False Covenant

CHAPTER FIVE

“…Ulvanorre, who stands upon the highest structures and the highest peaks; Demas, who watches over us, who interposes himself between his people and harm; and, Vercoule, who among all the gods, has chosen this, Davillon, as his favored city. To all these, and more, we offer our gratitude, and our devotion, and our most humble prayers.”

A ripple of sighs and similar exhalations washed through the assembly; a sign of piety from some, yes, but of relieved impatience from more than a few others. The bishop had not, in fact, named in his litany all 147 gods of the Hallowed Pact-had included barely a quarter of them, actually-but it certainly felt to some of the congregants as though the recitation had gone on interminably.

It would be inaccurate to say that the cathedral was “packed,” precisely, but it was certainly far more crowded than at any other time in the past two seasons. More of the pews were occupied than empty. The multihued light of the stained glass gleamed across more than a hundred faces, and the vast chamber sweltered, as though the height of summer had already arrived, due to the warmth of so many assembled bodies.

Standing atop a raised dais before the throng, clad in purest white, Ancel Sicard lowered his hands, which had slowly risen in supplication and emphasis as he listed those deities most important to the city that now fell under his purview. “My friends,” he said, his voice a little softer than it had been, “I know that these have been trying times. I know that many of you are frightened of the affliction that has so recently beset Davillon.” His stare flitted across the assembly, seeming to settle on each and every individual, one by one. “Fear is only natural, in light of what we must face. Only human.

“But consider, my children. It has been nine nights and ten days, now, since this phantom, this demon, this fiend, descended upon our streets. In that time, how many of our brothers and sisters in Davillon have been attacked? Perhaps fifteen, sixteen? True, that is fifteen or sixteen more than there should be, but in a city so huge as this one? And of those, how many have been slain, or even crippled? None, my friends. Surely, a supernatural, unholy entity such as the one we are clearly facing should-nay, must-be capable of spreading carnage far more widely, and far more severely, than we have seen. Can this truly mean anything, anything, other than-despite the foibles of mere mortals that have caused the unfortunate rift between our father city and our Mother Church-that the gods of the Hallowed Pact still watch over us all? That they protect us, no matter our sins and our mistakes? Dare we, then, continue to avert our faces from our sacred guardians? No! We must renew our faith, renew our veneration, lest we-all of us, laymen and clergy alike-anger them sufficiently that they withdraw their protecting hand.”

Quite a few grumbles and murmurs of disagreement and discontent sounded in the audience-Davillon's bitterness at the clergy's efforts to isolate and punish the city for the death of William de Laurent, having built up over six months, was hardly about to vanish in a week and a half-but said sounds were vastly outnumbered by the nods and sighs of agreement. There could be no doubt at all that the people of the city were afraid, or that the hopeful words of Sicard and Davillon's other priests offered a respite, if only temporary, from that fear. Since the unnatural attacks had begun, attendance at masses and other services across the city had increased several times over, and if the congregations didn't rival their previous sizes, they were far closer than they'd been in ages.

Among those in the audience who were far from convinced was a young noblewoman in an emerald gown, her natural hair hidden beneath a piled and coifed wig of golden blonde. As Sicard continued his sermon-his tirade? — she could only tap her foot and absently wish that she had a lock of hair loose enough to chew on.

“What do you think?” Madeleine Valois (for that's who she was at the moment) asked in a voice so far under her breath that even those seated to either side couldn't hear her.

But then, she hadn't been speaking to them.

Olgun replied with the emotional offspring of a shrug and a scoff.

“Yeah, that's kind of what I thought, too,” she agreed. “I guess we shouldn't…” She shook her head, making the top-heavy wig wave and bobble. “I wish William were here.”

She smiled sadly at Olgun's sorrowful agreement. And then, her decision made, there was nothing left to do but wait courteously for the sermon to end, so that she might depart with the rest of the crowd.

As the congregation slowly dispersed, Sicard smiled and nodded beatifically from the dais, blessing all who had come and all who now ventured forth into the world. All the while, he scanned the crowd, attempting to match sight to the peculiar, not quite natural presence he had detected, something that didn't quite match up with any of the five senses normally available to mortals. It was a quiver in the air, something there and yet…not. Something wrong, or at least abnormal, and now was not the time for abnormalities. Not with so much at stake.

So where…? Ah.

Maintaining his smile and scarcely moving his jaw, precisely as though he murmured prayers over the heads of the departing, the bishop called out for the man behind him.

Brother Ferrand appeared from his inconspicuous post, where he'd waited throughout the mass to provide anything Sicard might have required. “Yes, Your Eminence?”

“Do you see that young woman there? No, to the left. Green gown, blonde wig? Sort of in the center of the crowd by the far door?”

