False Covenant

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“Where is she?”

Robin watched from her seat-a comfortable, cushioned chair in the center of the room-as her captor paced as if he were the one caged. Her prison wasn't especially arduous; in addition to said chair, she had access to a table with an array of juices, cheese, and pastries, as well as a chamber pot if nature should demand its due. The only sign of her captivity at all was the manacle about her wrist, and the length of chain attached to it. Bolted to the leg of the table, it allowed her a substantial amount of freedom, though not enough to reach any of the four walls of the cavernous, and largely empty, chamber. A storage room or a warehouse, no doubt.

For his own part, Evrard passed to and fro beneath one of the room's rows of windows. A second table supported a carafe of wine and several loaded pistols; he'd spent substantial time with the first, and relatively little with the second.

“You could've left her a note, you know,” Robin told him, lifting a goblet of fruit juice to her mouth. (The cup was flimsy, a lightweight wood-very obviously provided because it would prove utterly ineffective as a makeshift weapon.)

Evrard ceased his pacing long enough to glare.

“No, really,” Robin continued. “I mean, if you wanted her to find you, then you could just-”

“She'll find me,” he snapped. “My family only owns a few properties in Davillon.”

“Like the tower?” Robin asked innocently.

“You're pushing it, child!”

Maybe she was; maybe she should just keep her teeth together. Robin was no Widdershins. Not a fighter, not brave, not…

But she also wasn't stupid, and damn it all, she wasn't just some tool to be used and thrown away at need!

“I don't think so,” she said, trying with only debatable success to work a touch of steel-a touch of Widdershins-into her tone. “You're not going to hurt me, Evrard.”

“So sure of that, are you?” His own goblet, of equally flimsy wood, cracked in his hand, sending rivulets of purple cascading across his fingers.

“Yes. Come on. You practically begged Gerard and the others not to make you shoot them when you abducted me. Hell, you apologized when you snapped this stupid cuff on my wrist!” She jingled the chain for emphasis, as if he could possibly have thought she meant some other manacle. “The food, the drink…You're not exactly a traditional kidnapper, you know.”

“I'm not a kidnapper!”

Robin just looked at him.

“I'm not.”

She held up her wrist and once again shook the chain.

Evrard growled something unintelligible. Turning back to the nearer table, he lifted the carafe of wine and began to pour, then flinched as the liquid dripped through the cracked vessel. With a grunt he tossed the useless cup to the floor and took a large and very unaristocratic gulp from the decanter itself-a decanter which was, Robin couldn't help but note, already half-empty.

“Classy,” Robin said. Evrard pulled a second, smaller chair out from the table and slumped into it.

“I'm no kidnapper,” he insisted again, sulking.

“My chain and I would like to debate that.”

“Gods damn it! This is all her fault, you know!”

“Who? Widdershins?”

Evrard's lips actually peeled back from his teeth at the sound of that name. “Who else?”

“This is her fault, is it? Maybe she paid you to kidnap me? There are easier ways of firing me, if that's what she-”

“This isn't a joke!” Evrard was again on his feet and again pacing, though this time it was toward and away from his less-than-willing guest, rather than parallel to the windows. “I didn't want it to come to this. She was supposed to…” He stumbled to a halt, then shrugged. “I thought that surely this would do it. But no, apparently your precious Widdershins won't even put herself out for her so-called friends!”

“She'll be here!” Robin realized she was screaming and forced herself to calm. “You don't know her. She'll be here, and you'll wish she wasn't.”

“I doubt it.” Evrard shook his head and returned to the carafe of wine. “I don't believe anymore that she has even that much honor.”

Robin didn't remember rising to her feet. “Honor?!” She was shouting again, and this time couldn't be bothered to care. “You're talking about honor? You?! You threatened to destroy her life! You kidnapped me! And over what? A few stolen treasures that your family hadn't bothered even to look at in a decade or more? What gives you the right to impugn anyone's honor?”

The carafe shattered against the wall, leaving a series of divots in the wood and a blotch of wine that gave the impression of someone having just swatted a two-foot mosquito. “What else would this be about, you stupid little girl?!” Evrard, too, was shouting, his fists clenched and shaking. “Everything I've done has been to erase the stain on my family's honor! A stain left by your precious Widdershins!”

