False Covenant

CHAPTER SEVEN

So wrapped up was Bishop Sicard-apparently in reading the holy treatise that lay open before him across the desk, but more accurately within his own tumultuous thoughts-that he failed to notice the first two knocks on his chamber door. Only the third sequence of raps penetrated the cloud of cotton encompassing his mind. He grunted once, smoothed his bushy beard with one hand while rubbing at bloodshot eyes with the other, and called, “Enter!”

For a moment, Sicard thought that a complete stranger had stepped into his study, even though he couldn't imagine a circumstance in which the guards would have allowed such a stranger to wander in alone at this time of night. He was just rising to his feet, whether to call for help or defend himself he wasn't certain, when the newcomer doffed his ragged cap and filthy cloak to reveal the blond, tonsured head and lanky frame of Brother Ferrand.

“Well.” Sicard returned slowly to his chair, struggling to keep a scowl of embarrassed anger from his face. “I see you've got the ‘incognito’ bit down.”

“I assumed, Your Eminence, that wandering around town in a monk's cassock would probably not be conducive to my efforts.”

“Right, fine.” Sicard waved distractedly at the nearest chair, into which Ferrand allowed himself to slump. “So I assume you've learned something about the young noblewoman?”

“Uh…” Ferrand squirmed in the chair, causing the wood to squeak, and coughed once.

“Succinct,” Sicard noted, “but not precisely helpful.”

“Her name is Madeleine Valois,” the monk told him. “Something of a social butterfly. Popular enough at parties, but without many close personal friends that I could find. Nobody actually seems to know her all that well.”

Silence for a moment, broken only by Sicard's fingers drumming on the desk. “And?”

“And, well, that's all I've found so far, Your Eminence.”

“That's all?”

“She is, as I said, not especially well known on anything but a superficial social level. Shows up at all the right parties, says all the right things, and is otherwise about as forgettable as day-old bread.”

“There's something unusual about her, Ferrand. I felt it.”

The monk shrugged. “I'm not doubting you, Your Eminence. I'm simply saying that nobody else seems to have noticed.”

Sicard grimaced at Ferrand for a moment, then at the small chandelier that hung from the ceiling-as though seeking answers or inspiration from what was, at this hour, the room's only illumination-and then back at the monk once again.

“And this riveting report couldn't have waited until a decent hour?” he asked finally. “I'm fairly certain that nothing you've just told me qualifies as especially urgent.”

“That's, um, not precisely what I came to tell you, Your Eminence.”

“Oh? Then get to it, man!”

“Well, it seems that there have been a few deaths….”

“Deaths?”

Ferrand nodded. “As regards your, um, ongoing project.”

“Bah.” Sicard returned to the book on the desk, reaching out for a quill to make a few notes in the margins. “I've heard the rumors, too. Utter nonsense. Just the sort of exaggeration we expected from this sort of-”

“All due respect, Your Eminence, but it's not. I'm not speaking of whispers on street corners. I've spoken with City Guardsmen who were at the scene. Who observed the-well, the bodies.”

Sicard straightened, slowly letting the quill topple to the desk. “That's not possible, Ferrand.”

“Nevertheless…”

“My instructions were specific!” The bishop was slowly standing now. Papers crumpled beneath his fists on the desk, and his cheeks flushed red above his beard-whether with anger, with shame, or a combination of both, even he couldn't honestly have said. “Nobody was to be killed, or even badly harmed! Nobody! Terrorized, yes. Even slightly injured, gods forgive me, to make it all seem real, but not…Gods, what are they…?”

“It's not precisely what you think, Your Eminence. Your, ah, ‘assistants’ weren't responsible.”

“I don't understand.”

“Two men clad in strange, flowing black garb-including full face masks-were among the dead. I wasn't present when you made the arrangements, but they certainly sound like what you've described to me.”

Sicard fell back into his own chair with a muffled whump. “But…I don't understand. Who…?”

“That's what the Guard is investigating.” The monk rolled his head back, trying to stretch away some of the tension in his neck. “Rumor going around the Guard is that a young thief by the name of Widdershins was somehow involved in what happened, though few of the stories agree on precisely how.”