Finally, after several moments of this-and only shortly before the woman in question would have been through the door and out of sight-the monk bobbed his tonsured head. “Yes, I see her. What of her?”

“Do you know who she is?” the bishop asked.

“I can't say that I do, Your Eminence. Is she important?”

“I'm…not entirely certain. There's something about her. A presence, an aura…I'm not sure how to describe it. It's not quite what I feel in the presence of omens or other blessings of the gods, nor”-and here he lowered his voice so that Ferrand could only just hear, and certainly nobody else could-“does it feel at all similar to other magics with which I'm familiar.”

“You think her a witch, then?”

“I don't know what I think, Ferrand-except that I think the timing on this is suspect, and that I need to know what it is I don't know. You understand me?”

“I do. I'll learn who she is, Your Eminence, and all I can about her.”

“You do that, Brother Ferrand. Discreetly, of course-but do be certain to learn everything.”

The bishop returned his full attentions, then, to the retreating backs of his congregants, while his assistant slipped from the back of the dais and vanished into the streets of Davillon.

By the time she'd returned to the Flippant Witch, the afternoon had concluded its metamorphosis into early evening, and Madeleine Valois had completed her metamorphosis back into Widdershins. (Although the former was brazen enough to make such a transformation in public view of everyone, the latter had required a modicum of privacy in the back of an abandoned leather goods shop.) She wasn't decked out for robbing anyone-she wore a workable peasant's tunic, dark hose, and worn boots, rather than her “stealing leathers”-but the gown and the wig were most assuredly gone, with no trace that they'd ever existed. As always, the only item on her of any apparent value was the basket-hilt rapier that hung at her waist, originally stolen from, and then gifted to her by, the late and very much lamented Alexandre Delacroix.

Widdershins blew through the front door of the tavern, absently returning the occasional wave or shouted greeting from regulars who recognized her. As twilight hadn't fallen, and many workmen and vendors remained at their jobs so long as light remained in the sky, the place wasn't as crowded as it would become in a few more hours. Not that any evening's attendance qualified as “crowded” these days, but Widdershins had enough presence of mind to hope that business would pick up a little bit when the sun went down.

Her nose barely wrinkling against the aroma that had become as familiar to her as her own, Widdershins examined the servers and guests until…

“Hey, Robin!”

The slender girl looked up from mopping a glistening spill beside the bar. Widdershins frowned for a second at the startled-deer expression, then decided that Robin was probably just worried, as she had been so much recently, about the tavern's financial woes. “So I just attended one of His Emminencialness's sermons,” she began, taking the mop from Robin's hands and getting to work on the spill herself (more from a desire to have something to do than any real need to be helpful). “I'd been hoping-”

“Shins…”

Whether Widdershins didn't hear or just didn't listen, she bulled ahead as though Robin hadn't spoken. “-that he might be worth approaching as an ally. Might be like William was, you know? Churchmen are supposed to know all about this supernatural stuff, yes? Maybe-”

“Shins?”

“-even tell him about Olgun, at the least ask if he has any idea what the bugaboo wandering Davillon's streets might be. Stupid Guild assignment. Oh, I'm their big monster expert just because-”

“Shins!”

“-a demon tried to kill me once. Well, all right, twice. But I don't like him. He's so-I don't know. Harsh. Arrogant. Everything I expected a high Churchman to be before I met William. So now I don't have anyone who knows about this stuff I can go to, and-”

“Gods damn it, Widdershins!”

Not only the mop but a great many mugs of various alcoholic libations froze as more than a dozen eyes turned in shock toward the young girl, who was actually panting, her face red, her shoulders heaving. After a moment, however, said eyes-and the heads in which they resided-all returned to their prior endeavors; all save Widdershins's own.

“Holy hopping hens, Robin! You don't have to shout at me, you know. What could-?”

“Shins,” Robin said again; this time it came out in a hiss. “Look, you-you don't need to do this. I've got this.” She lashed out, yanking the mop away almost hard enough to send Widdershins stumbling.

“What's gotten into-”

“Why don't,” Robin continued, this time trampling over Widdershins's words rather than the other way around, “you go out. We've got this handled, and the crowd's not all that big, and I know you've had a lot on your mind, so you go and have yourself a nice, relaxing evening somewhere, all right?”

“Are you trying to get rid of me, Robin? What-?” And finally, finally Widdershins-who could have kicked herself up and down the entire length of the common room, and retained enough embarrassed frustration left to give herself a good pinch-came up for air through the thick, swirling depths of her own preoccupation and picked up on what should have been obvious from the start. “I,” she grumbled, “am such a moron.”

At any other time, Olgun's surge of agreement might have been offensive.

Widdershins's hand dropped to the hilt of her sword, and she instantly began trying to examine all four corners of the room at once. “Robin? What's going on?”

