Free Thief's Covenant (A Widdershins Adventure) by Ari Marmell Page A

bad leg. “Gods, Shins, are you all right?”
    Widdershins probably would have replied, but her friend's violent embrace was only marginally looser than that of a hungry boa constrictor. Genevieve failed to notice the faint bulging around the thief's eyes.
    “I'm so sorry!” the barkeep sobbed over and over. “Gods, I'm so sorry.”
    “Gen—” Widdershins finally managed to croak. “Air…”
    “Oh!” Flushing an embarrassed crimson, Genevieve loosened her death grip and stepped back. Widdershins gasped in what might have been gratitude.
    The other patrons of the Flippant Witch, she noticed, were staring at them with a fascinating mixture of expressions, and Widdershins decided that this probably wasn't a conversation to have in public, or even anywhere vaguely public-adjacent.
    “Robin!” she shouted (after sucking in a few more deep breaths), summoning the small serving girl to her side.
    “Is she all right?” Robin asked with a concerned glance at her employer.
    Great , Widdershins grumbled silently. I'm the one who almost got pulped into a pastry, and the brat wants to know if Genevieve's all right. “She'll be fine, Robin. We just need to talk for a few minutes. Can you handle being in charge out here for a little while?”
    “Oh, sure. I've run an entire shift before. But you tell me if you need anything.” She looked up at Widdershins, expression iron-hard and insistent. The thief couldn't help but laugh.
    “I'll do that,” she chuckled, again tousling the girl's hair. Then, taking Genevieve by the shoulders, she led her disconsolate friend toward another of the private rooms, snagging a decanter of wine and a goblet from the bar as they passed.
    “Did they hurt you?” Widdershins asked softly as they neared the door.
    “What? Oh, no, not…not at all.” Genevieve's eyes clouded again, and she sniffled loudly. “They just…they wanted to know when you'd be here next. I didn't want to tell them anything, Shins, I swear to Banin I didn't! But—”
    “Hush, Gen. It's all right. I understand.” She did, too. Brock was frightening enough to Widdershins, accustomed as she was to the sorts of people with whom she shared Davillon's shadows. For someone like Genevieve Marguilles, he'd be downright terrifying.
    There was, however, one little detail she needed to know.
    “Gen,” she asked, voice calm, “you didn't tell them…that is, about me, did you?”
    “Tell…” For an instant, her mouth quirked in puzzlement, and then her face fell. “No, of course not! Gods, I'd never—”
    “I know,” Widdershins assured her. “I just had to ask.”
    Genevieve, so far as Adrienne knew, was the only other human being alive who knew that Widdershins had once been Adrienne Satti. If she were ever identified and arrested, Widdershins knew she couldn't expect anything resembling a fair trial, or even a clean execution. When it came to vindictiveness, the aristocracy could have taught the Finders' Guild a thing or two.
    But with that unpleasant possibility thankfully out of the way, there was nothing remaining but to comfort her traumatized friend as best she could.
    When Widdershins released her hold on Genevieve's shoulders to shove open the narrow door, she discovered that their so-called private room was already occupied.
    A short but impishly handsome fellow sat smugly in the farthest chair, his booted feet propped up on the edge of the table. The twinkle in his azure eyes vaguely belied the frown of concern that twisted his lips and jet-black mustache.
    Genevieve, already as jittery as a wine-addled monkey, loosed a shrill cry. Widdershins merely put a comforting hand once more around her friend's shoulder and scowled at the intruder.
    “What in the name of Khuriel's left shoe are you doing here, Renard?”
    Renard Lambert rose to his full unimpressive five-foot-seven and bowed extravagantly. He wore today a long tunic of the finest fabrics, constructed in panels of white and sapphire blue, and