“Widdershins? That's an odd…Why do I know that name?”

“Brother Maurice's report,” Ferrand said gently, “of William de Laurent's murder.”

The clench of Sicard's teeth was a crack audible throughout the room.

“Maurice swore,” Ferrand continued, “that this Widdershins was a friend to the archbishop, that she actually thwarted a prior attempt on his life. But he also admits that he knows little else about her, as William dismissed him from the room during the bulk of his conversation with the young woman.”

“Could she be responsible for what's happened, then?”

“I couldn't begin to guess, Your Eminence. But if she's involved in this, and in what happened with the archbishop last year…Well, I find it difficult to write off as coincidence.”

“As do I. Is the Guard currently hunting for her?”

“I wasn't able to learn that, I'm afraid.”

“All right.” Again the bishop's fingers drummed across the desk, this time in a rapid patter much like hail, or the impact of a blunderbuss's lead shot. “If she's responsible for what's happened, then either she's attempting to use our ‘haunting’ for her own schemes, or she's learned what we have in mind and is trying to prevent it. Either way, she cannot be allowed to continue.”

“And if she's not responsible, but involved in some other capacity?” Ferrand asked.

“Either way, we can't afford to have her interfering until we know more.”

Ferrand nodded and stood, recognizing the cue when he heard it. “What would you have me do, Your Eminence?”

“Davillon and our Mother Church are only just starting to mend their disagreements, correct? We should make it clear to the brave and noble Guardsmen that such efforts could only benefit if they were to arrest this Widdershins with all speed-and that said efforts could well suffer should they fail to do so.”

The monk's expression flickered for the barest instant, and Sicard wondered if he was actually preparing to question the propriety of using a Church office to bring such pressures to bear. But instead he finally shrugged, offered a shallow bow, and departed, leaving the bishop alone with thoughts far darker and more brooding than they had been only a few minutes before.

She dreamt of the pain.

It ran deep, burning, searing, itching, aching, no matter how her mind struggled to escape. She dreamt of herself as a child, and it was there. In winding alleys that never ended; on wooded mountainsides; in a cathedral that became the Finders' Guild; in the Flippant Witch, which became a house; while desperately searching for a chamber pot and some privacy in which to use it; when locked in the embrace of a man whose face she couldn't see, and wasn't sure she wanted to know; through it all, the pain remained. Though she never, during or between any of those dreams, fully awakened, she could feel herself tossing and turning, her skin burning with what may or may not have been fever, clammy against the sweat-soaked sheets, trying and failing to find comfort; and the pain remained.

Until, finally, her mind began to quiet, and she felt the balm of Olgun's tranquility, his concern, his protection wash over her. And the pain remained-but finally, it began to lessen.

Consciousness was a sickness, at first, a parasite that she wanted nothing more than to fight off. After a few moments, however, as mind and body adapted to the idea that perhaps waking up wasn't the worst possible fate in all of recorded history, the final fog of dreaming faded.

Widdershins licked lips that were as dry as parchment and opened her eyelids, squinting against the light.

She realized three things in rapid succession. First, that she was not in any room with which she was especially familiar, as the ceiling-apparently rough, cheap stone-wasn't one she knew. She might have thought that she was in a prison cell somewhere, except that most prison cells didn't have mattresses this comfortable, and smelled a lot worse.

Two, that her chest and shoulder hurt a lot. A lot. More than she'd have expected, if Olgun had indeed been working to heal her, though certainly less than any normal person would have felt under the circumstances.

And three, her left hand was aching pretty fiercely in its own right. What could she possibly have done to her…?

Oh.

“Robin?”

“Shins! Oh, my gods, you're awake!” The pain in Widdershins's hand actually grew worse. “Guys, she's awake!”

“Robin, you're crushing my fingers….”

“Oh!” The girl's grip slackened, much to Widdershins's relief, but she refused to relinquish her grip entirely. “I'm sorry.”

