by Ari Marmell
The table was long, and laden with a quantity of food not merely sufficient to choke a large elephant, but also to bury its remains. Every variety of animal, it seemed, could be found at some spot along that buffet, smothered in sauce or breading or dressing or gods alone knew what. Beef, venison, fowl of every possible variety, at least a dozen types of fish, eggs of both fish and fowl, escargot, every vegetable known to man—it was all here, and no matter how much the guests ate, a criminal amount of food would go to waste. The smell alone was heavy enough to satiate a smaller appetite without a single bite.
The house had been well prepared, in expectation of the night's revelry. Paintings and tapestries hung high on the walls, well beyond reach of drunken fingers or spilled foods. Most were pastoral or mythic scenes, but several depicted the golden pyramid of Geurron, patron deity of the d'Orreille line, and a scant few boasted the sun-and-crown of Vercoule, Davillon's High Patron.
Fires blazed happily in numerous hearths, determined to enjoy the soiree. Various herbs and scents were sprinkled upon the logs, filling the room with a bizarre combination of odors that spun around the guests before rising to cluster at the ceiling's arches and buttresses. The carpets, lush and thick, had been brushed in expectation of the guests' arrival. Servants, immaculately groomed, stood at attention or bustled about the rooms, preparing this, refilling that, and basically playing the part of so many trained hounds, always running and fetching.
And in the center of the maelstrom, buffeted on all sides by the constant eddies and swirls of humanity, stood an unlikely pair. Despite the press of partygoers and the constant blank smiles, polite waves, and spouted small talk, they exuded an aura of calm, a globe of peace that extended a scant few feet from them.
“I must say, my dear baron,” the woman was commenting haughtily, “you've really outdone yourself. I can't recall when I've last attended festivities so elegant.” Her expression managed to add Other than those I've planned myself, without the slightest aid from her tongue.
The gentleman bowed in gratitude, his face partially hidden behind a loosely clutched kerchief held dangling from long, spidery fingers. “The duchess,” he said, his voice thin and watery, “is too kind.”
“She is, isn't she?” the woman replied.
Beatrice Luchene, the Duchess Davillon, Voice of Vercoule, landholder and ruler over all territories claimed by the duchy, province, and city of Davillon, was just shy of six feet, and broad of shoulders, hips, and features. Her hair, black-going-gray, was piled high above her head in a mountain of curls that failed utterly to soften a face grown taut with age. She wore rich purples and reds and blues, as well as a golden sun-and-crown brooch, and her face was powdered to within a shade of newly fallen snow.
Her host, by contrast, was a short, bony, shadow of a weasel of a man. Charles Doumerge, the Baron d'Orreille, looked perennially ill. His skin was near gray even without the benefits of powder, and his limp, straw-colored hair was thinning faster than a slug in a salt-shaker. Not even his finest outfit, of blues and browns, made him look any less the walking corpse.
Doumerge leaned in, his rodent's nose cutting through the intervening air like a prow. The duchess managed (barely) to refrain from pulling away.
“I'm grateful,” Doumerge told her, his voice as low as the surrounding cacophony would allow, “that I've guests here with the appropriate—shall we say, refinement?—to appreciate my efforts.” He furtively glanced around, as though ensuring he wouldn't be overheard, then, simpering, continued, “The truth is, I don't believe that everyone here is quite suited to this sort of thing. If I may be brutally honest with you, Your Grace, I'd not have chosen to invite, say”—he cast about quickly for a safe target—“the Marquis De Brielles. The fellow simply doesn't have what it takes to survive in our particular arena, you see? But, well, poor Francis has had such a difficult time of it of late, it would have been boorish not to offer him the opportunity to escape his problems. Still, I doubt that he's properly able to—”
“Francis Carnot,” the duchess said stiffly, “has done quite well, considering the title of marquis was expected to fall to his late brother. I consider the gentleman a friend, and I look forward to the day when he has managed to get his House back on its feet.” She peered down on her unpleasant little host, her expression lofty.
Floundering wildly for a distraction, the baron's gaze fell upon another guest nearby, a pretty young woman currently standing alone amidst the swirl of people, staring vacuously off into space.
