False Covenant

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Nor was there a great deal of discussion about what had just happened immediately after they arrived, because Widdershins and Robin had spent a good twenty minutes just holding each other and alternating between laughter and tears.

Given that it remained early in the morning, and thus outside normal business hours for an establishment of this sort, the tavern was empty of customers. The group had pushed two of the tables together for use as a makeshift hospital bed. Igraine and Ferrand, using torn linens for bandages and various spirits-the cheaper ones, naturally-as disinfectants, had done their best to treat the various and sundry injuries. They couldn't do much about the deep bruises or other aches, but the gash on the bishop's head, the wound in Julien's side (thankfully shallower than it had first appeared), and the torn skin on Widdershins's arms had all been cleansed (with only a modicum of screaming and threats) and tightly wrapped.

The common room now smelled fiercely of alcohol, sweat, and greasy smoke; it was lit only by a handful of lanterns, as all the shutters were tightly latched, and was already growing uncomfortably warm. Widdershins and Robin sat side by side on one of the longer benches; Julien on the “operating table”; Renard on the bar, where he'd helped himself to a jug of something or other; and the others in the tavern's various chairs. The Finders who'd accompanied Renard on his rescue mission (for which Widdershins had already tearfully thanked him about a thousand times) loitered on the streets outside, where they could shout a warning if danger approached.

And, not coincidentally, where they couldn't overhear any of the private discussion within.

Sicard studied one of the dancing flames and mumbled to himself, while most of the others waited with greater or lesser displays of patience for Widdershins and Robin to wrap up their reunion. Robin had, by this point, pretty much narrated the entire experience, but Widdershins-in addition to constantly apologizing for catching Robin in her mess, however unintentionally-was having real trouble grasping some of the finer details.

“He was just letting you go?”

Robin couldn't help but laugh. “Yes, Shins. Same as the last eighteen times you asked.”

“But…he was just letting you go?”

“Which,” Renard interjected from atop the bar, “doesn't in any way diminish the extent of my own accomplishment in rescuing her.”

Both women did him the courtesy of a quick smile.

“Seriously,” Robin continued. “I really got the impression that he was in over his head, and he knew it. I'm not defending the man,” she added quickly at Widdershins's abrupt scowl. “Just trying to understand him.”

“Well, after I murder him horribly,” Widdershins said, “you can understand him all you want.”

“Could you please see your way to saving the death threats for a time when Paschal and I aren't around to hear them?” Julien asked plaintively.

“Which reminds me,” Renard said, hopping down from his perch, “I have something for you.” He reached back behind the bar and presented a gleaming blade to Widdershins with a dramatic flourish. “I believe you're short a rapier, mademoiselle. I hope you'll find this a satisfactory replacement.”

Widdershins's eyes gleamed as she recognized the weapon as Evrard's own. “You're a treasure.”

“So good of you to notice.”

“I…” She took the weapon from him, then stopped. “Renard, this sword had a ruby in the pommel.”

“Did it? Oh, my. I can't imagine what might have happened to it.”

Widdershins gawped at him, and then laughed. “Well, I'm sure it cuts just as well without it.”

“I was almost certain it would.”

“If we're all through catching up,” Igraine snapped at them, “perhaps we'd be willing to spend a minute or two discussing what to do about the unkillable monster?”

Widdershins bent over and kissed the top of Robin's head-utterly missing the incongruous flicker of sorrow that crossed the younger girl's face as she did so-and with a whispered, “I'm really glad you're safe,” rose from the bench. She carefully lay Evrard's rapier aside until she could recover her old sheath, and moved to stand in the center of the group.

“All right,” she said aloud. “Let's discuss. I'd say, first and foremost, that His Eminence has some explaining to do, yes?”

Sicard slowly, even sleepily, dragged his attention away from the lantern. “Yes,” he said softly. “He does.”

