False Covenant

CHAPTER FOUR

For several minutes-actually, rather longer than several minutes, if truth be told-Widdershins stood on the sad Ragway street and just glared at her destination. Her hands were clenched into pale fists, her hair plastered to the side of her face by the gentle but constant rain, and she really wanted nothing more than to turn around and go home.

“No, of course I'm not going to,” she answered Olgun's concerned query. “They want me to talk to them, I talk to them. I'm not that stupid.” And then, before even the god could possibly reply, “Shut up.”

Olgun responded with wounded innocence-a feeling not quite capable of hiding his amused self-satisfaction-and allowed Widdershins to return to her brooding.

The building across from her was a decrepit, dirty eyesore of a structure. Ostensibly, it was home to a rundown business specializing in pawnbrokering, caravan insurance, and similar endeavors, and was always on the verge of shutting down. At this point, though, Widdershins wondered why they even bothered maintaining the front, since pretty much everyone in Davillon-or everyone involved in either the law-enforcement or law-breaking communities, anyway-knew what the place was really for.

She herself had only been back a few times in the last half year or so, partly because she hadn't been stealing much-she really had tried to run the Flippant Witch as Genevieve would have wanted her to, no matter how unsuccessful (and, to be blunt, bored) she was at it-but primarily because a rather disturbing number of her fellow guild members were pretty eager to see her dead.

It had been here, six months ago, that Widdershins had come in a last-ditch effort to escape the clutches of a demon (yes, a real one), and the religious fanatic who had summoned it. She'd succeeded in doing so, thwarting their schemes in the process, but the creature had slaughtered over a dozen members of the Finders' Guild before it fell. The Shrouded Lord, leader of the Finders, had decreed that Widdershins's actions had actually saved the city and the guild from something far worse, and the guild's priests had backed him. As such, Widdershins's standing in the Finders' Guild was officially just fine, and she should be perfectly safe. Unofficially, not everyone in the ranks was so forgiving.

“Well, fine!” she announced abruptly, startling not only Olgun, but a small mockingbird that had landed for a brief rest on a windowsill nearby. “I'm supposed to be here, yes? So if they want trouble, well, they're welcome to it!”

As announcements go, it probably wasn't the most reassuring she could have made, seeing as how she could literally feel the sudden doubt radiating from her divine companion. But by that point, having made up her mind, she was already marching across the street. Chin held high, she pounded heavily on the door.

“Appointment with the taskmaster,” she announced as a concealed panel in the door slid aside, allowing the sentry within to get a good look at her.

“Hey!” She didn't recognize the voice, but then, it wasn't as though she could possibly know everyone in the guild. “Aren't you the one who-?”

“Yes! Yes, I am. And I don't want to hear it. I'm sorry about whatever happened to you, or at you, or near you, but it wasn't my fault. The Shrouded Lord said so and the priests said so, so get over it!” By the end of the brief but heartfelt tirade, she was actually panting.

“I…Uh…I was just gonna say, you have serious guts coming here. I don't know if I could do it if I were you, even if I was summoned. I'm impressed.”

“Oh.” Widdershins felt her face grow warm even in the chilling rain. What was that, three times today someone's made me blush? What in the name of Banin's overcoat is wrong with me?! The fact that she could feel Olgun laughing at her certainly wasn't helping matters any. “Uh, thank you?”

“You're welcome.”

Silence, save for the faint patter of the rain. Then, “Um, can I come in now?”

“Oh, sure.” A loud clatter as several bolts drew back, a single, louder thump as the bar (a relatively new addition) was removed, and the heavy portal swung inward.

The hall beyond was largely as she remembered it, save for certain portions of the walls that had been more recently repainted-hiding bloodstains, for the most part. The door guard, a young man with a scraggly beard and so many acne scars that he looked as though he'd been shot with a miniature blunderbuss, might not have held any animosity toward Widdershins, but the same couldn't be said for a number of the others. As she made her way through the winding, twisting hallways beneath the pawnbroker's-the halls that were the true headquarters of the Finders' Guild-she couldn't help but note that one of every three or four faces went sour at her approach. A few frowned unhappily, but most of them twisted in angry scowls, baring teeth or mouthing profanity-laden threats. A few hands even dropped toward daggers or flintlocks, but invariably the fact that the Shrouded Lord had forbidden any retaliation was sufficient to prevent the potential violence from turning into actual violence.