“Umm—ah, Your Grace?” he asked, even as he reached his stick-thin arms and wormy finger to grasp at the young lady's elbow. “Have you met Mademoiselle Valois? No? Well then, I present to you Madeleine Valois. Mademoiselle Valois, this is Beatrice Luchene, the Duchess Davillon.”
The young lady blinked twice, her only sign of surprise, and curtsied elegantly. “Your Grace,” she said, her voice throaty yet demure, “I'm honored.”
With an artfully concealed flicker of amusement at Doumerge's clumsy diversion, Luchene gave the newcomer a brief once-over.
She was young, this Madeleine Valois, scarcely more than a child, with a slender face, sharp features, and aquatic eyes. Her head was piled high with lavish blonde curls; clearly a wig, but since half the women in attendance sported wigs, this hardly mattered. Her gown was a heavy thing of forest green velvets. All told, little about the woman separated her in any way, shape, or form from a dozen other ladies of quality.
And yet…
“It seems to me,” the duchess said, having acknowledged the young woman's genuflection with a shallow nod, “that I have seen you somewhere before, my dear.”
“Almost certainly, Your Grace,” Madeleine told her, face modestly downcast. “I've been privileged to attend several balls and dinners before tonight. But this is the first time,” she added breathlessly, with a beaming smile toward their mousy host, “that anyone has done me the honor of formally acquainting us.”
“Ah.” The duchess's mind was clearly already moving on to other pursuits. “Well, it's certainly been a pleasure to meet you, dear. Do enjoy the rest of the party, yes? Good Baron,” she continued, abruptly swiveling toward the pale-faced lord of the manor, “I believe that you and I were in the midst of a discussion?”
As the royals launched back into their debate regarding the values of particular guests, the young lady drifted, unnoticed, into the throng. “Well, that was interesting,” murmured the woman who currently called herself Madeleine Valois. “I thought we'd been found out.”
Heartfelt agreement, tinged with a patina of relief, flowed from her unseen companion, followed by a sense of inquiry.
“No, I'm not worried about the baron. That clown wouldn't comprehend a real threat if someone hid a manticore in his chamber pot. I was afraid the duchess might have recognized me, though. Thankfully, I'm not important enough for close examination.”
Another surge of emotion, almost but not quite nostalgia.
Madeleine—who had once been Adrienne—nodded. “And it was a long time ago, yes. But enough worrying.” Sliding through the forest of humanity, she continued to survey the house, absorbing every detail. “All right, he's not allowed any of his guests upstairs, so I'll wager that's where he keeps most of his valuables.” Irritably, she shook her head, careful not to dislodge her wig and reveal the thick brown hair beneath. “I wish I had the opportunity to examine the layout up there,” she complained. “It would make this all so much easier. Ah, well. We're only human, yes?”
Somehow, without the use of a single coherent word, Olgun growled something impolite.
Madeleine flickered a mischievous smile. Right. As if she would wake up one morning and just forget that she had a god riding around in her head.
Gradually, she allowed the flow of the party to edge her ever nearer the door. It was time for Madeleine Valois to make her farewells, preparing the way for a different and uninvited guest.
Several pairs of eyes watched as Madeleine Valois ma
de her graceful exit from the Baron d'Orreille's soiree. Most were potential admirers, sorry to see so lovely a creature depart from their midst.
One was not.
All the houses of Davillon boasted their own guards. Even if most never saw the slightest action, it was simply Not Done to go without. Some were veritable armies unto themselves, while others consisted of anyone who could stand up straight and look competent while making parade-ground turns in formalwear or old-fashioned armor.
Doumerge's guards were largely of the latter category, which meant that the baron's hiring requirements were rather more lax than those of the City Guard. And that meant that, though his ruined hand had cost him his commission in said Guard, Henri Roubet had never lacked for a position.
This wasn't the first party at which the crippled solider had spotted the Lady Valois, though she had never spotted him in turn; it was part of his job, after all, to remain inconspicuous and out of the guests' way. But tonight was the first time he'd gotten a good enough look at her to be certain that she was who he thought she was.