“Your Eminence,” Ferrand said, “you don't have to-”

“I think I do, Ferrand. I think explanations are the very least of the debt that I owe.” He smiled, an expression with no joy or humor in it whatsoever. “I know that it's a bit cliche to begin one's confessions with ‘I never meant for anyone to get hurt,’ but it's the gods' honest truth. I really didn't.”

He paused, perhaps to allow for any questions or interjections of disbelief. When he got none, he went on. “You must understand, my position here was…awkward, at best. Some might even call it untenable. The first bishop assigned to Davillon in years, and how did my tenure begin? In the shadow of the murder of Archbishop William de Laurent, and the Church's retaliation against your city.

“I don't…” He coughed once, shook his head. “I don't pretend that what the Church did was right. We're supposed to be above such pettiness, but we're human. I know that their-our-efforts at directing trade to other cities, at discouraging travel here, caused nothing but suffering to a population that largely didn't deserve it. I may have been a newcomer to Davillon, but I couldn't stand seeing what was happening.

“Of course the people turned away from the Church and from the gods in their anger, and who could blame them? But I knew they were only harming themselves spiritually. And I knew that I could never convince my brothers in the clergy to lift the interdiction so long as Davillon's citizens were so openly hostile to the Church, no matter how justified that hostility might have been. So I…” Again he stopped, his voice choked.

It was Julien who first put it together, or at least first enunciated his understanding. “So you decided to give the people a reason to turn back to prayer. Back to the gods.”

Sicard nodded miserably. “It seemed so simple, really. Make the citizens think they had some sort of unholy terror stalking their city, something the Guard was helpless to confront-no offense, constables-and what else would they do? It would take some time, of course, and it would hardly change everyone's mind, but it would get people back into the pews. And once that was done, I had hoped I could use their return to the flock as an argument for the Church to cease interfering in Davillon's economy.”

Widdershins knew her entire face was incredulous, and saw clearly that hers wasn't the only one. “How by all the happy hopping horses did you think you could make that work?!” she demanded.

The bishop shrugged. “It honestly wasn't that hard. Obviously, a mortal adversary wouldn't do the trick, but it doesn't require much sorcery to make something appear far less natural than it actually is. And it was working! During the first few weeks, nobody had been seriously hurt-I know there were a few minor injuries, but that was unavoidable-and the rumors were spreading! Church attendance was higher than it had been in months! Until…”

“Iruoch,” Robin said with a shudder.

“Until Iruoch,” Sicard agreed. “My friends, hate me if you must-perhaps I deserve it-but I swear to you, I swear by every god of the Hallowed Pact, I did not summon him! I didn't even believe he existed! I truly don't know why-”

“I think I do,” Widdershins said softly.

Well, she certainly had everyone's attention now, Sicard's included. She cleared her throat. “I'm only speculating, you understand…”

“Speculation's more than the rest of us have,” Julien encouraged. “So by all means…”

“Uh, right. Well…” She exhaled softly. “Most of you won't know this, but the gods are shaped, in part, by our beliefs. What we think of them, how we worship them, that sort of thing.”

A number of puzzled looks and startled breaths met that pronouncement, but none so dramatic as Sicard's violent gasp. “That…How could you know that? That's a philosophy debated at only the highest levels of the clergy!”

“I told you,” Widdershins said, and she couldn't keep just the tiniest trace of gloating from her tone, “that William de Laurent trusted me more than you believed.”

“So I see,” the bishop whispered.

“Anyway,” she continued, “so our own thoughts and beliefs and feelings influence the gods, and lots of creatures in myths and fairy tales are attracted to human emotions, yes? Fear, or love, or whatever? So I think…” She looked at Sicard, and this time there was no gloating, only sympathy. “I think, indirectly, maybe you did summon Iruoch, Your Eminence. I think the fear you created, everyone's belief that there was something very much like him stalking our streets already…”

Sicard paled. “He felt it. That fear, that belief, made us susceptible to him. Called to him. And he answered.”