“’Sall right. Where…?” She tried to sit up and fell back, biting back a groan, as her shoulder flared anew.

“Stay still, my dear lady. You need your beauty sleep.”

That voice-most certainly not Robin's-was quite enough to spur her into doing the precise opposite. She sat up once more, this time ignoring the tightness and the pain, and examined the room over her young friend's shoulder.

She saw Julien first-and, indeed, upon seeing him, recognized from the walls and the worn carpeting that she must be somewhere within the headquarters of the Guard-but it hadn't been he who spoke. So who…?

There. Seated on the edge of the major's desk as though he owned it, a handsome (if rather short) fellow grinned at her from behind a dark mustache and a pair of bluest eyes. His tunic was colorful enough to make the average flower garden seem positively drab, the buckles of his boots were polished to a mirror sheen, and he wore a purple half cape thrown dramatically over one shoulder. Widdershins saw an ostrich plume sticking out from behind him, and knew from experience it was attached to a foppish, flocked hat.

“Renard?!”

Renard Lambert, one of the few Finders whom Widdershins actually trusted (for all that he often annoyed the stuffing out of her), shot to his feet and bowed so low that his bangs nearly brushed the floor. “At your service, most lovely Widdershins.”

“What in the name of the gods and all their pets are you doing here?”

“Have you noticed,” Renard said with a sniff, “that you always greet me that way? It's never ‘Wonderful to see you, Renard,’ or even just a simple ‘Hello,’ but always ‘What in the name of some silly expression are you doing here?’ It's enough to make a gentleman feel unwanted.”

“And you, too, I'll bet,” she said smugly-which effect was ruined when she couldn't help but laugh at the look her comment brought to his face.

Then, when it became clear that Renard wouldn't offer any additional explanation, she turned back toward the others.

Julien, in response to the unspoken question, could only shrug. “I sent for Robin. I knew you'd want a friend close by-and one who could, ah, keep you company while the chirurgeon worked without, let's say, sacrificing either propriety or modesty.” He blushed faintly, as did Widdershins herself.

“I appreciate you thinking of that,” Widdershins said.

“Uh, you're welcome. But as for this ‘gentleman’…” He cast Renard a narrow grimace. “I've no idea. He said simply that he had ‘sources’ and insisted he was a friend. I'd never have let him stay, but Robin vouched for him.”

At Widdershins's puzzled look, the other girl smiled faintly. “I figured, with so many of the Guard out looking for this phantom-thingy, and with Major Bouniard having his own duties to attend to, it made sense to have someone nearby who could protect you in case…” Although her voice may have trailed off, the flicker of her eyes toward the wound on Widdershins's shoulder-a wound that, Widdershins only now realized, was swathed in bandages-left no doubt as to her meaning.

“Sources?” she asked Renard, trying not to grin.

“The good major and his fellow officers dislike believing that the Finders have eyes and ears within his ranks, but that doesn't make it any less true. Has been as long as there's been a Guard.”

“And you're comfortable just telling me about it to my face?” Julien snapped.

“Seeing as how you've no evidence that I've committed any crime, and thus have no grounds to hold or question me-to say nothing of the fact that I couldn't identify most of our informants anyway-why should I not?”

“Bouniard,” Widdershins interrupted, before the argument could go somewhere unpleasant for all concerned, “what am I doing here, exactly?”

“You…Widdershins, you came here looking for help. Don't you remember?”

“Well, yes, but I'd have thought-”

“You collapsed,” he told her. “It was safer for you to have you treated here, rather than try to take you anywhere else. And I could actually keep your presence quieter here than if I'd had to arrange for constables to help me transport you. I, ah, wasn't entirely sure that everyone in the Guard would understand why I was helping you.

“You're in my office, Widdershins. Have been for nearly a day. I had a mattress brought in, and I've left orders not to be disturbed except in dire emergency.”

“Why would you do all this?”

Julien's flush grew even redder, and he actually began to fidget like a schoolboy. “Because you needed me to,” he said finally.

Hesitantly, even shyly, Widdershins stretched out her hand. Just as slowly, the major stepped near enough to take it.