Widdershins, for her own part, marched through the halls as though she were thinking of buying the place (but found it too drab and distasteful to seriously consider), ignored Olgun's worried chatter as best she could, and struggled not to quiver or look over her shoulder every time she turned her back on the angriest of those hostile faces. She briefly considered trying to find her old mentor Renard, if only for the comfort of a friendly face down here, but she decided, reluctantly, that she couldn't really spare the time such a hunt might require.

Ostensibly, she should make a point of stopping by the shrine before proceeding to her appointment. The Shrouded God-patron of the Finders' Guild, member of the Hallowed Pact, and the inspiration for the Shrouded Lord's own title-was not a demanding deity, but the guild still had customs and rituals its members were supposed to follow. The idol itself-mostly stone but with a hood of thick fabric hiding its features, because anyone other than the priests or the Shrouded Lord who looked upon that face was subject to an awful curse-stood in a thick-walled, carpeted chamber at the very heart of the guild's labyrinthine headquarters. Convenient to most of the organization's offices, it would have been a matter of minutes for Widdershins to swing by and offer a few prayers; and Olgun, since he knew full well that she didn't mean a word of them, certainly wouldn't have objected.

Widdershins, however, went nowhere near the heavy metal doors providing ingress to that shrine; shuddered, in fact, when she passed them by, and smelled the faint traces of incense from beyond. Lots of memories lurked within the shadows there, and not a one of them pleasant.

Instead, she moved straight for a door in one of the passages adjacent to said shrine. The wood had scarcely ceased vibrating from her first knock when a voice called, “Get the fuck in here!”

“Well,” she said to Olgun as she pushed the door open, “at least he's in a good mood, yes?”

Laremy Privott-or “Remy” to most Finders-had been taskmaster (that is, lieutenant to the Shrouded Lord) since the dismissal of Lisette Suvagne late the previous year. Imposingly tall and broad-shouldered, bald as a stressed tortoise from the neck up but hairy as a northman everywhere else, he looked very much like someone had simply shaved an ape's head. (Though this was not, it should be noted, a comparison that anyone actually made aloud when Remy himself was in the room.)

Today he was clad in heavy trousers, which helped to minimize said simian comparisons, and a white tunic, which might have done so if individual hairs hadn't been protruding through holes in the weave.

He also, Widdershins couldn't help but note, wasn't alone in the chamber.

“Taskmaster,” she greeted him with a bob of her head. And then, turning to his other guest, “Hey, Squirrel. How's the jaw?”

“Go to hell, bitch.”

“Hey!” Remy snarled across his desk-a massive, antique monstrosity that was clearly too nice for the otherwise frugal office and had most probably been stolen from somewhere fancy. “None of that! Both of you, sit!”

They sat. The office contained four rickety chairs (not counting Remy's own); perhaps unsurprisingly, Widdershins and Simon took the ones on the edges, leaving two empty seats between them.

“Good. Now, we're gonna have a couple of words about your little disaster at Rittier's manor last week.”

“She ruined-!” Simon began, simultaneous with Widdershins's own, “If that idiot-”

“Shut up!”

They shut.

“Widdershins, you haven't worked a lot of jobs since the Shrouded Lord promoted me, so maybe you've forgotten, but we're a guild, not a gods-damned social club! That means that if you're hitting a big target-such as, just for instance, anything likely to attract other Finders besides yourself-you coordinate! You keep us the hell informed!”

“But I-”

“That wasn't a question!”

“Got it,” she grumbled.

“And you!” Remy continued, swiveling to face his other victim. “Wipe that fucking smile off your face before I carve it off you! You're a bigger fool than she is!”

“But-”

“What the hell were you thinking, you diseased jackass? You bring an entire crew with you? Try to rob a noble estate at knife-point? To take hostages?!”

“Finders rob lots of people,” he protested.

“Not the aristocracy, gods damn it! You want to steal something from one of the blue bloods, you do it quietly! You trying to bring the whole fucking Guard down on us?!”