Widdershins nodded. “I think it drew him to us. I'm sorry.”

The bishop lowered his head and began to weep. Ferrand rose and limped to his side, placing a comforting hand on his white-robed shoulder.

Flames hissed and spat, footsteps and hoofbeats slunk through the windows from the street outside, and Renard took occasional sips from the bottle he'd commandeered. Beyond these, however, no sounds interrupted Sicard's grief. After several moments of respectful silence (or near silence), however, Julien finally said, “Your Eminence…”

The bishop raised a flushed and tear-streaked face.

“I'm so sorry, but I fear that time is rather a precious commodity at the moment.” When Sicard nodded, he continued, “I'm just wondering, how did you pull off your, um, false haunting? As you yourself said, a few mundane thugs in frightening dress wouldn't have been enough on their own…”

“No, no, you're right.” Sicard cleared his throat, sucked in a last, wet sniff, and straightened in his chair. “The practice of magic isn't part of priestly training,” he said. “We gain certain advantages due to our communion with the divine-particular insight, the occasional portent, and abnormal luck in certain ventures if the gods approve of our actions-but nothing that the layman would recognize as sorcery.

“We do, however, learn about magic. Not how to cast spells, but their history, how to recognize them. Normally, this is so we can discover the presence of hostile witchcraft or other dangers, but for those of us willing to take the time, and with sufficient discipline, it does give us a leg up on learning certain magics of our own.”

He stopped, frowning slightly at the array of expressions before him. “Not all magic is forbidden by Church doctrine, you know. Only spells that are directly harmful, or that call on unnatural beings who are not servants of the gods themselves.”

“We understand, Your Eminence,” Julien assured him. “Nobody was questioning you.”

Which was patently false, of course, but they all chose to let it go.

“Anyway,” Sicard continued after another few breaths, “one of the spells I'd come across and actually mastered involves briefly linking two individuals on a semispiritual level. It allows them to not only coordinate their efforts and their awareness, but to share a portion of their skills and physical acumen with one another. Strength, endurance, nimbleness, and so forth. I've used it mostly to aid my priests and assistants in performing particularly long or complicated religious observances.”

“Good gods,” Renard breathed. “What a pair of thieves-or Guardsmen, or duelists, or soldiers,” he added swiftly in response to an array of glowers, “could do with that sort of spell! How have such magics not already been claimed for military use?”

Sicard smiled shallowly. “I haven't been precisely open about the fact that I have this spell, save with my most trusted associates.” He absently patted Ferrand's hand. “I chose to use it so my ‘phantoms’ could coordinate from a distance, appear to be the same creature in two places, and so they could perform feats of climbing and agility that no normal person could accomplish unaided. I figured that, along with the proper theatrics, would be enough to create the desired illusion. But I never expected them to need it for genuine combat, and honestly, I'm uncertain of its military applicability. It takes many minutes to perform, so it can't be invoked swiftly or in emergencies, and it doesn't last long. Further, the recipients share in their discomfort as well.”

Widdershins nodded in understanding, remembering how one man had fallen from his perch in agony when she'd stabbed the other.

“I've never seen anyone severely injured, let alone slain, when under the spell's effects, so I can't say for certain what would happen to his partner, but I can't imagine it would be anything pleasant.”

“Still,” Julien insisted, “it seems we ought to be able to find some use for it. It's not as though we have a lot of options, and we haven't done so well against Iruoch as is…”

“I assure you,” Sicard said, “even two men drawing on each other's strengths wouldn't make an appreciable difference against that creature.”

“Two normal people, no,” Igraine said thoughtfully, chewing on a thumbnail. “But what about two of her?”

Widdershins squirmed in her chair and looked about ready to bolt. “I'm not sure what you-”

“Widdershins,” Igraine said in what was, from her, a surprisingly gentle tone, “I think we're past that now, don't you? Everyone here has heard tales of your unusual abilities, and we saw them ourselves back at the church. I've told you long before that I can sense something off about you, and I'd be surprised if His Eminence hadn't as well.”