“Thank you, Julien.” She couldn't quite bear to meet his stare; neither could she look away. She found herself smiling-and all but basking in the smile she got from him in return. Apparently acting without bothering to wait for orders from her brain, her fingers tightened their grip on his hand, and for a moment, she actually forgot the pain of her injuries.

Until, suddenly, a conscious thought actually wormed its way through the wall of surging emotion, and all Widdershins could think was, Oh, gods, I must be such a mess! Somehow, the fact that she'd been badly wounded, and unconscious for most of a day, didn't feel like much of an excuse.

It was Olgun-and wasn't it always? — who guided her back to an even keel. A faint surge of undifferentiated emotion, the equivalent of a gentle cough, was enough to grab her attention. From there, she felt as though she were briefly floating in what she could only describe as a pool of calm, cooling the extremes of her emotional turmoil and lingering pain both.

“Thank you,” she whispered again, this time too low for any mortal ears in the room-and Olgun could certainly have never doubted that her thanks were for more than just that moment.

Widdershins took a deep breath, felt her heart slow to something vaguely resembling its normal rate, and tore her rapt attention from Julien's face (or at least the vicinity thereof) to take in her surroundings. Indeed, she recognized his office, now, as she'd been there a time or two before. The same rickety chairs; the same cheap desk that seemed about ready to collapse beneath the tectonic shifting of the parchment continents moving about its surface; the same oily lamps that added an acrid tang to the air and had stained the walls a color that wasn't really gray, but wasn't really any other color even more than it wasn't really gray. All that had changed was the mattress on which she now lay.

Well, that and the truly motley assortment of individuals currently gathered in said office.

Individuals who…Widdershins blinked, puzzled, wondering if she remained dazed enough to be so severely misinterpreting what she saw. Both Renard and Robin were glaring at Julien Bouniard with a simmering anger; what could, indeed, have almost been hatred! From Renard, Widdershins could have dismissed it. The flamboyant thief, for all his bravado, had to be made a little uneasy just standing here in the heart of his enemy's domain. But Robin? What could Julien possibly have done to earn Robin's ire?

Perhaps sensing Widdershins's confusion, if not the underpinning reasons for it, Julien gently released her hand and took a half step back from her side.

“Better count your fingers,” Renard warned, casting a sidelong grin at Widdershins that almost hid the growl of genuine hostility underlying his words.

“Oh, please,” Widdershins huffed. “I wouldn't steal from Bouniard.” Her own grin went impish. “Until I was well enough to escape, anyway.”

Julien snorted back a laugh. “Whatever issues I may have with your friend here,” he said, “he hasn't left your side since he arrived. He says he's something important to tell you.”

Three faces swiveled toward Renard, then, who blinked, looked askance at Robin, and then back at the young woman on the mattress.

“I trust her,” Widdershins said simply.

“I'm sure you do,” Renard began, “but-”

“I trust her. Completely. Out with it.”

Robin beamed, tenderly brushing a strand of sweat-matted hair from Widdershins's forehead.

“Well…All right. Widdershins, there's been some talk going around the Finders.”

“Yeah? Wow. Good thing I'm already lying down, or else I'd probably fall-”

“Talk about you, my little jester.”

“Still not being shocked here, Renard.”

“Talk that you just murdered a couple of Finders.”

“What?!”

It took a bit of time to calm things down after that. Widdershins needed a few minutes to recover from the surge of pain in her shoulder brought about when she shot to her feet (or attempted to). Bouniard had to speak to several of his fellow Guardsmen, assuring them that no, they had not in fact just heard someone being violently assaulted within the walls of their own headquarters. And thankfully, by the time all that was done, Robin had recovered most of the hearing in her right ear.

“Who do these people think they are?!” Widdershins was lying back, and her voice was substantially softer, but neither fact was preventing her from giving the rant everything she had. “What am I, the guild's designated scapegoat? ‘Something's gone wrong, must be Widdershins's fault!’ ‘Uh-oh, it's raining, must be Widdershins's fault!’ ‘Stubbed my toe! Curse that Widdershins!’”

