False Covenant

CHAPTER EIGHT

Renard Lambert felt his back growing tense, his tunic bunching up as his shoulders rose to his ears (or so it felt, anyway). Each step he took was a struggle, and he wondered which would overcome him first: the urge to glance over his shoulder so often he'd probably break his neck, or the burning need to break into a mad sprint for the door.

He did neither, of course-by the Shrouded God and the rest of the Hallowed Pact, he'd walked calmly into the Guard station, he'd bloody well walk calmly out of it! — but it was a near thing.

The occasional suspicious glance cast his way by passing constables actually helped calm him down, rather than wind up him any further. It wasn't as if the bulk of them knew his face, and even if some did recognize him, well, he wasn't currently wanted for anything. (Not because he hadn't done anything, of course.) All they knew was that here was a colorfully dressed character wandering the halls, and while that wasn't exactly normal, neither was it automatically cause for alarm. He certainly wasn't about to give them the satisfaction of seeing how nervous the place made him.

Of course, he realized glumly, they might just assume that he was an aristocrat come to bail his daughter, or some other young relative, out of trouble. I, he grumbled to himself, am really not enamored of this whole aging thing.

Robin-who could indeed have been his daughter, if only just-marched a few steps ahead of him, and kept whatever thoughts she might have had entirely to herself. Her pace, however, was stiff enough that Renard had no doubt she was just as troubled as he, if presumably for other reasons.

Gods, even when he had gotten away from here, there was so much to do! He'd picked up readily enough on Widdershins's hint that she had more to tell him, things she couldn't say in front of the major. (And the thief couldn't repress a scowl at the thought of Julien Bouniard, especially the thought of Bouniard alone with Widdershins.) He'd certainly have no trouble arranging a meeting with the Shrouded Lord-and he wondered if Widdershins would ever puzzle out that particular secret, because if anyone ever did, he knew, it'd be her-but he wanted a couple of days to look into this “Iruoch” matter himself before said meeting. Plus, there was all the usual night-to-night business of the Finders' Guild to deal with, and the mess with Simon Beaupre, and then there was…Bloody hell, it's a wonder I have time to take a piss! If this had been anyone but Widdershins, I never would have taken the time to-

They had, by this time, passed by the desk sergeant on duty as well as the sentries nearest the entrance, and Robin was pushing open the heavy door to reveal the lowering skies of late afternoon beyond. As she did so, she turned, and Renard couldn't help but note the sour expression she directed not at him but past him, back down the hallway from which they'd come.

And he wondered. I know why I'm so damn irritated at Bouniard. I'm honest enough to admit to jealousy. But what the hell has she got to be so grumpy about?

But since he would never be so uncouth as to ask, and since she'd already darted out into the street before he could have done so even if he'd wanted to, his curiosity remained unsated.

For roughly 150 years-or maybe a little less time, but Widdershins wouldn't have sworn to it-the thief and the Guardsman just watched each other. Or rather, near each other, neither quite willing to maintain eye contact for more than a heartbeat or so.

“Uh,” Widdershins finally said.

“Yes?” Bouniard straightened in his chair, practically at attention.

“You, um, you saw the scene? Where Iruoch killed those people?”

“Not me, personally, but some constables scoured it.” He offered no objection to her use of the name Iruoch-less because he'd begun to believe, she assumed, than because, well, he had no better name to offer.

“I don't suppose you found my sword?” she asked, her voice small and miserable.

“Your…” He shook his head. “I didn't hear reports of any weapons found. Someone must have taken them before our people arrived. I'm sorry.”

“If it was Squirrel,” Widdershins muttered darkly, “I'll kill him. Then I'm going to find a healer, revive him, and kill him again.”

“I didn't hear you,” Julien said blandly. “I'm sure you just said that you were going to find him and ask him, politely, if he had your blade.”

“Yeah. That, too.”

Another few decades passed….

“Widdershins, about last week?”

She blinked. What was he talking ab-Oh. That.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” she said sweetly.

“Uh-huh. The Ducarte estate?”

“Oh. That.”

“You're stealing again,” he accused her.

“What's the matter, Bouniard? You afraid of having someone out there you can't catch? I'm too challenging for you, maybe?”

“I'm serious. I can't…That is, I don't want…”

“Don't want what?”

Julien shrugged, looking away.

What could she tell him? That the Flippant Witch wouldn't survive without some “outside income”? That it was all she was good at? That she was bored? Somehow, she was pretty sure that none of those would fly.

And why am I bothering to explain myself?!

“Look, Julien. I promise you won't catch me doing anything illegal.” It was an old joke between them, but this time, he didn't seem amused.

“I'm serious, Widdershins,” he said again.

“You know, I think I almost picked up on that the first time you told me.”

“But you obviously aren't.”

“Well, no. Wouldn't want you accusing me of stealing your mood, would we?”

More glaring, more silence. A silence that broke as Julien scooted his chair back with a low scuffing across the carpet and began to pace.