“He came looking for you again, Shins.” Robin studiously examined her feet, or perhaps the soaking strands of the mop. “I didn't want to worry you any more than you already are; I just wanted you to get-”

“Who? Who came looking for me?” For an instant, the hassles of the past few days and the meeting with the Shrouded Lord clouded her memory of earlier events, and then…“That Evrard guy? Him?”

“Indeed, ‘that Evrard guy,’ at your service, mademoiselle.”

Robin eeped-that was the only way to describe it, really, as an “eep”-and even Widdershins practically jumped out of her boots. He was simply there, offering them a sardonic but graceful bow. But that would have meant he'd been in the tavern this whole time, and she'd missed him! She couldn't have just missed him, could she?

She didn't need Olgun's gentle reminder of just how distracted she'd been to point out that, well, yes, she could have.

“Sure, now you tell me!” she groused at him. Then, standing tall, keeping one hand on her rapier, and ostentatiously not returning Evrard's bow, she methodically examined the stranger who'd apparently been seeking her for some days.

He was pretty enough to look at, she decided. His eyes were deep and twinkling above sharply chiseled features; and he wore his long coat (and, presumably, his tricorne hat, though at the moment it was in his hand) with what could only be described as a graceful panache. But his smile, though friendly, felt false, and even through the coat, Widdershins could see the tension in his shoulders.

Then, of course, there was his rapier. The leather on the hilt was worn far too thin for a weapon of such fine quality. Either he didn't bother to maintain the blade-which she didn't believe for an instant-or it saw a lot of use.

For a moment or two he simply stood, as though basking in her obvious examination. And then, “I assume, based on your conversation, that I have the honor to address the woman known as Widdershins?”

“Uh…You do. And you are?”

“Evrard. I thought we just covered that. A bit dim, are we?”

Widdershins scowled. (So did Robin, but Shins was too distracted to notice.) “I meant who else are you? What's your family name? Or title?”

“And why would you assume I have a title?”

“Because you're either an aristocrat, or someone who wants people to think he's an aristocrat. If you were putting on any more airs, the rest of us wouldn't be able to breathe.”

“Ah. I see. And of course, if I share with you my full and proper name, you'll do the same in return? I'm fairly certain, after all, that ‘Widdershins’ is not what your parents chose to call you.”

By this point, the entire common room of the Flippant Witch had gone silent, save for the occasional clank, clatter, or gulp of a mug. No one present understood the intricacies of this confrontation-heck, Widdershins herself only halfway grasped what was going on-but nobody wanted to miss a word of it.

“No,” Widdershins said through a clenched cage of teeth. “I won't be doing that.”

“Shame. Then I fear I shall simply have to remain ‘that Evrard guy’ for the time being. And you,” he continued before she could speak, all traces of his smile sliding from his face, “can remain the same common, slovenly little criminal you've always been.”

“Hey! Who are you calling ‘common’?!”

“What else would I call you, Widdershins? You can pretend at being a tavern owner, a ‘businesswoman,’ all you want, but you're fooling precisely nobody. All you've ever been good for is slinking around in the dark, taking coin from those among your betters too foolish to hang onto it.”

“Hey!” Robin shouted at him.

Widdershins merely raised an eyebrow. “Now you're just trying to make me sound like a whore.”

“You hardly need my help with that, mademoiselle.”

More than a few gasps sounded throughout the common room, and several of the Witch's regulars rose (however unsteadily) to their feet, ready to defend the proprietor of their home away from home. But it was Robin who began a forward lunge, only to be brought up painfully short by Widdershins's sudden grab at her collar.

“Robin, no!”

“But-but he-!”

“I know. It's all right.”

“No,” Robin muttered, as angry as Widdershins had ever heard her, though at least the girl was no longer struggling to charge headfirst into gods-knew-what sort of trouble. “No, it's not.”

“Are you quite done hiding behind your little friend?” Evrard sneered.

Widdershins very deliberately stepped around the now-sputtering Robin. Evrard just about gleamed with some inner light as her hand once more clenched the rapier at her side, and he grinned as she marched over to stand perhaps an arm's length from him.

“Are you planning to challenge me, then, Widdershins?”

“No, not really.”

At which point, as Evrard was carefully dividing his attention between Widdershins's face and the arm she would use to draw the rapier, she kicked him square in the groin.

Duelist that he was, Evrard might have dodged or deflected even so unexpected an attack, had there not been a brief surge of power from Olgun that caused the nobleman to “accidentally” slip on the sawdust-covered floor as he spun away. He choked once, all arrogance finally draining from his expression, and crumpled to a heap, clutching at himself.

Robin let out a whoop to match her prior eep, and a round of snickers circled through the observing patrons.

