False Covenant wa-1 Read online

  “Oh, horseshit!” Squirrel began. “You're such a-”

  “Have some of your people ask around about a gaggle of Guardsmen getting a banner dropped on their heads if you don't believe me,” she said to Remy.

  “I may do that. But even if it's true, you said ‘initially.’ That sounds to me like an admission that you did eventually throw some of our people to the Guard.”

  Squirrel grinned a tight, evil little grin.

  “Well, yeah,” Shins said casually. She actually crossed one leg over the other knee and began examining the nails on her right hand. “I mean, given how peeved you are about those idiots threatening a few aristocrats and servants, I can just imagine how irked you'd have been if-”

  “She's lying!” Simon screamed, rising to his feet.

  “-they'd actually succeeded in-”

  “Shut up, you bitch!”

  “-deliberately murdering officers of the Guard.”

  Simon looked about ready to hurl himself across the room at her, but Remy's abrupt stare effectively pinned him to the floor where he stood.

  “They…” He swallowed once, then tried again to answer the taskmaster's unasked question. “They were disguised as servants! How could we have known?”

  “The first ones were disguised as servants, Squirrel,” Widdershins helpfully reminded him. “The ones that you actually tried to stab were in full uniform, though.”

  “That so?” Remy asked again.

  “No!” Squirrel insisted.

  Widdershins shrugged. “As I said, I know you have sources in the Guard. Ask around. We'll be happy to wait.” She smiled sweetly at Simon. “Won't we?”

  Simon might have had a response to that-probably not, though-but either way, it didn't matter. The door opened without so much as a knock, and Remy was immediately on his feet, Widdershins close behind.

  There was, after all, only one man in the guild who'd dare to barge in on the taskmaster without knocking.

  Framed in the doorway, illuminated by the flickering lantern light, stood the Shrouded Lord, unquestioned master of the Finders' Guild. His garb consisted entirely of charcoal-hued fabrics hanging in heavy folds, topped by a full-face hood not dissimilar to that worn by the nearby idol. The result was to make him look vaguely phantasmal (and, in fact, not too different from the mysterious figure stalking Davillon's streets, though he had no way of knowing about that unfortunate coincidence). It was a much more successful effect in his own audience chamber, which was kept full of a scented smoke whose color matched the fabrics, but even here it proved impressive enough.

  Nor was he alone. Just behind and to the left loomed a tall, severe-looking, hatchet-faced woman of middle years. Her dark skin, her darker hair, and her eyes-piercing and black-contrasted sharply with her cassock of formal whites and grays. Widdershins had had only a few sporadic dealings with the woman, but she recognized her well enough. This was Igraine Vernadoe, the high priestess of the Shrouded God and the clergy of the Finders' Guild.

  “Sit,” the Shrouded Lord ordered, gliding into the room, the priestess at his heels. His voice was rough, gravelly, and blatantly artificial. None, save the priests themselves, ever knew which member of the Finders' Guild wore the hood of the Shrouded Lord; but of course, the hood did nothing to alter his voice. That, then, was entirely up to him. Widdershins had long wondered just how badly the fellow's throat must hurt at the end of any given day. “What, pray tell,” he continued when everyone had done as he ordered, “is all the shouting about? We heard you from down the hall.”

  Remy glowered one last time at Squirrel, who had the courtesy to cringe, and then repeated the entire exchange to the Shrouded Lord.

  “I was,” the taskmaster concluded, “just about to start discussing punishments when you arrived, my lord.”

  The hood rumpled forward in a nod, and then turned toward the priestess-who looked neither at Remy nor Simon, but had kept her attention locked on Widdershins from the moment she entered the room.

  Widdershins was trying to return that look confidently without crossing the line into “challenging,” and was having a tough time of it. No other priests or worshippers in Davillon-in the world, so far as she knew-had the same connection with their deities as Widdershins had with Olgun. But she knew that many priests had some abilities that bordered on the mystical, including a surprising degree of insight. As such, she was never sure exactly what Igraine, or the other guild priests, actually knew, sensed, or suspected about her and Olgun. It made her nervous; it made Olgun nervous; and they, in turn, fretted enough to make each other even more nervous.

