False Covenant

CHAPTER ELEVEN

She'd begrudged every wasted minute, every unnecessary step from the Lamarr estate to the hidden, but somewhat less than secret, headquarters of the Finders' Guild. As light and sporadic as the traffic might be, she resented every pedestrian on the road, the extra fractions of seconds it required to sprint around them.

So distracted was she that, even though she'd spent the entire run with her skirts gathered in one fist (as otherwise she might well have tripped on them), it took Olgun to remind her, as the pawnbroker's hove into view, that she was dressed and disguised as Madeleine Valois. And while more than a few of the Finders knew that Widdershins had an aristocratic guise that she used to case the homes of the rich and powerful, not many of them knew the precise details of that disguise, or by what name she went.

Grumbling further about the delay, Widdershins ducked into a small walkway that ran behind several of the nearby shops. Stepping over a pile of refuse that looked (and smelled) as though it might, at some point last week, have been a head of cabbage and a few other vegetables, she carelessly stripped off the gown, revealing portions of the sleek black leather that was her “working uniform.” The rest she acquired from the small sack that had also hung hidden beneath her skirts, so that in less than a minute, she was more or less Widdershins again. The wig and the gown were crumpled sloppily into the sack-she didn't expect to wear that precise outfit again, lest it bring to mind anyone's memories of Madeleine speaking to Squirrel at the party-while a barrel of rainwater from a few days previous was sufficient to remove the bulk of her makeup. (She realized that a few smears and smudges surely remained, but while these might draw a few sidelong looks or even some mild mockery, they weren't enough to identify who she'd been just moments before).

Finally, she removed a main gauche dagger, with a silver wire grip and a ring protruding from the hilt for extra protection, and strapped it to her waist. It was something she'd picked up on a job about two years ago and hadn't gotten around to selling. She'd never expected to use it, really, but she hadn't yet purchased a replacement rapier. She knew she should, knew that she might well regret not having a sword at her side, but she hadn't been able to bring herself to do so. It would have meant a final acknowledgment that she'd lost Alexandre's blade, and that was one admission that she couldn't quite face.

Although there wouldn't have been room to hide a full-sized rapier in her disguise anyway.

The bag itself she stuffed behind said rain barrel, hiding it with a few slats of wood from what had previously been either a second barrel or a large box. It wouldn't stand up to any sort of meticulous search during daylight hours, but Widdershins was pretty sure that she'd be retrieving the sack before dawn-and completely sure that very few people would ever have much reason to search this particular alleyway, night or day.

Thus suitably attired, Widdershins marched across the road and pounded on the door. The hidden panel had barely scooted open when she announced, “Widdershins. Member. I've every right to be here, and I don't want to hear it. Open the stupid door.”

Eyes blinked, skin crinkled, the panel slid shut, and-after a prolonged stretch in which Widdershins was starting to become convinced that she would have to pick the lock-the door creaked inward. Her chin forward and nose in the air as though she'd never for a heartbeat doubted that her way would be cleared, she cast a single nod toward the woman currently guarding the door, steadfastly ignored Olgun as he softly laughed at her, and proceeded into the guild's twisted hallways.

Her plan, which had begun as something to the effect of “Barge in on Remy or the Shrouded Lord and make them listen” had by now evolved into the much more intricate and political plan of “Knock politely first, then barge in on Remy or the Shrouded Lord and make them listen.” Whether either of these plans would have panned out, in their original or modified forms, became a moot point, however. Just as Widdershins was stalking past the heavy door to the guild's chapel, the iron portal slid open to reveal a handful of flickering candles around the feet of the idol to the Shrouded God.

And, somewhat more importantly, the priestess Igraine Vernadoe silhouetted against that dim and dancing halo.

“A moment of your time, Widdershins.” It was not phrased as a request.

Widdershins gave an instant's thought to blowing it off and continuing on her way, but she decided-even without Olgun's warning-that offending one of the Finders' top-three leaders, particularly one who was already harboring more than her share of suspicions, was not the best path to either success in her current endeavor or a long and happy life in general.