“Uh, Shins?” Robin began. “Maybe-”

“This was supposed to get better once Lisette was gone! But noooo, I still have a target painted on my soul's butt!”

“Widdershins,” Julien said, “I think-”

“All right, so I messed up one job! But it was dumb! And it wouldn't have worked anyway, and it would've brought the Guard down on us! And-”

“Widdershins!” Both Robin and Julien, this time.

“Well…it's all I've done lately. How long can they hold a grudge, anyway?” She crossed her arms with a genuine hmph, as though daring anyone to answer. “All right, fine. I've done a lot. So if there's plenty to blame me for, why does the world always insist on getting me in hot water for stuff I didn't do, hmm? Seems like a stupid amount of effort to go through, yes?”

Robin, Julien, and Renard all waited, presumably to be certain she was done. Then, as she began to draw breath-suggesting, perhaps, that she wasn't done-her fellow Finder spoke up, apparently determined to head her off before she built up any further momentum.

“There's a witness,” he told her.

“What?” Not a screech this time, but more of a faint squeak, as Widdershins seemed to deflate or even flatten rather like a mouse in a grain mill.

“Simon Beaupre.”

Widdershins was able, this time, to keep herself from sitting bolt upright and stressing her injuries even further. She settled, instead, for squeezing her eyes shut against what promised to become an incipient headache. “Squirrel.”

“Squirrel?” Robin and Julien asked simultaneously.

“That's him,” Renard said.

“I'm gonna kill him!” Widdershins promised.

Several chuckles answered her. “Maybe not the best thing to say when he's the one accusing you of murder,” Renard pointed out.

“Or in front of the Guard,” Julien added.

“Oh, both of you shut up.” Then, “Renard, I didn't kill anyone, and I don't know what Squirrel's talking about, though I can take a pretty good guess as to why he's trying to blame it on me.” Another pause, as she squirmed beneath the questioning expressions of Julien and Robin. “I, uh, sort of interfered with a job he was trying to pull. You…” She offered the Guardsman a weak, limp sort of smile. “You, uh, were sort of there for part of it.”

Julien's face stiffened. “I think you'd probably better not go into any further detail, before I hear something I'll have to act on.”

“Yeah, I was just thinking that.”

Robin looked at her, at Julien, at Renard. “Guess there's a reason you thieves don't plan anything with Guardsmen in the room, huh? Umm…” It was her turn to wither beneath the weight of several unamused glowers. “Maybe you guys should keep doing most of the talking.”

“What the hell have I gotten myself into?” Julien asked the world at large. Widdershins-who knew, for once, when not to make a snide comment-just nodded her sympathy.

“I never for a moment believed you a murderer, Widdershins,” Renard assured her, with a borderline melodramatic hand over his heart. “More importantly, neither do the Shrouded Lord or the taskmaster.”

Widdershins felt the fist that had closed around her lungs relax its hold just a bit, and nearly gasped aloud.

“There's a lot of pressure from the ranks of the Finders to question you-you're, let's say, not popular in some quarters…”

“You don't say?”

“…so I can't promise you that there won't be repercussions. And I'd definitely watch my back while out alone, were I you. Actually, I wouldn't go out alone, were I you.”

“You offering to follow me around, Renard?”

“Well, if mademoiselle wishes…”

“Never you mind.”

Renard chuckled. “Honestly, though, I think it should blow over fairly quickly. Even most of the Finders who believe you capable of murder don't really believe you'd use witchcraft to do it, so-”

“Stop. Stop right there. In fact, go back a few steps. What are you talking about?”

“The bodies. Our people you supposedly killed. They certainly weren't natural deaths.”

That fist in Widdershins's chest began to clench again. “Dry?” she asked. “Like old leather or parchment?”

She'd already had the attention of everyone in the room, yet somehow it felt as though her audience had grown. “You know about it?” Renard demanded.

“How many?”

“Widdershins…”

“Renard, please! How many?”

The older thief sighed. “Four.”