  “I think,” the Shrouded Lord said slowly, “that Monsieur Beaupre has begun to get some inkling of how displeased we are with his actions, and could use some time to ruminate on that.” He slowly faced Simon, who had grown pale enough that even a professional undertaker might have mistaken him for a client. “Couldn't you?”

  “Ah…yes, my lord.”

  “Good. Go. We will discuss your punishment another time. Do be prepared to explain what you've learned from this, hmm? It may have some bearing on the severity of your penance.”

  Simon rose, bowed-no mean feat, given that he was trembling at the time-and made for the door, edging around the room so as not to get too near the Shrouded Lord in the process.

  “Well,” Widdershins said, standing up as the door clicked shut behind the fleeing Squirrel, “I guess I should be on my way, too. Taskmaster, thank you for-”

  “Sit. Down.”

  “Wow.” Widdershins sat. “Did the three of you practice that? Because, I mean, that was pretty much perfectly coordinated. I-”

  “You should probably stop talking now,” Remy warned her.

  “Now?” she said. “Probably a while ago, I'd think.”

  Despite what appeared to be his best efforts to thwart them, the corners of the taskmaster's mouth curled upward in a faint smile.

  “We were planning,” the Shrouded Lord said, leaning back against the wall and crossing his arms so that the hanging fabrics draped in layers over his chest, “to call you in anyway, Widdershins. So it's just as well the taskmaster summoned you.”

  Widdershins bristled at the word “summoned,” but she managed (possibly with Olgun's help) to avoid blurting out something really stupid.

  “We would, in fact, appreciate your assistance,” the guildmaster continued. “We-”

  “My lord?” They all turned to the priestess, who was perhaps the only Finder in the city who would dare to interrupt him. (Or the only one who would dare and could reasonably expect to suffer no serious consequences.)

  It was impossible, beneath the Shrouded Lord's hood, to see even a hint of facial features, but Widdershins was absolutely certain she could sense a raised eyebrow. “Yes?” he asked Igraine. It was long, drawn out; more of a yyyeeeeesssss?

  “I wish to protest this, again. I don't believe she can be trusted.”

  “Hey!” Widdershins snapped. “Standing right here, you know!”

  Igraine ignored her. “I'd be far more comfortable if-”

  It was, this time, the Shrouded Lord who interrupted her. “Yes, so you were making clear before Monsieur Beaupre's outburst distracted us. And as I believe I was making clear, I understand your concerns, but I do not share them.”

  “My lord, my counsel is one of the reasons-”

  “That'll do, Igraine.”

  The priestess nodded, then directed her sharp, scarcely blinking gaze at the young woman in question.

  A young woman who, frankly, had lost her patience some time ago.

  “What is it,” she demanded of the room at large, “with me and the powerful women in this guild? First Lisette, now you? What'd I do to ruffle your holy feathers?”

  Remy coughed into his hand, presumably since laughing outright wouldn't have been politic.

  Even Igraine smiled shallowly at the comment. “I've nothing against you personally, Widdershins.”

  “Then what-?”

&nb
sp; “I do not understand precisely what happened here last year. I don't know why you had such an unholy creature pursuing you. And I have yet to determine what it is, but there's something wrong about you. An…aura, if you will. A power that I find distasteful, and possibly contrary to the will of the Shrouded God.”

  Well, Widdershins groused mentally, I guess that answers my question about how much of Olgun she can sense.

  “I distrust what I don't understand,” the priestess continued, “and I dislike what I don't trust. So unless you'd care to explain…?”

  “I,” Widdershins announced firmly, “have no idea what you're talking about.”

  “Of course you don't.”

  “Are you quite through?” asked the Shrouded Lord.

  “I am,” Widdershins told him. “I can't speak for Her Eminence.”

  “That's a term of address for an archbishop,” Igraine corrected her with a sniff. “Not a priestess.”

  “Oh, I'm sorry. Her Insignificance, then.”

  The taskmaster's coughing fit grew worse.

  “Let me rephrase,” the Shrouded Lord said. “You two are quite through.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “All right.”