“Sure thing,” she said, turning on her heel and stepping so swiftly into the shrine that Igraine had to retreat a frantic step to let her pass. “Whatcha need?”

“Don't you think this charade has gone on long enough?” Igraine demanded.

“Uh…What?”

“Still playing? How foolish do you think I am, anyway?”

“What are my choices?”

The priestess's skin, naturally dark-hued to begin with, went almost mahogany, and her mouth twisted in a scowl. “I know there's something unnatural about you. I've warned you of this before.”

“Yes, but-”

“And this thing that's stalking Davillon? I know you're involved with it. I've heard the tale you told Lambert.”

“But I-”

“And now we hear that the Church is pressuring the Guard for your arrest? You expect me to believe that's a coincidence?”

“Wait, they're doing what?” Widdershins was rapidly starting to feel that she'd been thrown completely from the saddle of a wildly bucking conversation. “When did that happen?”

“Obviously, they've determined some link between you and these events. Maybe due to your involvement with de Laurent's death, I don't know. But I do know that it's time, and well past time, for you to tell us precisely what's going on in Davillon, and what your part in it might be. At which point, I'll know whether to advise the Shrouded Lord to have you killed or just expelled.”

Widdershins only realized that she'd narrowed her gaze at the priestess when the floor and the ceiling went blurry. “What happened,” she asked softly, “to ‘I have nothing against you personally, Widdershins’?”

“That,” Igraine said, her shoulders stiff, “was before it became blatantly obvious that we had something not only supernatural but murderous haunting our streets-and before we lost several of our own Finders to it. I've told you before, I know there's something off about you, something unnatural. I haven't determined how you're involved in all this, but between what's happening now and your complicity in the demonic attack against the Guild last year, I've no doubt whatsoever that you are involved.”

“Fine! I was just on my way to see the Shrouded Lord, and explain some of this to him. You're welcome to come along and-”

“I think not. You'll tell me-everything, not ‘some of this’-and I'll decide which parts of it need to be brought to his attention, and which fall under my purview as priestess.”

“Uh, no.” Widdershins cast an exasperated glance ceiling-ward and turned toward the door. “Tag along or not, but I'm going.”

Igraine clamped a hand down on Widdershins bicep. “I said-!”

The priestess swallowed whatever the rest of the sentence might have been, very nearly along with her own tongue. Her reflexes augmented by Olgun's power, Widdershins swiveled away from Igraine even as she stepped toward her, yanking the taller woman off-balance. For an instant Widdershins stood with her back toward the tottering Igraine, and then the thief stuck a leg out behind her, between the other woman's own, and shoved with her elbow. Igraine toppled backward with a faint screech-only to find that Widdershins, with blatantly unnatural speed, had actually pulled away and spun around to catch her before she hit the floor.

Except that what Igraine felt in the small of her back, supporting a good amount of her weight, was not Widdershins's hand, but the pommel of her main gauche.

“You realize,” Widdershins said, her tone casual, “that if I hadn't held the dagger point down, you'd be dead now?”

“The thought had occurred to me,” Igraine croaked, staring up at Widdershins's face, and the idol of the Shrouded God beyond. It peered back at them both, as indifferent as ever.

The priestess's weight was beginning to become awkward, given how precariously balanced she was, but Widdershins refused to let the strain show in either her expression or her voice. “So you see how this proves I'm not the enemy here, right?”

“Proves…You attacked me!”

“Actually, you grabbed me first.” Then, before Igraine could protest, “Look, if I'd wanted to kill you, you'd be dead, and I could tell whatever story I wanted, yes? And if I had something to hide, I wouldn't have attacked you at all, because I wouldn't have wanted you to know what I could do. So obviously, since I went this far but didn't hurt you, it can only mean that you can trust me.”