Sicard nodded.

“We need to know what our resources are,” the priestess continued, “if we're to have any chance at all.”

Widdershins shifted and again felt herself tense, as if to run. She cast her gaze at Robin, but the girl could only stare back, as uncertain as Widdershins herself.

“Olgun?” she whispered desperately.

Even he didn't know. She could feel it from him immediately. He wasn't sure what she should tell them, had no idea how Sicard's magics might interact with his own.

But she felt something from him, as well. Trust. Olgun trusted her. Whatever she decided, he'd support.

Widdershins sighed, and leaned forward in her chair. “I…” She realized her voice was shaking, and held out a hand toward Renard. Without having to ask what she meant, he slapped the bottle into her waiting palm. Widdershins took a few loud swigs, ignoring the trickle of alcohol running down her chin. “I'm sorry,” she said then. “I've told almost nobody the whole story, and…” She cast about helplessly. “I'm not going to demand oaths in the gods' names or anything. I just need…I need to know that you won't tell anyone. None of you. Please.”

Renard and Robin-though the girl knew most of what was to come already-nodded instantly. More slowly, Igraine, Sicard, Ferrand, and Julien followed. Only Paschal hesitated. “What if…?”

The major coughed once, and the constable nodded. “Yes. All right.”

“His name is Olgun,” Widdershins said-and with those words, it felt as though one weight had lifted from her shoulders, to be replaced by a second. “He's-well, he was-a god of the northmen. Not part of the Pact. I worship him, and he…he protects me, as best he can. He works with me. He's…” She smiled, knowing how this would sound. “He's my friend.”

Olgun beamed at her.

“Don't let it go to your head. You're annoying sometimes, too.” And then she couldn't help but laugh, not at Olgun's response, but at the looks she was getting. “I know I sound crazy, but…”

“No,” Igraine said, seemingly unaware that she was shaking her head as though she would never, could never, stop. “No, I believe you. Now that I know what I'm sensing, it's so clear.”

“To me as well,” Sicard added. “But I don't understand. No god should be granting that much power to any one person. How powerful is this Olgun?”

“He's not, really,” Widdershins admitted. “He's just more focused. I…I'm his only worshipper.”

The bishop, the monk, and the priestess all rocked back as though struck. “I've never even heard of such a thing!” Sicard gasped. “This is astonishing!”

“How could it even happen?” Brother Ferrand demanded. “To any god, let alone a northern deity who should have no presence here at all?”

Widdershins took a deep breath; if any revelation would cause her problems, it was the one yet to come. It wouldn't mean anything to most of the others, but to the Guardsmen in their midst…

Robin crept forward and took Widdershins's hand. The thief smiled at her, and bulled ahead.

“Olgun's worship was brought to Davillon by an explorer,” she told them. “There were-there were a number of us, for a while. The others…” She cleared her throat, blinked away a few tears before they could form. “The others were slaughtered a few years ago. Only I survived.”

Julien went abruptly pale, his hands clenching on the arms of his chair. He's put it all together….

“Your Eminence?” Igraine asked. “How does that change things?”

“I honestly don't know,” the bishop replied. “It depends on so many factors. When Olgun grants her his power, is he changing her, or the world around her? Will the spell even serve as a proper conduit? There are so many details to…”

Widdershins let the conversation drift away from her. She didn't need to hear the details and the discussions, the philosophy and the debate. It wouldn't mean anything to her anyway. Gently disentangling her hand from Robin's, she rose and wandered to the far side of the room, to stand stiffly before the shrine that she'd left standing in honor of the late Genevieve Marguilles.

She wasn't alone long, as she knew she wouldn't be. She heard the squeak-snap of a floorboard behind her, saw his shadow darken the white cross of Banin atop the stone.

