Covenant's End (17 page)

Leaving Paschal's office did
not
translate directly into leaving the Guard headquarters. Widdershins had someone else to see.

Or, well, to look into.

She wasn't especially concerned about being recognized. The changes in hair color and wardrobe, her skill with adjusting her posture and pace to blend in, the inaccuracies and vagaries of her “wanted” portrait, and of course the fact that the Guard headquarters boasted all sorts of visitors and messengers at this time of day…. Frankly, Shins was all but guaranteed to go unnoticed even before Olgun began subtly encouraging people to look the other way.

Assuming she didn't run into anyone who actually
knew
her. A guard who'd arrested her in the past, perhaps, a fellow Finder being brought in for interrogation, or possibly Archibeque himself, since she still had no idea why he had it in for her, could all ruin her efforts, her day, and quite possibly the rest of her natural life.

So, easy it might be, but no point in dawdling.

It didn't take long, just a few moments of loitering and wandering the building—its walls stained an oily charcoal by years of exposure to cheap oil lamps—to learn which room she wanted. Given the quantity of traffic in the main halls, it was
far
more difficult to find a moment of privacy long enough to slip the lock and get
into
said room. Ultimately, it required Olgun providing a distraction—the poor courier wouldn't suffer anything worse from his stumble
than a bruised knee, but he'd be ages reordering the stack of papers he'd scattered—and funneling as much assistance and luck as he could into her efforts at the latch, before she finally managed to crack the door open long enough to duck inside.

Dim, but not dark; the sun's smallest fingers felt around the edges of the shutters, providing enough light to see. The shelves and desk were bigger, the stacks of paper neater, and the back wall had that aforementioned window, but still and all, it wasn't all that different from Paschal's.

Or rather, it didn't
appear
all that different.

It smelled off, for one, though Shins found it impossible to put her finger—or her nose, to be more accurate—on what it was. Only later would she realize it was the
absence
of scent that had nagged at her. That lingering combination of sweat and ink and food and drink and a dozen other little things, the scent of
work
, was faint,
too
faint, far more so than even the presence of the window could justify.

Then, of course, was the fact that Paschal's office hadn't made Olgun scream.

Shins's plan
had
been to carefully scour the room, sift through the papers, hunt for the slightest sign of any connection between Commandant Archibeque and Lisette or the Guild. That, if one were to judge by the divine conniption she'd just experienced, would no longer be necessary.

“Holy horsebubbles, Olgun! Calm down!” Then, after a frozen moment spent waiting to see if her own outburst had drawn any attention from beyond the office door, she continued. “Are you sure?”

The god's response to that question was so blasphemously profane, Shins wasn't entirely certain he hadn't just mortally insulted
himself
.

“All right, yes, you'd be in a position to know! I wasn't thinking. Don't say it.” She pondered, mind spinning, while casually rifling a random drawer without really paying any heed to what lay inside.
If the fae had been here—and often enough to leave an aura Olgun could sense even in their absence—what did that mean, exactly?

“So, what, the commandant's been meeting with them?”

Her head swam with sensations and images of various mixtures, liquid concoctions of color swirling around and within one another. One of the pair was disturbingly akin to blood.

It only took her a moment. “It's
mixed
with the commandant's aura?!”

No, not quite. Another few flashes of uncertainty were enough to explain that Olgun couldn't swear it was Commandant Archibeque. But
some
human-fae combination had been present within, and frequently.

“Lisette?”

Again, no.
That
sensation, he'd recognize.

“Then I don't unders—can the fae possess people, like a ghost or demon? Do we need, I don't know, special medicine, or an exorcism? Does the Church of the Hallowed Pact even
do
exorcisms anymore?”

And then, “You know, that's starting to get really aggravating. If you're going to keep shrugging at me, you can hopping well grow some shoulders already, yes? I—”

The deity's power surged, making her ears crackle, and then she could clearly hear the sound of steps out in the hallway. Steps that grew louder, nearer, with deliberate purpose.

“Right, we'll discuss shoulders later. Don't forget to remind me! Make a note of it. ‘Shoulders.'”

And speaking of shoulders, she had hers (along with the rest of her) through the window, and the shutters tugged closed behind her, before whoever was approaching—be it Archibeque or some lower functionary—could crack the door to the office.