Igraine looked dizzier now than she'd been when she was actively in the process of falling over. “I wouldn't know how to begin to argue with that.”

“Good, because honestly, I don't know what half of it meant.”

“Can I get up?”

“Oh, sure.” Widdershins clasped Igraine's arm with her free hand, moved the fist holding the dagger (the pommel of which had certainly left an impressive bruise in the priestess's back, but otherwise hadn't harmed her in the slightest), and helped leverage the woman to a more or less upright position.

Igraine coughed once, then did what she could to smooth out the new rumples in her cassock of office. “You're awfully fast,” she noted.

“I've been told that.”

“Do you really think that assaulting me was the best way for you to make your case?”

Widdershins blanched, though she tried her best to keep it from her face. What had she been thinking? True, she'd never even considered actually striking with the blade, but even so, she'd just been so furious…

“That wasn't an assault,” she said in a tone far lighter than her roiling emotions. “That was roughhousing. Maybe a tussle, if we're being generous in our definitions.”

Despite herself, Igraine found her jaw tensing once more into a scowl. “You don't take anything seriously, do you?”

Widdershins met her stare without so much as blinking. “It's because I take the important things seriously,” she said, “that I know not to take you seriously.” And then, once more before Igraine could make the retort for which she was clearly drawing breath, “I'm going to see the Shrouded Lord now. You're welcome to join me. After I've told him what I need to tell him, if you want to lodge a complaint, be my guest.”

This time, though the priestess huffed something that might or might not have been a word, she made no attempt to stop Widdershins as the thief made for the door. Instead, she followed close behind-though not, Widdershins couldn't help but note, ever quite stepping within reach.

“Yeah,” Widdershins admitted in a voice that was even less than a whisper, agreeing with Olgun's unspoken remonstration. “Maybe it was dumb to show off in front of her. But she already sensed you, you know, or something about you. This way, at least she also knows I can take care of myself and I won't put up with her nonsense!”

Olgun somehow didn't seem convinced.

A few quick turns through hallways lit by the ubiquitous cheap lanterns (and thick with the equally ubiquitous oily smoke), and the two women-carefully keeping at least an arm's length between them-faced the door to the Shrouded Lord's audience chamber.

Today, Widdershins couldn't help but worry, is going to turn out really embarrassing if he's not here after all this. Then, with a shrug that drew a puzzled expression from Igraine, she took a few more steps and nodded to the sentry standing beside the door.

“He in?”

She kept her sigh of relief subtle when the fellow nodded, and reached past him to knock on the door. A voice called out for her to enter, and she did just that.

No matter how many times she saw it, Widdershins couldn't help but be impressed at the effect. The Shrouded Lord's peculiar gray garb really did blend perfectly with the heavy smoke that always wafted through the room, as well as the similar cloths laid across his chair and table. It truly made the man appear to be a vaguely phantasmal, disembodied presence.

Of course, part of the effect might have come from the fact that the fumes always made visitors' eyes water something nasty, but hey, who was going to complain about it?

“Well.” A vague sense of movement, and the sudden appearance of a pair of white orbs in the haze, was enough to indicate that they had the man's attention. “There's a pair of women I didn't expect to see keeping company.”

“It wasn't by choice,” Widdershins announced cheerfully.

“Ah. And do you care to add anything to that, Igraine?”

“No, my lord, I think Widdershins summed it up fairly well.”

The Shrouded Lord chuckled, but only briefly. “Widdershins,” he said, his voice serious once more, “Lambert told me of your wish for a meeting, but I haven't sent for you. You really need to learn to be more-”

“I'm sorry about that-uh, my lord,” she added swiftly as, even through the haze, she could see him tense at her interruption. “But something's happened that can't wait.” Then, taking his silence for permission to continue, Widdershins began recounting the events of the evening. By the time she neared the end, she found herself rushing, tripping over her own words, in her haste to get it all out so that she could stop remembering. She hoped the other two would attribute the redness in her eyes to nothing more than the cloying smoke.