Madeline Valois was, indeed, Adrienne Satti. It was a bit of news for which his employer—his real employer, not the weaselly fool of a baron—would pay well.
To those who dwelt outside the law, within the slums and poor districts, and among the population of the so-called Finders' Guild, she was neither Madeleine nor Adrienne. She was Widdershins, a simple street-thief like a thousand others. Tonight, Madeleine had done her part admirably; now it was Widdershins's turn to take over.
Two blocks south of Doumerge Estates, sandwiched between a large bakery and a winery, lay a narrow alleyway that was nigh invisible in the late hours. Filled with refuse from both establishments, emptied once a week by underpaid city workers, it was ignored by those few who noticed it at all.
At the moment, however, it boasted an abnormally large human population: that is, one. Madeleine edged her way down the alley, away from the boulevard. Knees bent, back pressed tightly against the winery, feet pushing against the opposite bricks, she passed above the reeking filth. Her gown lay in her lap, clasped tightly in her left arm; she wore, now, a bodysuit of supple black fabrics and leathers that had lain hidden beneath the forest-green velvet. At the end of the alleyway, she reached out, straining to grasp the pack she'd stashed earlier that evening. Though her entire weight shifted and she feared she'd dislodged herself from her precarious perch, her fingers brushed against the satchel. She quickly grabbed it and yanked it up.
Still without setting foot on the cobblestones, her nose wrinkled against the stench of refuse, she stuffed the gown roughly into the bag and removed a second, smaller bundle. This prize, carefully unwrapped, revealed deerskin gauntlets, hood, thin shoes of black leather, and a belt whose pouches and pockets contained, among other things, a candle stub, a one-handed tinderbox, a tiny hammer and chisel, and the finest set of skeleton keys and wire picks available in any market, black or otherwise. Finally, her tool of last resort: a rapier, blade blackened with carbon and ink, the basket-hilt removed so that the weapon could hang flat against her back.
The dark-colored sack in which her tools had been wrapped, she folded tightly and jammed through her belt. The larger pack—stuffed with the gown, jewelry, and everything else that identified Madeleine Valois—would remain ensconced at the end of the alley.
A few quick breaths to steady herself, and she reached over her head to grab the overhang. She tightened her fists and pulled her legs away from the far wall, lifting them smoothly up, her weight supported only by her hold on the roof. Her stomach muscles, though toned through years of practice, still screamed in agony as first her feet, then her knees, cleared the roof over her head and curled over. A final heave, arms straining, and she lay on her stomach at the edge of the winery's roof.
For a few minutes—more than a few, if truth be known—she simply lay, gasping as she regained her composure. She quirked her lips in annoyance at the question she felt from her divine passenger.
“Maybe, but this way was quicker,” she whispered.
Olgun's response was amused, and more than a little teasing.
“No, I did not do that just to prove I could!” she snapped at him.
Some emotions were more easily translated into words than others. The one he projected now was definitely the equivalent of, “Yeah, right.”
Grumbling, Widdershins rose to her feet—ignoring the twinges in her abdomen—and moved across the rooftops. A step to this roof, a leap to that, a quick scamper up a nearby wall…. Perhaps a quarter of an hour later, she settled on a building across a wide lane from the gates of the Doumerge Estates.
The boulevard was the border between two worlds. Behind, the square, squat buildings of the district's shops. They, like most of the city's newer construction, were of cheap stone or haphazardly painted wood, all business. Before her, a row of manors. Sloped roofs, ornate cornices and buttresses, fluted gutters and snarling gargoyles, all in marble or whitewashed stone, all old enough to have acquired an arrogance utterly independent of those who dwelt within. The straight lines and angles of poverty facing off against the graceful arches of wealth.
Widdershins had dwelt in both, and wasn't certain she was entirely comfortable in either. Crouching atop the flat roof, melding into the shadows, she settled in for what would surely be a long and boring wait.