“You shut up,” Widdershins breathed. Olgun, who hadn't actually been about to say anything at all, continued not doing so.

“Uh, Julien?”

He halted his pacing, his back toward her. “What?”

“Um, given that I've been out for a day, and that you're probably keeping a pretty close watch on what's happening in Davillon…”

“Hmm?”

“I was wondering if, well, if you knew who's throwing the next high-society ball or dinner party. And when.”

Oh, yeah, this was exactly the right time to ask him that, Widdershins! Graceful as a three-hoofed pig on a stack of turtles, you are.

He was facing her again, though his expression couldn't have been any more astonished if he'd just discovered that she'd been smuggling a street mime in her cleavage.

“Have you utterly lost your mind?!” The major was too dignified to actually shriek, but only just.

“Uh, maybe? What are my options?”

“I should have arrested you last week! Maybe you'd actually learn something from a few months in gaol!”

“What makes you think I'd have let you hold me that long? You couldn't manage it last time!”

Widdershins couldn't help but laugh as Julien's hand, seemingly of its own accord, dropped down to clutch at the keys on his belt-the keys that she'd used to escape the last time she'd been incarcerated.

Then, deciding that goading him any further was probably neither the wisest nor the most productive course of action, she said, “Look, I'm not looking to rob anyone. I told you, I want to find out more about what's going on in the city, as well as about some problems of my own. Nobody gossips like aristocrats, and nobody has more ears throughout Davillon. That's why I want to go; not to steal anything.”

“And I should believe that why, exactly?”

“When have I ever lied to-”

“Do you really,” he growled at her, “want to finish that sentence?”

“Ah, no. No, I don't think I do. Julien…” She sighed and finally, steadily met his gaze with her own. “Whatever else I might do, whatever tricks I might pull, I'd never make you complicit in something you wouldn't approve of. I swear it.”

His face froze an instant longer and then cracked and softened. “I believe you. Which may say less about your honesty and more about my fracturing sanity, but there we are. The Marquise de Lamarr is throwing a soiree of some sort tomorrow evening-she's asked for a few of the Guard to bolster her own security-but that's probably too soon. Next week, the Baron-”

“No, tomorrow should work.” Widdershins swung her feet off the mattress, wincing but refusing to retreat before the pain. “Are my shoes around here?”

“Widdershins…”

“Because I'm pretty sure I had shoes when I got in. I really don't go out without 'em all that often….”

“Widdershins, lie down. You're hurt. Give it a few days!”

“I heal fast, Julien. We've been through this.”

“Not that fast, you don't!”

And it was actually true. Widdershins's shoulder and chest burned, aching far more than she would have expected. Was Olgun's power less effective against such an unnatural wound? Maybe so-but she was doing better than anybody else would have been, even if she wasn't exactly her full self.

And she sure wasn't about to spend another night in Julien's office! In its own way, and for its own reasons, the thought scared her as much as Iruoch himself.

“I'll be fine, Julien. And I'm going.”

He stood before her, arms crossed. “And if I put men at all the exits, with orders not to let you leave?”

“How many windows does this building have?” she asked smugly. “I'm pretty sure you can't spare that many guards.”

“Guards on the office door, then.”

“Sure. Just as soon as you explain to them that you've had me stashed in here for a day or so. That'll go over real well.”

“I could arrest you,” he insisted, but she knew from the slump of his shoulders that he was starting to surrender. “I can hold you for a while before we have to start worrying about charges and trials and all that.”

Widdershins smiled, stood-with only a single wince of pain-and, unconscious of what she was about to do until she was doing it, ran the tips of her fingers across his cheek. “But you wouldn't do that to me, right?”

“No,” he admitted. It came out somewhere between a grunt and a sigh. “I wouldn't. Just…Be careful, Shins.”

“I'm always careful.” Widdershins stretched up on her toes and planted a kiss right at the corner of Julien's mouth-not on the lips, no, but not quite on the cheek, either. And then, before either of them could react to what had just happened, she was out the door and gone.

Without, it's worth pointing out, her shoes.

Julien was still standing in that precise spot, staring at the empty mattress and trying to remember how to form a cogent thought, when his door shook with a familiar, military cadence.

“Uh…” He shook himself, wishing briefly he had a snifter of brandy available, or at least a bucket of ice water in which to dunk his head. “Enter!”

Paschal pushed the door open, saluted (with the wrong hand, but given his injured arm, that was acceptable), and then looked with some bemusement at the mattress.

When it became clear that nobody would be answering his unasked question, he spoke. “Sorry to disturb you, sir, but I thought you should know…”

“Yes, Constable?”

“The thief we discussed last week? Widdershins?”

Demas, does this whole damn city revolve around her?! “What of her?”

“We've orders to arrest her on sight, sir.”

Julien blinked rapidly enough that Paschal could probably feel the breeze. “Why? What's she accused of?”