When she was done, both the Shrouded Lord and Igraine remained silent for several moments more.

“I'm sorry,” the Shrouded Lord said finally, “that you had to witness that.” Was that genuine sympathy in his voice? Widdershins thought it very well might be. “And you're absolutely correct, that this makes the issue rather more immediate. But I'm curious as to why you seem to feel that this is our responsibility.”

Somehow, Widdershins didn't think that saying Because Iruoch's singled me out personally, and since I can't do this without your help, I intend to drag you into it whether you like it or not would go over all that well. It would, if nothing else, require explaining a lot of details-such as, oh, say, the matter of her own personal deity-that, Igraine's suspicions notwithstanding, she'd just as soon not divulge.

What she said, instead, was, “Weren't you the one asking me to look into this just a few days ago?”

“Indeed, I was-because I wanted to be certain that we couldn't be blamed for what was happening. But now that it's become clear the perpetrator is truly something supernatural, and kills indiscriminately, I don't believe there's any further risk of misplaced accusations.”

“Except,” Widdershins countered, “that the Guild might still appear to be involved. Did Renard tell you everything I told him about my encounter with Iruoch?”

Igraine snorted at the name, and threw a look at the Shrouded Lord that Widdershins couldn't begin to interpret, but the master of the Finders' Guild nodded. “Some of us aren't entirely sold on your notion as to who and what this creature is, but yes, I know everything you told Lambert.”

“Well, there was some stuff I didn't think I should tell him in front of Jul-uh, Major Bouniard.”

“Yes, he indicated that as well.”

“All right, so…” Widdershins took a deep breath, and then regretted it instantly as she spent the next twenty or thirty seconds choking on the smoke. With the exception of a faint tapping of fingers against armrests, the Shrouded Lord waited patiently for her to recover.

“So,” she said again, her voice rough, “you know that Iruoch-or whatever we want to call him,” she added with a sneer at the priestess, “killed two Finders?”

“I know.” All humor was gone from the Shrouded Lord's voice. “Aubin and Raviel.”

“Raviel? Was that his name? I could have sworn it was two syllables…. Uh, that probably doesn't so much matter right now, does it?”

“Not to any great extent, no.”

“Uh, yeah. Well, the thing is, my lord, they weren't just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I mean, they were-I don't think you could argue that being caught by Iruoch is ever in any way the right place…” She grinned faintly, and then, as both the Shrouded Lord's and the priestess's glowers threatened to actually light her on fire, she rushed ahead. “But my point is, they weren't just out and about. They were pretending to be Iruoch!”

“What?!”

And, simultaneously, “That's nonsense!” from Igraine.

Widdershins raised a hand. “Hold on. I don't mean they were pretending to be Iruoch personally. I just…You know how, for the first few weeks, nobody was ever actually killed, or even badly hurt? And it was only in the last few days that our brand-new monster began leaving shriveled bodies behind it?

“Well, I think that's because, until a few days ago, Iruoch-or whoever-wasn't even in Davillon! The earlier attacks were Aubin and Raviel!”

“This is the stupidest thing I've ever heard,” Igraine snapped. “I don't know what you're trying to-”

“Igraine, a moment.” The Shrouded Lord leaned forward in his seat, a motion made visible only by the swirling and darkening of the smoke before him. “Widdershins, this is a serious-to say nothing of utterly bizarre-accusation. What's your reasoning?”

“Just that I saw what the two of them were doing before Iruoch arrived, my lord. I don't know how they were doing it, but they were definitely masquerading as something unnatural. They were terrorizing their victims, without actually robbing them. And the descriptions that we've been hearing of our ‘phantom’? They don't match Iruoch, but they do match what Aubin and Raviel were wearing!”

“I find this entire supposition to be awfully shaky,” Igraine protested. “You're drawing a lot of conclusions from one encounter, and that's assuming it happened the way you claim it did!”