“You're Adrienne Satti,” he said gruffly. It very clearly was not a question.

“That was the first night I ever saw you, Julien,” she whispered, hugging herself against a sudden chill.

“Saw…?”

“I was hiding in the rafters when the Guard showed up. Too afraid to come down, too afraid you wouldn't believe a word I had to say.”

“I don't know if we would have,” he admitted. “But…Gods, Shins, you should have said something! Over two and a half years…Certainly nobody's going to believe anything you have to say about it now!”

“Nobody?” She turned, gazing up into his face. He was close, closer than she would have thought….“Not even you?”

“Widdershins…Adrienne…”

“Because, after all this, if you honestly think I could possibly have killed all those people, all my friends you-you don't-”

“Widdershins? Don't be stupid.”

Her jaw dropped.

“Of course I know you didn't do it, you little idiot.” His grin widened beneath his mustache. “I'm violating every oath I ever took by keeping this secret-except for the one about upholding the gods' justice. I know the law won't give you a fair chance, so the law can go hang.”

“Wow.” She squeezed his hand in hers. (And oh my gods, when did I even take his hand?!) “I bet that was really, really hard for you to say, you righteous Guardsman, you.”

“Not as much as you'd expect,” he said, sounding vaguely bemused.

“So…What now, Julien?”

She knew it was coming, saw it in his face the instant she asked. Something akin to terror ran its fingertips down her spine as he leaned in, and she was frozen, trying to decide which way to run, when his lips touched hers.

At which point all thought of running-at which point all thought-was utterly lost, trampled into the dust beneath the sudden violent pounding of her heartbeat. She knew she made some sort of sound, though whether it was a cry or a gasp or a moan or some bizarre crossbreed of all three she couldn't possibly tell. And then there was nothing but his taste on her tongue, the fabric of his tabard and the muscles of his back beneath her grasping hands.

Where things might have gone from there, Widdershins had no notion-and, she realized with another surge of strangely delicious fear, didn't care-had Julien himself not pulled away after about two or three decades. “We're, uh, not exactly alone,” he whispered with a peculiar hitch in his voice.

“What?” she asked dreamily, her expression utterly unfocused. And then, with a quick blink, “Oh! Um…I, um…”

As Widdershins appeared to be too busy turning red to actually form a cogent sentence, Julien simply smiled, gave her hand a final squeeze, and moved to rejoin the others, all of whom were very palpably not looking in the couple's general direction.

Widdershins coughed once, ran her fingers through her hair (which didn't need brushing), told Olgun to shut up (though he wasn't saying anything), and, shoulders straight and chin jutting, strode over to the others.

Had she been less preoccupied with what had just happened, or with covering for what had just happened, or with the homicidal faerie haunting the city, she might have noted Renard grinding his teeth, or Robin's red-rimmed eyes-but odds were that even if she had, she'd never have correctly interpreted them.

“So,” she said, dropping into an empty chair and practically daring anyone to comment. “Have we decided anything?”

“Um…” Igraine coughed delicately. “His Eminence and I have discussed the magic in question, and we're fairly certain that you could briefly share a portion of your-that is, Olgun's-gifts with someone else.”

“Well, that makes things easier! I mean, I'm not sure that even two of me would be enough to take on Iruoch, but it's certainly-”

“There's also substantial risk,” Sicard interrupted, “that whoever linked with you would also suffer irreparable damage in the process. He'd be tapping into a divine power that wasn't intended for him. It's not inconceivable that it could cause the body to burn from the inside out, or become so stressed that even a small scratch could prove fatal.”

“Oh. Uh, that's less good, then.”

“It is.”

“Then what-”

“I'll do it,” Brother Ferrand said softly. Then, after giving the chorus of objections and protests a moment to subside, he continued, “I'm aware of the risks I'm taking. But you must understand, I've been part of this from the beginning. I aided His Eminence in his efforts. If there is any blame to be had for calling Iruoch to Davillon, I share in it. Bishop Sicard must cast the spell; he cannot be a part of it. I can.”