“Oh, right.” Robin looked meaningfully at the shackle on her wrist, at the wine stain on the wall. “Mother and Father would be so proud of you right now, wouldn't they?”

For a moment, Robin really thought she'd gone too far. With a strangled cry, Evrard was across the room and looming over her, his arm raised for a brutal backhand blow. Robin whimpered and fell back, cringing away from the coming pain…

But the blow never fell. For long seconds Evrard hovered, his face twisted-and then his shoulders slumped and he fell back. Robin, who could see him only blurrily between squinted lids, forced her eyes all the way open.

Evrard blinked slowly, just once, and then he made his way once more to the far table. “Let's just hope you're right,” he said, “and she gets here soon. I want to get this over with.”

Robin couldn't help but nod in heartfelt agreement. And as neither of them had anything more to say, they waited in silence, each lost in his or her own tumultuous thoughts.

So lost, in fact, that when Robin next blinked herself out of her near fugue and glanced around, the oil lamps that provided the room's only illumination, set roughly equidistant around the chamber, were beginning to gutter. But that meant…

Hours. It'd been hours since she and Evrard last spoke. Hours in which Widdershins had failed to appear.

Those guttering flames grew suddenly broad and bleary through Robin's unshed tears. She wouldn't give up; she wouldn't! And yet…

She couldn't quite repress a startled shriek as Evrard appeared in her peripheral vision, his approach heralded by the ominous echo of footsteps-a sound she had utterly missed until he was right there. Perhaps he'd come to the same conclusion-that Robin's usefulness as bait had proved sorely lacking-because his stare was hard, his hand darting into a heavy leather pouch at his belt. Robin recoiled, squeezing herself back into the chair, as that hand emerged, clutching…

A key?

Robin held her breath as Evrard knelt for an instant at her side. A slight jostling, a loud click, and the manacle around her wrist fell away. By the time she rose, carefully rubbing and poking at the slightly chafed skin, he was already stepping away once more.

“Go home,” he told her, unwilling or unable to meet her gaze. “I don't-”

Pistol shots shattered the nighttime silence in the streets beyond the warehouse. The wood of the window shutters cracked and splintered as lead balls punched their way through, hurtling upward to embed themselves in the ceiling with a shower of dust and splinters. Robin screamed as something heavy slammed into her, knocking her to the floor. Except it wasn't something at all, but someone.

Evrard. Evrard was actually lying atop her, shielding her with his own body.

Not, they both realized at roughly the same moment, that it'd been necessary. The pistols had clearly been aimed upward, intended to fly over the heads of anyone within the chamber. Neither Robin nor Evrard himself had been in any danger, save for the risk of shallow cuts from flying shrapnel.

A diversion, then? If so, it had done its job well, for by the time Evrard had climbed back to his feet, his ruby-hilted rapier unsheathed in his right hand, it was already too late.

The door hung open, the lock apparently having been picked, and two men clad in blacks and grays had darted through, one to either side of the door. Both held muskets, aimed steadily at Evrard's breast. A third dark-garbed intruder-this one female, to judge by the shape, but otherwise similar to the first two-had crept in from one of the entrances at the back, and now stood at the rear of the chamber. She, too, had her weapon locked squarely on the young aristocrat.

“Well,” Evrard said, his focus flickering from one to the next, “I suppose I should have seen this coming.” He stopped and faced a fourth figure, who was only now appearing between the two men at the door. “Too much to expect for you to come alone, wasn't…”

His teeth came together with an audible click when the new arrival revealed itself to be not Widdershins at all, but rather a short dandy in bright tunic and hose, a half cape slung over one shoulder, his mustache perfectly trimmed. He wore a hat with an ostrich plume and a rapier at his side, and in his right hand he clutched a flintlock pistol.

“You're not Widdershins,” Evrard said, his voice almost accusatory.

“Goodness, no. I believe if I were, you should never entice me to leave the house.” He bowed low. “Renard Lambert, at your service. Robin? Are you injured?”

“No,” she said, her voice quavering as she crawled a few feet from where she'd fallen and then stood. “No, I'm fine. Is…Where's Widdershins?”

“I fear the good lady couldn't attend. I've come in her stead.”