“You…” Evrard seemed to be having a great deal of difficulty speaking all of a sudden. “You…”

“I'm sorry, what was that?” Widdershins put a hand to her ear. “I'm afraid I can't actually hear your voice when it's that high.”

Maybe it was Widdershins's taunts, or perhaps it was being laughed at by the crowd for the second time in half a minute, but Evrard pulled himself together. His face was pale, and he winced with every inch, but he rose slowly until he stood flagpole-straight.

“If you were of noble blood…,” he growled, fingers seeming to twitch toward his rapier of their own accord.

“Then I'd probably have died of hypocrisy poisoning by now. Evrard, what do you want?”

“I want,” he said, his breath coming more easily now, “to inform of you my intentions.”

“Your…?”

“As I understand it, Gurrerre Marguilles briefly challenged his daughter's will? Specifically the provision granting you ownership of her tavern?”

Widdershins scowled. “That was dropped.”

“Yes, because as the city's trade dried up, Lord Marguilles couldn't afford to waste time and resources on a prolonged legal struggle. But it remains true that ‘Widdershins’ isn't your legal name, and therefore, the will may not be binding.”

“It's how Genevieve knew me, you rat! I have a dozen people ready to testify to that! It's why Marguilles couldn't afford to continue his challenge!”

“And do you think he'll feel that way when I tell him that the entire will was forged?”

Widdershins felt as though she was suddenly tumbling backward, down an unseen hole; could barely hear the common room through the sudden frantic pounding of her heart, which must surely be deafening to everyone around her. She could only hope she sounded a lot more confident than she felt when she said, an eternity later, “I don't know what you mean.”

“Of course not.” Evrard leaned in, as though to whisper, but continued in a perfectly normal tone of voice, “I have connections everywhere, Widdershins. There's nothing you can do that I cannot discover. Genevieve would be ashamed of you.”

The young woman's whole body went taut as a crossbow string, and there's no telling whether she'd have actually drawn her blade at that point or simply attacked Evrard with her bare hands (or booted feet), but as she'd held her friend back a moment earlier, it was now Robin who returned the favor.

“Shins, no!”

“I see,” Evrard continued, as Widdershins relented against the tide of gangly limbs pressing against her, “that you're not, in fact, done hiding behind your friends.”

“I won't let you do this!” Widdershins wasn't sure if it had come out as more of a growl or a whine; she desperately hoped for the former.

“You'd have to kill me,” Evrard said simply.

“Why?” Robin fell away as Widdershins deflated. “Gods, what did I ever do to you?”

“Maybe, if you really can't figure it out, I'll explain it to you someday. In very short words. Have a good evening, ladies and gentlemen. So sorry for the interruption.” He tossed a handful of coins at the bar; they skipped and scattered over the smooth wood, tinkling as they fell, and nobody-employee or patron-moved to pick them up. “A round on me, to compensate you all for your trouble.” With that, and a last sardonic bow, Evrard strode through the door, cloak flapping with an almost deliberate melodrama in his wake.

“It's fine, everybody.” Widdershins's tone put the obvious lie to her words, but none of the customers appeared willing to challenge her assertion. “Everything's fine. Please, go back to your drinks.” And then she just stood in the center of the room, gazing at nothing at all.

“Shins?”

“Hmm?”

Robin's face, even more pallid than normal, interposed itself between Widdershins and the nothing she was staring at. “Can he actually do that? Can he take the Flippant Witch?”

“I–I don't know, Robin. He has no proof that the will was fake, but just the accusation might be enough to spur Gen's father to new efforts. He could certainly make life really, really hard for us.”

“Right.” Robin attempted to force a shallow smile. “Because things were going so smoothly before now.” And then, blinking at Widdershins's abrupt turn, “Where are you going?”

“I'm going to follow that-that snake! He knows so much about me? Fine! I'll even things up!”

She was gone before Robin could possibly have decided whether to protest or to cheer her on.

“There she is!”

Squirrel followed his friend's pointing finger just in time to see Widdershins, apparently having burst through the door at something of a run, haul herself up short. She took a quick but steady look around, as though searching for something, and then headed off down the Market District's main avenue at a much slower pace. Swiftly she blended in with the crowd, occasionally vanishing completely into pockets of shadow between the glowing lantern posts. (This despite the fact that she wasn't currently dressed in her “business-related” blacks and grays.) Clearly, she didn't care to be detected.

Just as clearly, she was expecting any potential discovery to come from in front of her. She wasn't nearly as well concealed from anyone following behind, especially not anyone who knew most of the same tricks.

“All right, boys,” Simon said through a tight little grin. “Let's see what our girl's got going on tonight, shall we?”

And they, like Widdershins before them, moved out into the street and vanished into the crowd, pursuing a quarry utterly unaware of their presence.