“All right, then,” Widdershins challenged. “If you have a better way to explain why the attacks suddenly turned lethal and blatantly magical, and why our guys were dressed as ghosts and tormenting pedestrians, I'm dying to hear it. My lord, can we possibly have some chairs, and maybe refreshments, brought in? I just love story time!”

“You impudent little-!”

“Igraine, enough! Widdershins, you will speak to your priestess with more respect. Is that clear?”

Widdershins bit her tongue just before saying In this room? Nothing's clear! “Yes, my lord.”

“Good. I agree that this scenario sounds improbable-but if it is true, and if others make the connection, it could indeed spell a great deal of trouble for us.” The Shrouded Lord reached behind him and yanked on one of several ropes. Widdershins didn't hear any bells chime, but a moment later the door slid open and Remy Privott entered the chamber.

“You sent for me, my lord?”

“Yes, Taskmaster. I want to know what Aubin and Raviel were working on the day they were murdered.”

“Hmm. I think Golvar was on shift that day. If they were on Finder business of any sort, he'd be the one to ask.” Then, after a long and pregnant pause, “So, uh, I imagine you want me to go ask him.”

“Your imagination is impressive indeed.”

Remy offered a shallow smile.

“While you're at it,” the hooded figure continued, “put out the word that I want Simon Beaupre brought to me as soon as he can be found. Our little Squirrel is apparently keeping some very poor company.”

“Right. I'm on it.” With that, Remy was gone as abruptly as he'd appeared.

“So,” the Shrouded Lord said, his wide grin evident in his voice despite being hidden behind layers of smoke and fabric. “Is there anything else you ladies would care to discuss while we wait? Perhaps you'd care to tell me what it was you were doing before you arrived at my door?”

Widdershins and Igraine traded glances, and shook their heads as one.

The following minutes passed in brittle silence.

It was over an hour later, just as the combination of acrid smoke and awkward quiet was about to drive Widdershins from the chamber, when a heavy tapping on the door finally heralded the taskmaster's return. Remy seemed clearly bemused-no, more than bemused, positively befuddled, very nearly stunned-as he entered. His entire bald pate, from his eyebrows to the nape of his neck, was furrowed in contemplation.

“My lord,” he began, “perhaps we ought to consider some, ah, adjustments to our process of reports and assignments.”

The Shrouded Lord blinked languidly through the holes in his mask and looked a question first at Igraine, then at Widdershins, both of whom just shrugged. “I take it,” he said, “that you've learned something?”

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, you could say that.”

“And are we to learn it, too? Or are you merely bragging?”

“Oh! Sorry. Well…It didn't take me long to track down Golvar. He was in the map room on the second level, talking-well, it doesn't matter. Point is, I found him, and we had ourselves a little chat.

“So, seems that some weeks ago, a guy approaches Golvar and asks to hire on some of our boys. This guy's doing all the stereotypical ‘you can't know who I am’ horseshit: hooded cloak, baggy clothes, whispering voice, the works. Real amateur hour, right?

“But he's offering a hefty bag full of five- and ten-mark coins, and he's got all the right answers to Golvar's usual questions. He wants to hire six or eight Finders, and they've got to come in pairs who are accustomed to working together.”

“And,” Widdershins piped up, “if I guessed that one of those pairs happened to consist of Aubin and Raviel…?”

“Heh. You wouldn't be wrong.”

“So, what,” the Shrouded Lord asked, “was the job?”

“Well,” Remy answered, “the guy wouldn't say exactly. But he'd satisfied Golvar that this wasn't some trick of the Guard, and that it wouldn't be targeting anyone on our ‘don't touch’ list. So when all he'd explain was that he needed these guys for some long-term con game, Golvar didn't press any further.” Then, as though feeling the need to defend his fellow Finder, “He wasn't breaking any rules…”

The partially obscured guildmaster waved a hand in dismissal. “Go on.”