“Hah!” Evrard shook his head. “I knew the woman had no honor, no loyalty! She-!”

“You would do well, monsieur, to be more careful about insulting people whose friends have loaded weapons pointed at your heart.”

Evrard, apparently, felt there was some wisdom in that, as he fell silent.

Renard directed his attention once more toward Robin. “Come on, girl. Over here.”

She obeyed, her limbs moving mechanically, but her lips were pale, her jaw quivering. She felt the wet warmth of tears on both cheeks, and couldn't be bothered even to wipe them off. She knew she ought to be grateful, to be delighted that rescue had come (even if it was starting to look as though she might not need it), but any joy was swiftly overwhelmed and drowned beneath a rising tide of despair.

Widdershins didn't even bother to show up.

“So what now?” Evrard asked. He might as well have been discussing plans for dinner, so little did he seem to care anymore. “Did she send you to kill for her, as well?”

“Any killing I do, monsieur, is entirely for me,” Renard retorted. “And you are simply bitter that Widdershins found a way around your snare.”

“By abandoning her friends,” Evrard spat, his every fiber radiating contempt.

Robin actually saw Renard's finger tighten on the trigger, saw his face go hard; she swore she even saw the weapon's hammer tremor with anticipation, though of course that wasn't possible, was it? At the last second, however, the fop relaxed his grip with a loud sigh. He studied the aristocrat standing nigh helpless before him, then Robin's tear-glistening face.

And whether he directed his answer to one, the other, or both, Renard spoke once more.

“You doubt her,” he said softly. “But you've no reason. It took every argument we could muster to persuade her not to come. I've never seen her so worried as she was about you, girl. And had it just been a matter of this idiot's trap, not every god of the Pact could have held her back.”

“Then why?” Robin asked softly, but her question was lost in Evrard's own.

“And I presume I'm supposed to ask, then, what it was that kept her away? Fine. What, pray tell, could that have been? A theft she couldn't pass up? A rendezvous with some lover?”

Again the leather of Renard's gloves creaked, again his weapon almost discharged. “She's a little busy,” he hissed, “working with the Guard and the Church to keep the creature stalking our streets from murdering any more children!”

Although it was Robin who was standing beside the thief as he shouted, it was Evrard who physically recoiled. “What? She…Why?!” Apparently, it never even occurred to him to doubt Renard's story-presumably because it was so very unlikely that there would be no point to concocting such a ludicrous tale. “What's her involvement with that…thing?”

Renard blinked, perhaps at the implication that Evrard himself knew more about Iruoch than he should, but merely shrugged. “None at all, other than the desire to stop it.”

And Robin could only laugh through her tears at the expression on the gobsmacked aristocrat's face. “I told you you didn't know anything!” she crowed.

“All right,” Evrard said, clearly struggling to recover. “So what now?”

Renard apparently caught something-a flicker of an eyelid, a shifting of Evrard's weight-that Robin herself had missed. “Now, you don't even think it. Even if you could reach the table before the four of us shot you down, you'd die before you could fire off more than one of those pistols that await you so tantalizingly beyond reach.”

Evrard offered a faint grin in exchange. “But you're going to shoot me anyway, are you not?”

“Well,” Renard admitted, “that's not entirely impossible, but-”

Robin had never, in her life, seen anyone move so fast (although it must be pointed out that she'd never witnessed one of Widdershins's supernatural feats). Literally between one of Renard's words and the next, Evrard was whirling, the air around him whining in pain as the hem of his coat and the tip of his blade both sliced their way through it. Wobbling in an awkward arc, the ruby-hilted rapier spun through the intervening space and plunged through the small gaggle of thieves gathered by the front door. It wasn't much of an attack-rapiers not, by and large, being designed for use at a distance-but the sheer speed and ferocity of the throw sent Renard and his two companions cringing away from the flashing steel. For the barest instant, the four gun barrels aimed at Evrard had been reduced to one.

That one, the musket held by the woman covering him from behind, discharged with a deafening clap, but Evrard was already sprinting. The ball flew harmlessly through empty space, vanishing finally into the wood of the far wall.