“Ferrand,” Sicard said, “are you certain?” He sounded as though he might cry again.

“I am, Your Eminence. I must do this. Please.”

Sicard bowed his head. Widdershins felt a gentle waft of sorrow from Olgun. “It won't be your fault,” she assured him. “All of which is well and good,” she continued more loudly, with a brief smile of respect to the monk, “but it's not sufficient. As I was saying, even two people who can do what I can do may well not be enough. We need more.”

“I can only link people in pairs,” Sicard said. “If we had others with your abilities-or even others who were more highly skilled than we are-I could work with that, but I cannot join more than one person to you.”

“Can we just overwhelm the creature?” Constable Sorelle asked. “I saw him take injury from a pistol, if only briefly. If we were to gather enough Guardsmen-or even Guardsmen and Finders together…”

Igraine and Sicard both shook their heads. “If Iruoch is drawn to emotion, as we believe,” the priestess said, “then he's certain to sense people's presence, however well hidden. If he feels there are enough of us to threaten him, he'll simply wait for a more opportune time. We have to keep the group small. Major Bouniard, have you any particularly skilled fighters in the Guard? Anyone whose presence might make a difference?”

Julien frowned. “My men and women are good, no doubt, but…Well, none that are so dramatically more skilled than myself that they'd tip the balance.” He shrugged. “Guards have to fight, but it's not all we do, so we can only train so much….”

“I know who we need,” Robin told them weakly. “So do you.”

Widdershins, at least, did Robin the courtesy of not pretending any confusion as to whom she meant.

“Are you completely out of your mind?!” she demanded (which, honestly, probably wasn't substantially more courteous than if she had pretended confusion as to whom Robin meant).

“Can you tell me I'm wrong?” Robin asked.

“Yes! Yes, I can. You're wrong! You're so wrong, there aren't enough syllables in the word ‘wrong’ to encompass how wrong you are!”

“Um, what are we talking about, here?” Sicard asked mildly. The two young women ignored him, if they even heard him at all.

“I'm not,” Robin said, “and you know it.”

“Robin…” Widdershins stood and put her hands on the younger girl's shoulders. “He's our enemy. He hates me. Gods, he kidnapped you!”

“No, really,” the bishop said. “Who are we-?”

“And he was going to let me go,” Robin reminded her.

“That doesn't excuse-”

“No, it doesn't. Shins, I'm not suggesting that he's suddenly our best friend or anything. But I spoke to him. I listened to him. I don't pretend to understand his code of honor, but I know he has one. Under the right circumstances, I think he can be trusted.”

“Under the right circumstances, so can the average trapdoor spider!” Widdershins snapped. “What does that-?”

“How many people told you about him, did you say? Said that he's one of the greatest duelists alive today? Not just in Davillon, but in all Galice? If you're looking for someone good enough to make a difference, while keeping the group small, you know you won't find anyone better suited.”

“Ugh!” Widdershins threw up her hands and began to pace, just a couple of steps in each direction, before her friend's chair. “Robin, I don't think you know what you're asking.”

“Is anyone going to fill the rest of us in?” Sicard asked, his tone starting to grow petulant. Renard leaned over and began whispering in his ear.

“I know this is more important than anyone's personal grudges,” Robin continued relentlessly.

“Yes, but-”

“It's more important than your pride, Shins.”

“This isn't about pride! This-”

“It was important enough that you sent someone else to save me.”

Widdershins stumbled to a halt, nearly tripping over her own feet.

Was that what this was really about? Was Robin testing her, to see if she'd do as much as she'd demanded of others, put the needs of the moment above her own feelings? Was the girl maybe even punishing her, if only a little?

And…After all that had happened, didn't she have the right to want to know?