“Anyway, so Golvar gathers the boys and offers them the assignment, and of course, they all take it. Long-term job with that kind of up-front? Who wouldn't? But Golvar, even though he doesn't much care what the actual job is, he decides he really wants to know who the boys are working for. So he has one of his people-not someone involved in the job-follow Monsieur Hooded-and-Oh-So-Mysterious, until he's able to identify him.”

“And?” Widdershins finally asked after a sufficiently dramatic (and obviously expectant) pause.

“And,” Remy told them, “turns out the guy's name is Ferrand. Brother Ferrand.”

Igraine choked on an errant wisp of the room's thick smoke, and even the Shrouded Lord recoiled. “‘Brother’? As in…”

“As in, my lord. Brother Ferrand is the personal assistant to His Eminence, our city's very own Bishop Sicard.”

“Aha!” Widdershins straightened, practically bouncing in place. “I knew there was a reason I didn't like the guy! He-uh…Yeah.” Staring sheepishly at her shoes-and very much away from the astonished expressions surrounding her-she returned to slouching against the wall.

Again a great many moments came and went, lived and died, trooping mutely past as everyone present wrestled and debated with their own thoughts. (Or, in Widdershins's case, with her own thoughts and those of her incorporeal patron.)

“Just to be clear,” the Shrouded Lord said eventually, “Golvar hired out six Finders for a confidence job to a member of the clergy, and this didn't seem unusual enough for him to think it worth reporting? Isn't this precisely the sort of thing you're supposed to stay on top of, Taskmaster? What sort of discipline are you enforcing, exactly?”

Remy's entire head went so red, Widdershins was convinced it was turning into some sort of root vegetable. When he spoke, the words were sharp and jagged, having had to drag themselves out from between his teeth. “My lord, nobody has violated any of the rules. I had no reason to think that Golvar was keeping anything from me. And Golvar maintains that he was planning to report all this, but saw no reason why he should consider it urgent.”

“And,” the Shrouded Lord added, “I imagine he was looking for some way to turn his knowledge of Church involvement to his advantage. And perhaps the deaths of Raviel and Aubin also made him somewhat reluctant to come forward?”

“Even if that's true, my lord, he came clean willingly enough when I confronted him with it. Like I said, maybe we ought to reconsider some of our policies-but none of them were broken here. Bent a little, maybe, but-”

“Fine, fine. You're right; there was no reason for Golvar to believe the job was anything of particular import. We're only just now theorizing about its possible connections with this ‘Iruoch,’ ourselves. But he should have come forward with it as soon as he learned that two of the men involved were among the dead. Please make it clear to him, Taskmaster, that any such lapse in the future will be met with severe repercussions.”

Remy bowed, albeit stiffly.

“And draw up whatever modifications you feel we should make to our procedures. We'll discuss them next week, and implement those with which I agree.”

“Understood, my lord.” A second bow, rather less rigid and reluctant than the first, and Remy-clearly having recognized the dismissal for what it was-once more retreated from the chamber.

“I assume,” the voice said from within the smoke and hood, “that I needn't point out to either of you that the timing of this ‘con job’ coincides neatly with the start of the initial, nonlethal attacks on Davillon's citizens?”

“I'd noticed that,” Widdershins said flatly.

Igraine was chewing on her left thumbnail. “It doesn't prove anything,” she muttered obstinately. Then, with a sigh, “But I admit, it's certainly suspicious. If nothing else, we should look into it enough to ensure that we do not, in fact, receive any of the blame for what happened next.”

Widdershins smiled sweetly. “I bet that hurt you to say. You look like you just swallowed a monkey.”

“Widdershins…”

“A poisonous monkey.”

“That will do, Widdershins,” the guildmaster warned.

“Yes, my lord.”

“So what are we thinking?” he asked, shifting in his chair. “Is this some scheme of the Church as a whole? Something Sicard has put into motion? Or is Ferrand acting on his own? Igraine? You'd know better than the rest of us….”