A fusillade of three more shots came rapidly after the first, as Renard and the others recovered, but hitting a moving target with a flintlock weapon was tricky at the best of times; when it was moving as swiftly and unexpectedly as Evrard, well, far better marksmen than these three Finders could have been excused for missing the mark.

Renard was already forward, the others close on his heels, steel sliding from the sheath at his waist. They needed to close the distance fast, before Evrard could take advantage of the pistols that lay, loaded and waiting, on the table.

Except that Evrard wasn't going for the pistols. Without slowing down or breaking stride, he leapt, using the table as a stepping stone to the row of windows beyond. Old wooden shutters disintegrated beneath his shoulder, and the aristocrat was tumbling out into the dusty road, leaving only astonished faces and angry mutters behind him.

Renard smiled gently as he returned to Robin's side, sheathing his blade and bending to retrieve both the pistol he'd dropped in his haste, and the weapon the aristocrat had hurled his way. “Ready to go home?” he asked.

She gave him a single nod. “You didn't chase him.”

It wasn't precisely a question, but Renard decided to accept it as one. “The gunfire probably already drew more attention than we want. A bunch of us chasing a lone man down the street? Even assuming he didn't pick us off one by one, it would certainly have gone ill for all of us. You're safe; that's the important bit.”

“Important to some.”

Renard didn't think he was supposed to have heard it, wasn't sure if Robin had even realized she'd spoken aloud. He frowned, glanced about himself to make certain that none of the other Finders were within earshot, and leaned in as though examining the girl's chafed wrist.

“Everything I said to that popinjay was true, Robin. The only reason Widdershins didn't come herself-”

“I know.” Robin managed a brief and feeble smirk at the sound of Renard calling anyone “popinjay,” given that the man dressed as though he were paying court to the daughter of a rainbow, but otherwise her demeanor, and her haunted expression, changed not a whit. “I know why she couldn't be here.”

She didn't add the But still aloud, but Renard heard it all the same.

And in a veritable bolt of inspiration, Renard completely understood.

“You love her.”

Robin's face became stone-no, not even stone, but ice. All of it, that is, save for the two burning splotches of red in her cheeks.

“Shut up. You shut the hell up!”

Renard glanced over his shoulder, raised a hand to signal the puzzled Finders to remain where they were, that this was no difficulty he couldn't handle on his own.

“You don't know what you're talking about! You don't know anything!” She'd lowered her voice, but what the rant lacked in volume, Robin was more than making up for in sheer vehemence. “Don't you ever say that again, you bastard! Me? Widdershins?! That's not…I mean, that wouldn't be even remotely…She's not…”

The dapper Finder had never really been all that close with Robin. She'd never been anything to him but Widdershins's friend, and the girl who helped Widdershins oversee the Flippant Witch. Nevertheless, he reached out and took her gently by the shoulders.

For an instant, Robin stiffened, as though she would run, or even strike at him-and then the ice cracked. Her arms wrapped around his chest, the tears she'd been battling earlier soaked his doublet.

“You can't tell her!” Robin sobbed. “Please, Renard, you can't!”

“Shh. Hush. I won't say a word, I promise.”

He twisted his neck around until it ached, struggling to meet the gaze of his companions without relinquishing the embrace. When he was certain he had their attention, he deliberately tilted his head toward the chair to which she'd been chained and carefully mouthed the words “It's all too much.”

He was relieved when the Finders nodded and looked away, making themselves look busy while the girl recovered. Let them believe the lie; it was better for everyone.

“Come on, Robin,” he said kindly as her shaking finally began to subside. “Let's get you home.” He took her wet sniffle as agreement, and slowly began to disentangle himself from her grasp.

“Renard?”

“Yes, my dear?”

She hiccupped once. “How did you know?” she whispered. “How did you know how I feel about…?”

He had no reason to answer truthfully. In fact, so far as Renard was concerned, honestly was rarely, if ever, a virtue. Yet somehow, the notion of lying, or even refusing to answer, just felt wrong.

Smiling sadly, he brushed a tear from her face with a single gloved knuckle. “It takes one to know one, kid.”

Robin's eyes widened, and then-thank the gods! — so did her own smile. “Your secret's safe with me,” she assured him.

“I know it is, Robin.”

The thief's hand on the serving girl's shoulder, they led the small, ragged group from the warehouse, toward home.