Not, in and of itself, the most inconspicuous exit, but luck—perhaps with a nudge from Olgun; she never did ask—was with her. The commandant's window opened up on a smaller street, to one
side of the building, rather than on the main thoroughfare out front. Between that and the thick, soaking mist that threatened to coalesce into yet another heavy rain any minute now, only a smattering of passersby witnessed her unorthodox exit. And while Shins drew more than a few peculiar looks and puzzled mutters, she'd be long gone before anyone—even should they decide to do so—had flagged down and returned with an actual guard.

Arms wrapped tightly about herself, save for those moments when she needed to wipe water or strands of hair from her face, Widdershins made her way back toward more comfortable environs. Her cold clothes pasted themselves to her skin, making her shiver, and the moisture in the air was so think it didn't merely smell but
tasted
of society's many odors. She was almost sure, were she dropped blindfolded anywhere in the city, she could instantly guess her rough location by the specific combination of flavors.

Which is why she noticed almost immediately when the harsh grating of fire and smoke crept in to season the bouquet. The sting of fumes, the grit of ash, the sharp tang of what had once been wood…all scarcely hinted at in the tiny whiffs that reached her, but imprinted so heavily on her memories that she gagged; her eyes began to water for reasons other than the weather. Something about a burning building…

Fire had ended her childhood, changed her life into something unrecognizable for the first of what would become many, many times. It was not a scent, especially when it snagged her unawares, that she would ever be comfortable with. She couldn't imagine how such a blaze had gotten started in this weather; it must have been
intense
.

Something else to do with the ongoing chaos and upheaval, no doubt.
Still, it was far enough away that Shins couldn't see any billowing smoke amidst the lighter haze, and while the wind wasn't precisely steady, she could tell that the fumes came from nowhere near the direction she was headed. No matter how severe the blaze, the weather would
keep it from spreading too terribly far before the locals got it under control.

She felt a pang of sympathy for whoever owned the burning place (or places), and another surge of fury at Lisette, for causing so much widespread hurt and chaos with her insane machinations. Still, deepest and darkest truth be told, what Shins felt more than anything else was
relief
.

It was good to be reminded, on occasion, that not
everything
that went wrong in Davillon was her problem.

How in the name of every damn god of the damn Pact did I get roped into this?!

Evrard d'Arras strode—more “stomped,” really, though he'd have rejected the description as undignified—across cobblestones made dark by evening and slick with the ever-present humidity. The wind whipped his long coat about his ankles, where it also collected dirty runoff and occasional speckles of mud from his feet; not-quite-rain dripped from the corners of his tricorne hat. (Popular in all the most fashionable Galicien circles, the damn things never
had
caught on in Davillon. Of course.) At roughly every third streetlight, he forced his hand to unclench from the hilt of his sword, to hang casually at his side, only to find before long that it had wrapped itself about the weapon once more, seemingly of its own accord.

Oh, he recognized
this
mood when it came over him. He
wanted
trouble to find him, wanted someone to give him an excuse to burn off some aggression. Enough self-awareness to identify the feeling, not remotely enough to dismiss it. The
scrunch
of his leather gauntlet was accompanied by a soft, unintended growl of his own.

He didn't even
like
the bloody woman! Oh, he'd developed a grudging respect for her during the Iruoch affair, and he no longer nursed the sizzling coals of hatred he'd once felt, but that was about the kindest he could say. He didn't like her attitude, he didn't like her presence, he didn't much care for her friends—though he still harbored more than a bit of guilt toward the girl, Robin—and he sure as
hell
hadn't wholly forgiven her for burgling his family's ancestral tower during the years the d'Arras clan were “political guests”
in Rannanti. He wanted nothing from her but to never see her again (and perhaps the return of the rapier she'd stolen).

So how does she keep talking me into these things?!

He was fortunate enough to come across a discarded bottle at that point, a rare occurrence in this nicer district, and kicked it across the road with a vicious, childish glee. It shattered against someone's doorstep; the clatter set some nearby dog to furious barking.

He knew how it felt.

Everything the damn thief had said was true. He
did
care deeply for his family's name and honor; he didn't care to let people suffer when he was in a position to stop it; and he did, indeed, feel that these new fae meant last year's task remained undone.

He would even admit to himself, if no one else, that fear drove him as well. If he
did
have to face more monsters like the nightmarish Iruoch, he wanted it to happen according to
his
plan, not theirs.

But none of that explained it, not really. Wanting to preserve the d'Arras name, to help people—a far distance indeed separated that from “volunteer to hunt monsters and criminals.” Evrard was neither guardsman nor professional soldier, for all that he was a better duelist than most who
did
practice those professions. Refusing to get involved in this mess would have left no blemish at all on his honor, personal or familial.