The priestess nodded and began to pace, leaving whorls of haze in her wake. “I think we can rule out the notion of this being officially Church sanctioned. They have other resources on which to draw, without taking the risk of involving any outsiders, let alone a bunch of Finders.

“But as to whether this is something put in motion by Sicard or Ferrand-well, I can't imagine what either would have to gain, and it's not precisely in character for either a bishop of the Pact or a brother of the Order of Saint Bertrand, so I'm at a loss.”

Widdershins raised her hand like a schoolgirl. “So what's stopping us from finding out?” Then, beneath the weight of twin glowers, “Well, I mean, how hard can it be to spy on a couple of clergymen? Shouldn't be too hard to follow them long enough to figure out what they're up to. And besides, if this is something they started, maybe they'll have some idea of how to stop it, yes?”

“Much as I hate to say it,” Igraine admitted, “I haven't any better ideas.”

“Well, if you hated that, you're going to loathe this…”

“Oh, gods…”

Widdershins offered a shallow smile. “I think we should bring the Guard in on this.” And then, “Uh, Igraine? If your jaw drops any farther, we'll actually be able to see your brain….”

“Widdershins,” the Shrouded Lord asked, his voiced vaguely strangled, “are you completely insane?”

“This is even a question?” Igraine muttered.

“Maybe,” Widdershins admitted readily. “But I'm also right.”

“I await your efforts to convince me,” the guildmaster told her, “with breathless anticipation.”

“That'd be the smoke, I think. But, uh, it's just…Even if we learn something, Sicard and Ferrand will just deny it, right? If we don't have some pretty unimpeachable witnesses, we can't exactly make use of whatever we learn. I mean, I'm assuming the Finders' Guild isn't planning to just ‘disappear’ the bishop, so we need a way to handle this legally, right? Right?”

Then, having not exactly gotten the unambiguous agreement she was looking for, she hurried on. “Plus, what's the point of working to show that the Finders' Guild isn't responsible for what's happening-that we even tried to help stop it-if nobody knows about it?”

“Maybe I'm going mad,” Igraine said to the Shrouded Lord, “but she's actually making sense.”

“Oh, good,” he replied. “I was worried it was just me. Widdershins, I hear what you're saying, but…the Guard? Really?”

“I'm pretty sure I can get them to give us a fair hearing. I have, uh, friends…”

“Yes.” The Shrouded Lord's voice once more went flat, even frosty. “Yes, you do.” He heaved a sigh, made ragged by the fumes in the air. “Very well. Widdershins, you'll contact your…friend. Igraine, you'll accompany her.”

“I-what? My lord-”

“This isn't open for discussion. You're a priestess of a god of the Hallowed Pact. Your word will carry some extra weight, if we do indeed have to make accusations against the bishop or his assistant.”

Igraine bowed her head. “As you wish.”

“Good. I expect the two of you to cooperate. And I'll be sending along someone to provide extra muscle, in case things go poorly.”

The priestess smirked tightly. “‘Muscle.’ By which I assume my lord means ‘babysitter’? Widdershins, I don't believe he trusts us to get along.”

“I am shocked at such an insinuation. Truly scandalized. Possibly appalled, even.”

The pair of them aimed matching grins and wide, innocent looks at the smoke-wrapped figure.

“Get out of here,” he ordered, “before I come to my senses and realize what an abominably bad idea this is.”

The pair of women bowed, still oddly in unison, and turned. They had just about reached the door when, “Widdershins, Igraine?”

Two necks twisted as they both looked over their shoulders.

“We don't know what we're dealing with. We don't know who this conspiracy entails, other than that it's someone highly placed in the Church-a Church, I would remind you, that is not especially popular in Davillon at the moment. We don't know what their masquerade was intended to accomplish, or why it appears to have gone so horribly awry. Be careful-not just for your own sake, but for the Finders. This city is desperate for a scapegoat for our recent woes. Let's not volunteer for the position, hmm?”

Two deep nods, doubling as final bows of farewell, and they were gone.