  “Laremy,” the guildmaster continued, “you may wish to have that cough looked at.”

  “Uh, yes, my lord.”

  “Good. Now-”

  “Uh…Excuse me? Um, my lord?”

  The Shrouded Lord's shoulders deflated. “Yes, Widdershins?”

  “Um…” She was chewing on the ends of her hair-and when exactly had that become a habit?! — her face suddenly serious. “What about Lisette? Any…uh, any news?”

  Lisette Suvagne-Laremy's predecessor as taskmaster-had been Widdershins's avowed enemy ever since the younger thief had stolen the ancestral treasures from the d'Arras family tower, a job that Suvagne herself had been planning for months. The former taskmaster had made multiple attempts at destroying Widdershins, until she'd finally gone a step too far and been removed from her post for disobeying the Shrouded Lord's direct orders. She'd utterly vanished not long afterward, even from the far-reaching attentions of the Finders' Guild.

  “No,” he said simply. “Nothing.”

  “Oh.”

  “As I was saying,” he continued, a touch of impatience creeping into his rasping voice, “we have a bit of a conundrum on our hands, and we-that is, some of us-felt that you would be an appropriate choice to help us out.”

  “I would? What'd I do this time?”

  “Nothing. Other than come dangerously near to annoying your boss.”

  “Maybe I'll be quiet and let you finish,” Widdershins murmured.

  “Maybe, but I have my doubts.”

  Silence, then-perhaps deliberately to prove the Shrouded Lord wrong.

  Eventually, he continued, “While I do not share my priestess's distrust of you, she's not wrong in her facts. You were heavily involved in a number of mysterious and even supernatural events last year. The demon that pursued you through our halls; the death of its summoner; even the murder of Archbishop William de Laurent, as well as several of your friends.”

  Widdershins looked to the floor; six months later, the wounds remained fresh.

  “To say nothing of whatever power it is that Igraine senses around you. We've all heard tell of your astonishing good luck, enough to know that someone-or something-watches over you.”

  “Well, I-”

  “So, what do you know of the phantom that's been attacking Davillon's citizens over the past week or so?”

  Widdershins's jaw clacked audibly shut. She wasn't sure what she'd been expecting, but that was not it. “Know? Nothing. I mean, I've heard the rumors, same as anyone, but…” She shrugged. “I didn't really think it even involved us.”

  Igraine made a sound that, had it been any louder, would have been a scoff. “A figure wandering the streets in the dark, attacking citizens, at a time when everyone-even the Finders' Guild-is struggling to make ends meet? And you didn't think this might concern us?”

  “Uh, maybe I didn't think it through?”

  “Maybe you didn't.”

  “If this is a mortal,” the Shrouded Lord said, “he is acting outside the purview of the guild. If it's supernatural, it will make our own efforts that much more difficult, as patrols increase and travelers decrease. In either case, it's likely to bring suspicion down on our own heads, as the Guard casts about for answers-or, if they get desperate enough, a scapegoat.” He paused, scratching at his chin through the heavy fabric. “Are you certain this couldn't be the same sort of demon that came after you?”

  Widdershins shuddered, but shook her head. “I don't see how. All the rumors I've heard said the thing looked more or less human-shaped, and my demon sure wasn't. And I don't think it would've left anyone alive, let alone everyone, you know?”

  “Fair enough. Well, you may be no expert in the occult, Widdershins, but you've more experience than most of my people. I would appreciate it if you would see what else you can learn about this thing.”

  “What? Me? I-”

  “I'm not asking you to devote your every moment to investigating it. Just keep an ear out, see what you can discover. Consider it,” he added, “penance for your own part in the screwup at Rittier's estate, so that Laremy need not assign any additional punishment.”

  Widdershins grumbled something that the others pretended not to hear, and nodded curtly.

  “Good, you may go.”

  “Oh, may I?” Then, realizing that she was probably on the verge of pushing things just a hair too far, Widdershins nodded a second time and made a beeline for the door as fast as courtesy permitted.

  Maybe faster.