“All right.” The words were bile on her tongue, actually burned the back of her throat, but still she coughed them up. “All right, Robin. I'll try to convince him. But if he kills me, you're the first one I'm haunting.”

Robin smiled, if only faintly.

“Start planning,” Widdershins told the others. “I'll be back soon.” One last, brief glance-lingering, perhaps, on Julien's troubled brow-and she was gone.

That this particular suite of rooms was nicer than the average house in Davillon would have come as no surprise to any visitor. Quality (read: ostentation) was the hallmark of the Golden Sable mansion block, located at the fanciest end of Rising Bend, scarcely more than a bowshot away from the estates of Duchess Beatrice Luchene herself. What might have surprised such a hypothetical visitor was the size of the suite; it was substantially larger than those same average houses. A combination sitting and dining room opened up into numerous hallways, which in turn led to almost a dozen additional chambers. The carpeting was thick and plush enough to have silenced the hoofbeats of a mule (and yes, said mule could potentially have fit through the door, while carrying saddlebags stuffed with unnecessary luxuries). Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their glass and crystal adornments glinting like stars in the light of their many candles, and the overall stench of the city was cloaked by pomanders hanging near the numerous doorways.

One of the rooms farthest from the front door, however, was utterly unlike the others. In this chamber alone, the carpet had been pulled up, the bulk of the furniture removed, the window covered by a sturdy square of wood. Several straw-stuffed mannequins stood along one wall, and heavy bags of sand hung at random intervals from the ceiling. Through it all, currently clad only in a pair of heavy hose, Evrard d'Arras twisted and spun, lashing out with rapier and dagger (the former of which was rather less ornate than the one he'd so recently lost). Straw flew and sand poured in torrents, yet so precise were his strikes that the bags barely swung or twisted as they opened to his blades. Sweat poured from Evrard's face, but he found that the growing knot of frustration-and, if he'd been more honest with himself, confusion-in his belly refused to loosen.

Finally, cursing in disgust, he stalked across the room and grabbed up a pair of towels-the first for his face, the second to ensure that no particles of sand clung to the steel.

“Jacques!” Evrard hadn't brought any of his family's servants with him to Davillon, but the Golden Sable included a few valets and maids as part of their amenities. “Jacques, some wine!”

He'd completed cleaning the weapons and replaced them on the wooden rack, present beside the door for just that purpose, before it occurred to him that his shout had not been answered.

“Jacques?”

Another pause, another failure to respond. Evrard frowned thoughtfully. He'd never been particularly fond of the valet with whom he'd been provided, but neither had the man ever failed in his assigned tasks before today. The fellow probably just hadn't heard him-but then again, despite the size of the suite, it'd be the first time, were that the case.

Casual and unhurried, Evrard finished toweling off, retrieved the frilled tunic he'd left hanging on the edge of the rack and pulled it over his head, and once more lifted the rapier from its niche. Blade held before him, relaxed but ready, Evrard proceeded into the hall.

His footsteps, utterly silent on that veritable lawn of carpeting, had carried him past the bedroom, the bathing chamber, the dressing room, and several closets when he found himself in one corner of the sitting room. To his left was a mahogany table on which he kept a great many of his items for going out: rings, buckles, his hat, and several pistols. Beyond was a hallway leading farther back into the apartment, boasting doors to either side, culminating in a large window.

Leaning against the wall beside that window was a chair that someone had dragged from the dining room. And seated casually in that chair, her ankles crossed before her…

“Hello, Evrard,” Widdershins said.

She couldn't help but smirk, even through her simmering anger, when the aristocrat jumped-however faintly-at the sound of her voice. She saw his entire body twitch, subtly but vaguely in the direction of the table.

“No point,” she told him. “I unloaded them.”

He froze, glanced at the flintlocks, and nodded. “Of course you did.” He flexed his wrist, just enough to tilt the rapier in his fist. “I can be down that hallway in seconds.”

“Yep. And I can be out that window in less. At which point, I haven't wasted anything but time and breath, and you never find out why I'm here.”

