the Shrouded Lord— Lord , not God,” he interjected as Genevieve's face grew puzzled once more. “—is allowing you-know-who to be as heavy-handed as she likes, in hopes of cowing the more rebellious elements into submission—”
He knew it was a mistake even as the words marched across his tongue, but he couldn't snap his teeth fast enough to trap them.
“Cow me into submission?” Both her friends could see the fog of an indignant huff settling around Widdershins.
“Perhaps a poor choice of words,” Renard backtracked hastily.
Widdershins gave no indication of having heard him. “Who do those dried-up, incompetent, wrinkled, useless old half-wits think they are?!”
“Widdershins, such language!” Renard commented sarcastically. “Why, keep this up and you'll be calling them ‘poop heads' within the hour, and then what will the children of Davillon think?”
Her glare bored into him, leaving scorch marks in his expensive finery. “I should teach the whole lot of you something—”
“Widdershins, please!” The dandy's tone finally broke through her mounting rant. “You and I both know that you've got a reputation for being, shall we say, precipitous—and not entirely undeserved, at that. So you worry them. It's nothing personal, and you're not the only one. Let it go.”
“You're absolutely right, of course, Renard,” Widdershins told him with a gentle smile, her voice suddenly calm, even mild.
He squinted at her, not believing a word of it.
“In any event,” he barged ahead, “as long as she thinks you're holding out on your cut, that's all the excuse she needs.”
“What are you telling me, Renard? That I better pay up, even though I don't owe anything?” Much.
“If you have any emotional attachment to your kneecaps, yes. I'd hate to see your legs broken, Widdershins. They're such nice legs.”
“Fine,” she sighed. With a grunt of disgust, she thrust her hand deep into a pouch at her belt and scattered a large handful of coins across the tabletop. “Start with this. I'll see what I can do about getting Li—uh, you-know-who the rest of her precious coins. Before his Eminencialness shows up.”
Renard nodded, scooped the marks into his own pouch, and rose. “I imagine I can buy you a few days with this. Assuming,” he added with a twinkle in his eye, “that I don't decide to just go spend them on a fabulous dinner and a bottle of good red.” His smile faded at the look on her face. “Uh, right. I'll let you know if you still have reason to worry.”
“I always have reason to worry, Renard.”
“Of course. Widdershins, be careful,” he said seriously. “Don't do anything unwise.”
“Who, me?”
“Hmph. Mademoiselle Genevieve, it was an exquisite pleasure to meet you. Your establishment is lovely, though not nearly so much as its owner.” With another flamboyant bow, he swept from the room like an arrogant wind.
“An interesting fellow,” Genevieve commented blandly— too blandly, Widdershins might have said—as the door shut behind him. “Not at all what I expected from a thief. He was actually quite pleasant.”
“Don't even think it, Gen. He's not safe to associate with.”
“I associate with you, don't I?”
“Not that sort of association!”
“Ah.” She looked up suddenly, accusing. “Shins, you told him you weren't holding back on the guild!”
“I'm not,” the young woman insisted stubbornly, and then quailed beneath the barkeep's disapproving glower. “Well, no more than anyone else!” she protested somewhat less vehemently. “Really! It's expected of us, Gen! That's why the percentages are so high, because they know they won't get a full accounting!”
“Shins…”
“I'm doing them a favor! If I reported my take honestly, it would throw off their accounting system! They'd get too much from me. It would mess up their numbers, or they'd start expecting the same of everybody! It's my duty to hold back on them!”
Genevieve crossed