  The hallways of the Finders' Guild didn't provide a great many hiding places. Or rather, those near the outside did, for purposes of defense, but the passages toward the center-such as, for instance, around the office of the taskmaster-were fairly straightforward and unadorned. The torches cast a few pockets of shadow, and some of the doorways provided narrow niches, but it would take a true expert to use such feeble cover for any sort of effective concealment.

  Then again, these were thieves, so such expertise wasn't all that hard to come by.

  The door opened and Widdershins flounced out, muttering under her breath as she vanished down the long hall. The Shrouded Lord and Igraine Vernadoe emerged a moment later, heading in the other direction. The door closed once more behind them, leaving Laremy Privott alone with whatever thoughts or duties now occupied him.

  Lanterns burned. The smoke in the hall grew thick and then faded, puffed away by the random currents making the rounds of the labyrinth. And Simon Beaupre, called Squirrel, emerged from a pocket of shadow not far from the taskmaster's door.

  A most interesting conversation, that had been. Time to gather the boys together; if they could learn more about this supernatural creature stalking the streets, that would surely be enough for Squirrel to earn his way back into favor, to avoid whatever unnecessary punishments they were concocting for what was clearly a simple misunderstanding.

  And just maybe, if the gods smiled and he played the game just exactly right, he might also learn what peculiar secret the enigmatic Widdershins was hiding from her fellow Finders.

  Mind afire with plans and possibilities, Squirrel, too, made his way down the many halls and back out onto the rain-slick streets of Davillon. It shouldn't, he was certain, prove all that difficult an undertaking. After all, this strange assailant had been active for over a week, striking almost nightly, and it hadn't killed a soul. How dangerous could it actually be?

  Constable Carville raised a hand in salute as Paschal Sorelle, his arm wrapped in a sling, approached the post. Sorelle himself nodded his reply. “Report?”

  Carville straightened up and firmly announced that absolutely nothing of any importance had happened. It was a waste of time, and they both knew it, but procedure was procedure.

  It was a cushy assignment they'd been give
n, a chance to relax after a job well done-and, in Sorelle's case, a chance to recover from his injury-though it would have been far more pleasant without the rain. Tradition and law demanded that several of the Guard stand outside the walls of Davillon every night, watching for invaders, smugglers, or other illicit activity, as well as for messengers or other travelers whose purposes were so urgent that they could not wait for the main gates to reopen at dawn. In theory, it was a solid idea and an important duty. In practice, it amounted to several hours of standing around doing absolutely nothing. In the dark. In times past, there might have been a few late travelers to break the monotony, but with Davillon currently suffering the Church's displeasure, travelers of any sort, nocturnal or otherwise, were rare.

  Carville had been a part of the operation at the Ducarte estate; had, in fact, been one of the Guardsmen dressed as servants, and had been right in the middle of the group on whom Widdershins had dropped the banner. His hair and complexion were both darker than Paschal's-the former by quite a great deal, the latter only slightly-but otherwise they looked identical enough, especially as both wore the black and silver of the Guard.

  “So in other words,” Paschal said as Carville finished up his non-report, “you're bored as a blue blood without a mirror.”

  The other snorted, nodding. It wasn't a crack either would have made had Bouniard been present, but as soldiers of the same rank-even if Paschal technically had seniority by a year or so-they could justify a certain breach of decorum.

  “All right, Constable,” Paschal said. “You know the drill. Whistle if you need anything.” And with that he was off, continuing to walk the rounds of the wall so that he might check in with the other nighttime posts under his command. Carville saluted a second time, held the pose until Paschal was gone, and then resumed slouching against the monolithic blocks of the city wall, trying not to wince as the cold drizzle occasionally dribbled off his hat and down the back of his neck.

  When the figure first appeared, some cold and soggy minutes later, he wasn't even certain he was really seeing it. It looked, initially, to be nothing more than a denser spot amidst the drops, perhaps whipped up by an errant gust of wind. Only as it neared did it resolve itself into a human form, disturbingly long of limb and even more disturbing in how it moved. Shoulders shifted in an exaggerated gait; legs skimmed, rather than stepped, across the surface of the muddy road. It was less a walk than a ballet; less a ballet than a macabre glide. The traveler's forward movement seemed independent of those peculiar steps.