“Not entirely sure, sir. The request came from the bishop's office.”

“What?!”

“Apparently, due to her rumored involvement in the death of Archbishop de Laurent-”

“She was trying to save the man!”

“So I've read in the reports, sir. Nevertheless, given the unnatural events surrounding that tragedy, and given her proximity to what's happening now, they want her brought in until they can determine for themselves whether she's responsible or otherwise involved.”

“And we're taking instructions on how to uphold the law from clergymen now, are we?”

The constable's look was more than enough to convey the various meanings that he couldn't, as Julien's subordinate, actually come out and utter.

“Yes, yes, you're right. Well, I can assure you that I have no notion of where Widdershins is at this point in time.” As opposed to what would have happened if you'd shown up five minutes ago. Widdershins, your luck is incredible! “But I will, of course, keep a lookout and do as we've been ordered.”

“I had no doubt of that, sir.” Paschal frowned behind his goatee. “Major, I'm sorry to be the one to put you in this position. I know that you're friends with the woman.” If there was just the tiniest hesitation before the constable pronounced “friends,” well, both men chose to ignore it.

“Bah. It's not as though you gave the order. Better to hear it from you, anyway.” Julien took a single step toward the door, then paused. “You do understand, of course, that given all the troubles facing Davillon just now, any hunt for a street thief-however genuine our efforts may be-cannot possibly take priority over other concerns.”

“I'm quite sure,” Paschal said with an almost straight face, “that nobody could argue that.”

Julien nodded once, brusquely, and stepped out into the corridors, his actively not-grinning friend close on his heels.

Not at all unlike his namesake, Squirrel crouched in the branches of a large tree that sprouted alongside the partially paved lane. Between the thickening darkness and the lush foliage of late spring, he was utterly invisible to passersby. (Or he would have been, had there been any.)

But while the world might have been oblivious to him, he was not at all oblivious to the world-much as he might wish he were. While the smell of the leaves and the fading aromas of Davillon's busy days might have overpowered the distant smell of peppermint, nothing-not even the hands he clasped desperately over his ears-could drown out the sounds emerging from the shop across the way.

“Ooh! Are we playing hide-and-seek? How high am I supposed to count?”

“Help me! Get away from me! Get away!”

“Well, that's no good. How are you supposed to hide from me if you're screaming like that? You really have no idea how to play this game, do you?”

“Help me! Somebody, please! Help…Oh, gods!”

“You're making me cross, now. Here.” Squirrel winced at the horrid, wet ripping sound, followed by a gurgle only vaguely recognizable as a human voice. “There! Won't be screaming without one of those, will you? Now we can play!”

The gurgle sputtered once, then faded.

“Oh. Huh. You're all so fragile.” The shop's old walls and shuttered windows kept Squirrel from seeing so much as a single gesture of what was happening inside, but he was certain the gaunt creature who was now his master must have shrugged. “But delicious.”

Squirrel's whimpers masked the worst of the lapping, squishing, and dry crackling to follow.

But what followed those, oddly enough, were a series of crashes and thumps, as though the thing inside was ransacking the shop. And accompanying the not-so-musical tones of a careless search, a cheerful, jaunty whistling.

Eventually, the clattering and the whistling both ended with a satisfied, “Aha! Here we are! Some of those and some of these, some for you's and some for me's…”

Wood thumped against stone, and one of the shuttered windows flew open. The floppy hat emerged, followed by the rest of Squirrel's master. He crawled across the wall with only a single hand; in the other, he clutched what appeared to be a bedsheet, tied into a makeshift sack and stained with fresh blood. Where the bricks ended, he dropped to his feet and progressed directly to the tree in which his reluctant servant was concealed.

“Come down, come down! I have surprises for all my good little boys and girls!”

It took every ounce of will for Squirrel to pry his hands free from the bark and force himself to descend.

“Uh, master?”

That mostly human head cocked to one side. “A question, a question! I think I have an answer or two just lying around. Shall we see if they match?”

“Well…I was just…”

“Oh, no. Never be just.” A long finger wagged in Squirrel's face. “Never, ever, ever. Understand?”

“Um…Yes?”

“Goody!”

“I was ju-that is, I was wondering…Was the shopkeep enough for tonight? For, uh, for you? I mean, that wasn't, well, it wasn't exactly quiet, and the Guard-”

“Enough? Enough? Silly, stupid child, there is no enough, oh, no. Never. The loud old man was stale and dry and not very sweet at all. We didn't come to him for supper.”

“No? Then why…?”

The creature's grin widened enough to split his face clear across the middle. With a dramatic flourish, he flung the bedsheet upon the earth, yanking it so that it rolled open as it landed. Within rested an entire array of glazed pastries; brightly colored hard candies; and rich, sticky toffees.

“I told you already, forgetful thief. Surprises for all my good little boys and girls! Just as soon as you show me where to find them….”

Squirrel stared in horror at the tempting treats spread out before him, and softly began to cry.