Long and boring, as it turned out, were ridiculously optimistic. Endless and mind-numbing would have proved more accurate. The hours lazily meandered by, and the impulsive thief found herself near to bursting with the strain of waiting. Finally, as the moon rowed her way across the sea of night, the manor finally began to excrete its guests in sporadic fits and spurts. The stars wheeled their courses across the nighttime firmament; bats and nightbirds flapped past overhead; cats fought in nearby alleys, hissing and spitting all the while; and time plodded toward morning.
Not long before dawn, when she felt she could take it no longer, the lanterns in the upper-story windows flickered and died, suggesting that Baron Weasel-face had finally retired to his burrow for badly needed (and blatantly ineffectual) beauty sleep. The downstairs lights continued to burn, no doubt for servants who, having stood and watched as rich people grew fat on fancy foods, were now compelled to clean up after the satin-wrapped and brocaded swine.
“Hsst!” she hissed, her throat vaguely hoarse from the yelling that had passed for conversation during the baron's party. “Olgun! Wake up!”
Her mind was filled with a sense of self-righteous—and vaguely drowsy—protest.
“Sure you weren't,” she needled at him. “You were just practicing snoring, so you'd be sure to get it right later on, yes?”
Olgun's response very strongly resembled an indignant snort.
“Whatever. It's time.”
She cocked her head in response to an unvoiced question.
“Of course I'd rather wait a bit longer,” she lied, actually fidgeting foot to foot. “But the night's not just old, it's getting arthritic. We have to go now.”
The faint scrabbling of loose shale shifting as she set foot on the roadway was the only sound of her swift and graceful descent. Had anyone been watching the wide boulevard in the faint light of the street lamps, he'd have seen nothing more than a quick wink of blackness, a wisp of shadow, no more alarming than a running tomcat and dismissed just as readily.
The polished stone wall surrounding the Doumerge property was near ten feet tall, and impressively smooth. No cracks or seams provided even the most infinitesimal handhold. A rope and grapple might have provided a solution, but Widdershins, who preferred to work light, carried no such thing.
She never needed one.
“Olgun?” she prodded, breaking into a dash as she neared the barrier. “Would you be so kind…?”
As she drew within a few feet of the wall, her boot came down on something that simply wasn't there, an invisible step or perhaps the interlaced fingers of unseen hands. With Olgun's boost, she cleared the wall ent
irely, tucking in tight to avoid the short but wicked spikes that topped it.
The shock upon landing was considerable, though she tumbled into a forward roll to absorb as much momentum as she could. Half kneeling in the baron's dew-coated grass, she gingerly tested both ankles, both knees; as often as she'd done this, she was convinced each time that she'd injured something. Only when each and every joint proved fully mobile and free of pain did she rise and take in her surroundings.
Large, flowering bushes of diverse hue decorated the property at random intervals that someone had probably thought were tasteful. A few trees grasped gently at the stars above, while sculptures and fountains of stone dotted the estate. Even in the dark, Widdershins could see two satyrs, a naked nymph, and a urinating cherub. The entire place emitted a sickly sweet scent, as though the combination of so many flowering plants and blossoms brought out the worst in each. No wonder Doumerge always appeared faintly ill.
It all just oozed excess. Widdershins felt her mouth curl in a faint sneer at what Baron Doumerge was—what she herself had almost become, a lifetime ago.
“Olgun?” she asked, her tone again little more than a breath. “Dogs?”
A pause, an answer.
“Ah. And do you think you should maybe do something about that?”
Self-satisfied gloating.
“You already did.” It wasn't a question.
Another affirmative.
Widdershins sighed. “I hope you didn't hurt them.”
Olgun sent a flash of horror running through her, so strong that she felt herself shudder.
“All right, I'm sorry!” she hissed. “I know you like dogs. I know you wouldn't hurt them! I wasn't thinking!”
The god sniffed haughtily.
“Look, I said I was sorry! Let's move on already, yes? We're running out of night.”
At an easy jog, flitting from shadow to shadow, Widdershins crossed the property. She passed, on the way, a large brown hunting hound wearing a spiked collar. The dog sniffed once in her direction, wrinkled its nose with a slight yelp, and ignored her.
