrub herself bloody in a hot bath; she swore his gaze left a trail of slime across her skin.
“I'm sure it's the same thing you are, gorgeous.”
If Widdershins had rolled her eyes any harder, she'd probably have sprained something. “Enlighten me.”
“Well…”
“Uh, Simon?” This from a tall, broad-shouldered thug of a thief whose name was—actually, Widdershins couldn't for the life of her remember what his name was, and would have to have been unconscious or dead to have cared any less. “What we're doing right now is standing around waiting to get nabbed.”
“You're right. Go on ahead, guys. Stick with the plan; I'll catch up.”
“Wait!” Widdershins hissed, trying to spin to face all of them at once and making herself vaguely dizzy for her trouble. “Don't…” But they were already gone. “Oh, figs.”
She thought briefly of chasing after them, but Squirrel was still here, eager to talk—and oblivious to how uneager she was to listen to him—and besides, what would she do if she caught them, anyway?
“You were saying?” she prompted, her voice chilly as a snowman's backside.
“Well, I mean, it's obvious, right?” He grinned wide, eager to impress. “Gods forbid any of the ‘aristo-brats’ be reminded of just what shitty shape Davillon's in, so you know all their parties have to be all fancy. This is the first party Rittier's thrown since the archbishop was almost killed here last year, so it's gotta be even fancier, right? This is probably one of the biggest accumulations of wealth the city's seen in months, and at this time of night, most the guests are gone and everyone's tired, so…” He shrugged, palms spread wide. “Best time and place for guys like us. You obviously had the same idea, right? So work with us. Plenty to go around.”
“This,” Widdershins growled through a cage of teeth, “Was. My. Caper!”
“I don't see your name on it.”
Her jaw dropped. “Did you really just say—?!”
“Besides, Shins, you're one to talk about stealing a job out from under someone. Not after you swiped the d'Arras Tower job out from under Lisette.”
Widdershins swallowed the bitter medicine of an angry retort, and Olgun—despite the outrage and frustration he shared with his worshipper—couldn't help but chuckle.
“I hate to break it to you, oh master schemer,” she said instead, “but you didn't think this through. Yeah, Rittier should have a lot of coin on hand, but not enough to make the score worthwhile once you split it seven ways—let alone if you bring me in! The risk's not worth it! You—”
“Coin? Shins, who said anything about coin?”
A second time Widdershins's jaw hung loose—this time, she was sure, low enough that she'd probably have to pick soil out from between her lower teeth. “You can't be that stupid!” It was barely a whisper; perhaps a prayer.
But she knew, even as she spoke the words, that he could be. And it explained why he needed so many thieves for the task.
“The table settings, the art, the jewels…You have any idea what those'll bring, even on the street? Hell, Widdershins, you can have the coins if you want!”
She was just about squeaking now. “There's no way you can sneak out with that much loot without being spotted!”
“And who,” he asked, his hand dropping once more to his blade, “said anything about sneaking?”
It was a perfect cue, and sure enough, that last word was punctuated by the shattering of glass and a sudden scream from the manor.
“Come on!” Simon insisted, turning toward the commotion. “We're missing all the—”
He never got to explain what they were missing, because at that moment Widdershins hauled off and punched him as hard as she could in the jaw. It wasn't all that impressive a blow, really; young and slight, Widdershins tended to rely more on speed and stealth than on strength. But with Olgun adding a touch of divine “oomph,” it was more than enough to drop Squirrel like, well, a squirrel.
“We need to go!” Widdershins hissed to her unseen ally. “We do not want to be around when this fiasco decides exactly which of the ten thousand possible ways it's going to go bad. Also,” she added, shaking her hand, “ow! Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow…”
And indeed, she was several paces nearer the outer wall, already tensed to leap, when the next batch of sounds escaped the manor and caught up with her. The sounds not of a forceful robbery or frightened victims, but the clatter and clash and shouts of…
“Combat?” Widdershins yanked herself to a halt so abruptly that the muscles of her back and legs twinged in protest, and Olgun let out a startled yelp. “Who in…?”
Then she was running once more, this time toward the heavy stone structure—and through an ever-thickening wave of strenuous objection from her divine partner.
“I know, I know!” she argued between gasping breaths. “But I need…to know what's…going on!” And then, grinning despite herself, “Kind of like…old times, yes?”
Olgun spent the next moments explaining, in no uncertain terms (well, emotions and sensations), exactly what he thought of “old times.” But at least it kept him occupied.
Another leap, a scuttle up the side of the wall that a circus-trained spider would have been hard-pressed to match, and Widdershins was peering in through a window overlooking the dining room.
No trace of the marquis himself, or any of the remaining guests. Instead, she saw four of Squirrel's compatriots, now wearing masks pulled over their faces, locked in combat with…
With Rittier's servants?!
Except that even as she watched, the servants revealed themselves for who and what they really were. She saw hidden weapons appear from within their dull-colored uniforms. Blades, yes, but also “bash-bangs”—flintlocks with stocks of brass rather than wood, weighted to function as brutal head-breakers just as efficiently as they did pistols.
And they were carried exclusively by the City Guard.
Well, if nothing else, it explained why those people were so bad at actually serving food, didn't it?
It made sense, too, after Widdershins thought about it for a moment. If the thieves could figure out that Rittier's party made for the most tempting target in months, it wasn't that surprising that the Guard could come up with the same idea.
It also left the young thief in something of an ugly quandary.
“Yeah,” she said absently as Olgun resumed encouraging her to depart with some vague semblance of haste. “But Squirrel and the guys know that I showed up here. If I vanish and they get
nabbed by the Guard, who do you think they'll suspect of selling them out? Give you three guesses. What? No, they don't have to prove it was me! Just the suspicion would be enough to make my life…Oh, rats.” She winced at the thunder of a brass flintlock, watched as the first of the thieves fell, his left shoulder shattered by the ball.
“All right, Olgun,” she sighed. “Hold on. I don't know, whatever it is you normally hold on to!” Then, unwilling to waste any further time in argument, she burst into motion.
One hand yanked her own hood up over her head; not as good as a mask, but hopefully sufficient to hide her features in the chaos of what was to come. An elbow shattered the glass of the expensive window (Olgun scrambling to keep the shards from drawing blood), and then she was inside.
Two of the Guardsmen—those who hadn't already discharged their pistols—fired at the dark figure that suddenly appeared before them, but Widdershins was already dropping to the floor. The two balls sailed high over her head, missing even without Olgun's extra nudge. She landed in a crouch atop the heavy table and leapt again, once more clearing a height impossible for any mortal athlete, let alone a girl of her size. At the apex of her abbreviated flight, her fingers closed around a thick cloth of darkest green. The banner boasting the red petals of Ruvelle went taut, and then ripped free from its anchor, unable to support even Widdershins's slight weight.
But then, she'd never intended it to.
“Olgun…” It was the lightest whisper as she dropped, coming down on one knee, both palms pressed flat on the floor. She hadn't time to explain what she wanted, but then, she didn't need to. She felt the familiar tingle of the god exercising what power he had, and the enormous hanging twisted as it fell.
Twisted so that, impossible as it seemed, it landed atop all four of the disguised Guardsmen. It wouldn't hurt them—though the bruises on their pride wouldn't fade for quite some time—but they were effectively blind and helpless, if only briefly.