Widdershins shook her head. The hair Robin had so carefully brushed away fell right back into her face, though she scarcely noticed. “I only knew about two. Robin, help me sit up, please.”

During the few moments it took for her to get settled again, the pillows propped behind her so as to avoid putting any pressure on her wounds, Widdershins's mind was furiously chasing itself in half a dozen different directions. How much could she say here? Who would she have to keep secrets from? Gods, but this had been easier when she didn't mind lying to Julien, but now…

She blinked. When had she decided she didn't want to lie to Julien anymore?

Oh, this is bad….

“I ran into-well, into something-on the street last night,” she began. Better not mention that two of the Finders were actually masquerading as our local “phantom,” not in front of Jul-in front of a Guardsman. “I don't know what it was, but it…” She shuddered, and not just for dramatic effect. She found herself clutching at her shoulder with her right hand, though she didn't remember moving. “It did this to me, and…Well, you know what it did to them.”

“Something?” Julien asked, crouching down beside her. “Not someone?”

“Trust me, Julien, I can tell the difference.”

He nodded, and if he doubted her words at all, no such qualms appeared in his expression or his voice. “Can you describe it?”

“It, he-whichever-was kind of human-looking. Frighteningly gaunt, like a scarecrow, with really long limbs. Even longer fingers, like spider's legs or-”

Robin, with something somewhere between a gasp and an abortive shriek, actually lurched back from Widdershins's bedside. Her voice, when it emerged from between quivering lips, was a gravelly whisper. “Spider hands and webs for hair…”

“What?” Widdershins, stunned at the reaction and frightened by the sudden pallor in her friend's face, ignored her own pain and reached out to put a hand on Robin's arm. “Sweetie, what is it?”

“Don't you remember, Widdershins? You must have heard it when you were young. I'm sure everyone who grew up in Galice must have!”

The thief frowned, troubled once again by the strange sense of familiarity she'd felt when she'd first gotten a good look at the creature. “I'm not sure what…”

Robin took a deep breath, and began.

“Beneath the sun, the roads are man's,

His work, his home, his town, his plans.

But 'ware the ticking of the clock:

The night belongs to Iruoch.”

Widdershins's breath caught, and she felt the tingle of a thousand tiny legs across her back and neck. She did remember!

“In shadowed wood, in distant vale,

In summer rain or winter hail,

If you alone should choose to walk,

You may just meet with Iruoch.”

It was a children's rhyme, nothing but a silly, scary story; one of scores they told each other in the dark, long after they were supposed to have gone to sleep. Just one of many Galician bogeymen.

But he wasn't real!

“With spider hands and webs for hair,

A black and never-blinking stare,

A scarecrow's form, a dancer's walk,

There's no mistaking Iruoch.”

It didn't seem that Robin could have stopped, now, even if she'd wanted to. With every word, her cadence grew ever more singsong; her voice grew higher, as though she were physically reverting back to the girl she'd been when first she'd heard the words. She shook beneath the weight of a childhood nightmare made very, very real, and Widdershins could do nothing but try to hold her.

“No means to fight, nowhere to run,

Your dreams are ash, your days are done.

No point to scream, to cry, to talk;

Your words mean naught to Iruoch.”

Even Julien and Renard were captivated, reaching out to Robin as though to comfort her, even as they clearly had trouble believing that she could possibly need comfort, not from something as simple, as silly, as a rhyme. And Widdershins-Widdershins, who now remembered it as clearly as when she herself was a little girl, could only recite the last stanza along with her friend.

“No mortals, magics, blades, or flames,

He only fears the Sacred Names.

Only a faith as stout as rock

Might save your hide from Iruoch.”

Robin inhaled once, deeply, as though only now able to breathe, buried her head in Widdershins's chest, and sobbed. Unsure of what else she should do, Widdershins held her tight, casting a worried glance over Robin's head-a glance returned by the other occupants of the room.