“What are they going to do? They've known where we are for years, and they haven't…they…” Simon trailed off, looking as twitchy as the rodent for which he was named, as Remy slowly rose and leaned over the desk.

“I,” he said, his voice abruptly calm, “am this close to wringing out your brain and using it as a sponge. At which point, I should point out, it will probably become more useful than it is right now. Are you hearing me?”

Squirrel nodded. Widdershins, deciding that safe was definitely better, at the moment, than sorry, nodded too. Just in case.

“If you'd killed any of the nobles,” Remy continued, “we'd probably have handed you over to the Guard ourselves. We sure as hell wouldn't even be considering paying bail for your idiot friends.”

Squirrel's eyes brightened, perhaps reflecting the escape route he suddenly saw for himself. “Nobody would've been caught at all if it wasn't for her,” he spat, pointing. (As if there were any other “her” in the room to whom he could have been referring.)

“Oh? And how's that?”

“She helped them, Remy! Helped the damn Guardsmen grab some of my boys!”

“That so?” he growled, turning once more.

Widdershins sat straight in the chair, refusing to cringe or even so much as frown. “Not initially. I actually got involved, even after Squirrel and his nuts messed everything up, to keep them from getting arrested.”

“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-?”

“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 given, 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.

Even as it-he? — drew closer, Carville could make out few details, save for a ragged coat and a wide-brimmed hat that sagged sadly in the rain.

That and, peculiarly, the scent of peppermint, wafting clearly on the wet breeze.

“Who…” Carville stopped, clearing his throat even as he dropped one hand to the butt of his rapier. Gods, but the fellow's bizarre pace must have unnerved him more than he'd realized. “Who goes there?” he tried again, his voice steadier.

The figure halted, oh so briefly, and then twisted toward Carville. He stood several yards nearer, without having taken a single intervening step. The Guardsman could swear, absolutely swear, that somewhere in the distance he could now hear the faint giggling of children.

“Just a lonely traveler, sir.” The voice…It must be the weather and the wind, doing something strange, something awful, to that voice. “A traveler, come to seek his fortune.” It sounded very much as though there were two throats-one a grown man, one a young child-speaking in perfect unison. In some syllables Carville heard both, in some only one or the other, but never was there the slightest lack of clarity in the words.

“You, ah…You've business in Davillon, then?”

“Oh, yes, yes, indeed! Lots and lots and lots and lots of…business.” And the figure giggled, then-or was it once again those faint voices from so far away? Carville wasn't sure, seemed to be having some difficulty focusing on his duties.

“I…You'll have to wait until morning, I'm afraid. And you really ought to go around to the main gate…”

“Oh, but I so hate waiting!” The figure actually stamped a foot, sending a small deluge of mud and water spraying across Carville's boots.

(Boots? My boots? Gods, when did he get that close?! I should…I…)

“I don't think I want to wait!” The stranger was singing now. “I don't think I want to wait, I don't think I need a gate!”

One more step, just one, and he loomed over Carville, less than an arm's-length distant. And the Guardsman, finally, could see beneath the flopping brim.

“Oh, gods. Oh, gods, I know you!”

“Everybody knows me.” The grin beneath the hat grew wide, an ugly slash of gleaming white in the heavily shadowed face. “Or at least, they will.”

A lunge, faster than a blink, and the traveler's lips latched onto Carville's own, grabbing with what felt like a thousand tiny hooks. And Carville-dwindled.

Skin shriveled against muscles that in turn flattened against bone. Eyes crumpled into little balls, yellowing and crinkling into age-old parchment. Hair and fingernails grew brittle, then fell from their perch, no longer held fast to drying flesh.

The stranger leaned back, allowing the now-desiccated lump of leather that had been Constable Carville to fall, with a dull plop, to the mud. And in the distance, the chorus of children that did not-could not-exist, sighed aloud in joyful satisfaction.

Gliding over the already-forgotten body, the traveler reached the walls of Davillon. Slowly, he extended his hands, hands possessed of inhumanly, impossibly long digits that twitched and flexed like the legs of some horrid spider. Narrow fingertips pressed against the stone and then-his body held rigidly straight, never touching the wall save with those gruesome, scuttling fingers-the newcomer began to climb.

Davillon had called to him, however unknowingly. And he was so looking forward to answering.