Thief's Covenant (A Widdershins Adventure) (4 page)

NOW
:

It was, all of it, enormous. The Doumerge property was enormous, the manor at its center was enormous, and the ballroom deep within that house was—no surprise, by now—enormous.

And the chaos within, slipping further out of control by the minute, was rapidly becoming enormous as well.

A cluster of musicians sat upon a raised platform off in one corner, isolated from everyone they were hired to entertain. Furiously they played, lobbing their music into the crowd like arrows, reproducing some of the most popular tunes currently making the rounds of courts and noble soirees throughout Galice. Their outfits—the musicians, that is, not the pieces of music, though those too were arguably gussied up and overdressed—were lavish fabrics in a hypnotic mishmash of garish colors. Tunics and vests hung haphazardly; wigs sat askance atop sweaty heads; abused fingers ached in protest. For five hours they'd played, with never more than a few minutes between songs, and the torment didn't promise an end anytime soon.

For all that their music accomplished, they might well not have bothered. The ballroom, packed so full that dancing required advanced planning and possibly tactical diagrams, hovered at a volume just shy of tectonic movement. Every voice was a bellow, each and every speaker struggling to be heard over every other. The music, to them, was nothing more than extraneous noise, an obstacle to be shouted over.

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 made 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.