“Uh…” She cleared her throat and tried again. “Robin, that's not, well, not exactly how he looked. His hair wasn't…” She tried to shrug, and succeeded only in jostling the other girl's head. “I don't think we've got enough reason to believe that-”

“It's him,” Robin insisted, sniffling, and raised her head. “Iruoch's come to Davillon.”

“It's nonsense,” Julien insisted. “It's just a folktale. A child's rhyme.”

“Pure silliness, dear girl,” Renard agreed.

Widdershins nodded. “See, Robin? Besides, there haven't been any fairies in Galice in hundreds of years.”

“Like there haven't been any demons, Shins?”

The thief actually felt herself wilt. “Olgun?” she asked, scarcely vocalizing. “It's not Iruoch, right?”

Olgun's silence was worse than any confirmation he might have offered.

“Oh.” Then, somewhat more loudly, “Uh, guys? I don't know if Robin's right about who or what this thing is, but we know it's real, and it's magic, and it's really, really not friendly. Does it honestly matter what his name is?”

When nobody offered her any reply more intelligible than a grunt of agreement, she continued. “Jul-uh, Bouniard, can you increase the patrols?”

Julien grinned. “Widdershins asking for a greater Guard presence on the street? Are we certain the world's not ending?”

“Keep talking, Bouniard, and you'll wish it was.”

The major's grin only widened, and Widdershins had to bite her lip to keep from matching the expression. Trying to force herself to remain on topic, she said, “I don't actually think any of your people could take on Iruoch-or whoever he is-but maybe he won't attack groups.”

“My people couldn't…? You have an awfully high opinion of your own fighting skills, I see.” Then, his grin fading, “We already reinforced the patrols when this whole mess started. We really don't have more constables to spare. But I'll talk to command about trying to concentrate them further.”

“All right. Renard?”

“Yes, General Widdershins?”

“Stop that. I need you to arrange a meeting for me with the Shrouded Lord. Or at least with Remy.”

Renard's mustache twisted as he frowned. “I can report back everything you've-”

“No. There's…” She forced herself not to glance at Julien as she spoke. “There's other stuff I need to talk to them about.”

If the Guardsman recognized that Widdershins had all but admitted she was keeping some of the details secret from him, it didn't show on his face.

“Ah. All right, I'll see what I can do.”

“And you,” Julien said, straightening, “are going to get some sleep.”

“But I-”

“No. You're still recovering. And frankly, Widdershins, this doesn't involve you. I'm sorry you had to face Ir-whatever this thing is, but you're not a Guard.”

“And you have other problems,” Robin reminded her softly.

Evrard! Gods, she'd actually forgotten! Mortified, she initially wanted to blame Olgun, to accuse him of tricking her into focusing on other issues, but she knew she'd just gotten caught up in it all.

“I want to know what's going on, what this thing is,” she admitted. And why Finders were masquerading as a supernatural thug before the real supernatural thug showed up! “But that's all. I'll try to gather information, but beyond that, I'll stay out of it. Promise.”

She swore she could actually feel the mattress buckling beneath the weight of their combined disbelief, but nobody challenged her outright.

“I'll stay with you,” Robin offered.

Widdershins shook her head. “I need you to manage the Witch, sweetie.”

“But-”

“Please, Robin.”

Robin stared down at the floor for a moment, then rose. “All right.” She leaned down and gave her friend a kiss on the cheek. “You get better quick, though, or I might just take the whole tavern somewhere safer.”

“I'll remember that.” Widdershins smiled-a smile that swiftly faded as, for just an instant, Robin turned an angry glare on Julien Bouniard. But before Widdershins could be sure she'd even seen it, and certainly before Julien himself might have noticed, the girl left the room. Renard offered another low bow, tossed his hat onto his head with a jaunty flip of the wrist, and followed.

When the door drifted shut, and Widdershins realized that she was alone with Julien-Olgun's constant presence notwithstanding-she caught herself preparing to scream for Robin to come back.

This is so stupid! I've been alone with Julien before! I-

He scooted one of the chairs away from the desk, and rotated it so he could sit facing her. The worry he felt for her was so clear in his eyes, it practically obscured their color.

Oh, figs…