“I suppose you expect me to believe that it's not to kill me?”

“Kind of a stupid way to go about it if I were, yes? Announcing myself and putting you on your guard?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Honestly, I don't understand you at all, Widdershins.”

“That,” she hissed through clenched teeth, “is an understatement.”

They both waited, letting their glares conduct the duel that their bodies were avoiding.

“How did you find me?” Evrard finally asked.

Widdershins scoffed. “You're a visiting blue blood who spends more on a month's rent than the Flippant Witch pulls in over a good couple of years. How did I find you? I asked.”

“Ah. And Jacques?”

“Tied up in the kitchen. Unless you're talking about a different stuck-up servant, in which case I have no idea.”

“Ah,” he said again, then gestured with his chin. “And my sword? Are you planning to return that?”

“This?” Widdershins's hand dropped to her waist. “This isn't your sword.”

“No? It looks an awful lot like-”

“Your sword,” she explained patiently, “had a ruby in the pommel. This one doesn't. Ergo…”

“I see.” A scowl, and then more silence. Finally, “Why are you here?”

“I-Did you really set out to destroy my life, and to kill me, over a theft?” she demanded.

It was clearly not what she'd been about to say. “It wasn't just ‘a theft,’ damn it! You broke into my family's ancestral home! You took heirlooms that had been with us for generations!”

“And which you hadn't touched, or even looked at, in over a decade,” she pointed out.

“Utterly immaterial. This was about family honor!”

“Oh, I see.” She couldn't possibly have masked the scorn in her voice, even if she'd bothered to try. “So threatening to take away my dead best friend's tavern, kidnapping an innocent girl…These are about honor, are they?”

Evrard's face flushed, but he couldn't quite meet Widdershins's eyes. “Why,” he growled again, “are you here?”

“I need your help.”

Evrard burst into a belly laugh, doubling himself over-it was probably more luck than anything else that he didn't stab himself in the forehead with his rapier-and even Widdershins couldn't quite keep the grin off her face. “Yeah,” she said when his fit had finally subsided. “I know.”

“All right,” he said, wiping away tears of near hysteria with the back of his hand. “I'm listening.”

So he did, and Widdershins spoke. She didn't keep much from him-only some of the details of Olgun and their relationship-and over the course of her narration, the last of the humor faded from his face.

“There are some,” he said carefully, “who would call me crazy for even considering that you might be telling me the truth.”

“There are,” Widdershins agreed. “There are also some who would call me crazy for coming to you with this kind of story if it wasn't entirely true.”

“There is that. But-”

“And if you'll trust me just long enough to come with me, His Eminence, the bishop, should confirm it. Unless you think I've got him in my pocket, too.”

“Suppose,” he said slowly, “I'm not prepared to trust you even that far?”

Widdershins sighed loudly. “Do you think I want to be here, Evrard? Do you think I want to be talking to you, instead of dropping something heavy on you from a very great height? We need you!”

“Why should I help you?” He asked it as an honest question, with no challenge in his tone.

“You're not. You're helping all of Davillon. You're helping a whole bunch of people who'll be slaughtered by this creature if it's not stopped.”

“And why do you think that matters to me, either?”

“Because you care about your family's honor. And because you were about to let Robin go.”

“Damn it…” She knew she had him wavering, could literally see the indecision working its way across his features. “Widdershins, I don't know…I-”

“When this is all over,” she pressed, “assuming we're all still around, I'll challenge you to your stupid duel.”

“Will you, now?”

“I swear it. Time and place of your choosing.”

“And my rapier?” he asked, apparently just to be ornery.

“This isn't your rapier. But if I'm dead, you're welcome to take it.”

“All right…All right.” He somehow seemed to nod with his entire body as the decision was made. “Just let me get properly dressed.”

Widdershins smiled brightly. “Don't forget to untie the valet on your way out.”