Then why the ravenous burning hell
, he began again,
am I—?

At which point an abortive scream and a dull crunch sounded from behind. With barely time for a quick flicker of
Careful what you wish for, Evrard
, he pivoted, dropping into a defensive stance, his rapier flying free of its scabbard…

In time to see that his skills weren't precisely required.

Jogging and leaping along the rooftops—only the easiest gaps and smoothest roofs; she still hadn't fully recovered, even with Olgun's
aid—Widdershins had followed Evrard for blocks. Or, rather, she'd followed the two men, dressed in shabby coats more than large enough for hidden blades, lingering a short ways behind him.

She'd been almost certain they were tailing him, and she lost the “almost” when they halted in their tracks the instant he'd stopped to kick that bottle. They clearly didn't want to be noticed.

“Let us,” she breathed at Olgun, reveling in the feel of his magic as it began to surge through muscle and flesh and bone, “notice them.”

Shins landed on the first one's shoulders, felt a few disturbing crunches beneath her feet as he just folded under her. He managed maybe one quarter of a scream. She felt a brief pang of sympathy, but…well, it was better than if she'd just up and stabbed him.

Wasn't it?

A crumpled human, especially one now capable of bending in a few spots that nature had not intended, makes for very unstable footing, and even Widdershins's enhanced reflexes weren't perfect. She stumbled a step toward the squishy fellow's companion.

As he appeared locked in place, however, his senses and his brain arguing over what had just happened, she decided to turn it to her advantage.

(Mostly so the whole wobbly landing would appear—to her enemy and Evrard both—planned and deliberate. But she wouldn't have admitted it under torture, and neither of the witnesses could hear Olgun snickering about it.)

The stagger transformed into a forward roll, her palms slapping wetly on the cobblestone, and the thug had just enough time for the strangest expression to cross his face before both of Widdershins's boot heels did likewise. When all was said and done, and the dust—or rather, spray—had settled, he lay sprawled on his back in the street, Widdershins sitting comfortably atop him. The initial impact might or might not have been enough to render him unconscious,
but the fact that Shins currently had one foot resting heavily on his throat removed all doubt.

“Evening,” she said as Evrard stalked closer, fists and jaw quivering.

“Showing off?” he spat.

“Uh, no.”
Not exactly, anyway.
“Nobody here worth bothering to impress.”

“I could have taken them!”

“Sure. If you'd noticed them. And if they were normal robbers.” She rose, stretched hard until something in her back popped, and then began wandering in the same direction Evrard had been heading. Given no other option—especially since that remained the way he had to go—the aristocrat joined her.

“‘Normal robbers'?” he demanded.

“Yeah. As in, robbers who plan to rob you. Like normal.”

“And what else
would
they have been?”

“Spies for Lisette, who knows you were involved in the fight against Iruoch and might have noticed you asking questions. In which case, sure, you could still have taken them—unless their job was just to follow you and confirm where we were, and that you were working with us, in which case you'd never have known they were here. Well, until the Finders showed up to stab us in our sleep. Probably with fire.”

“Stab us with…?”

“This way, they don't see where you're going, and they didn't really see who or what hit them.”

“So which are you?” Evrard asked.

“Huh?”

“A
who
or a
what
?”

“Cute,” Widdershins said. “A few years of practice, just like that, and you could really be marginally less unfunny.”

“I…” He glanced abruptly downward, something having snagged his attention. “You're wearing a rapier.”

“So are you,” she pointed out.

“Yes, but you did not
have
a rapier when you left. In fact, you asked me to lend you one of mine.”

She shrugged. “And you said no. So I borrowed from someone else.”

“I see. And does this someone else
know
you ‘borrowed' his sword?”

“Well, by
now
he probably does…”

Footsteps, the very sporadic murmur of other pedestrians, the faint sizzle as the occasional bead of water worked its way inside the burning streetlamps. Otherwise, silence.

“I'm afraid I wasted my day,” Evrard began. “I didn't learn any—”

Two raised fingers and a quick “Shh!” stopped him cold.

“Not now,” Shins told him. “Wait until everyone's gathered. Then we can all report to each other at once.”

“But I just told you I don't
have
anything to—”

“So wait until we're all together and
then
don't report anything.”

Evrard actually swayed, appearing almost drunk. “You want me to wait,” he said, slowly and clearly, perhaps making sure they were both speaking the same language. “And tell the group I've got nothing. Without telling you, alone, right now, that I've got nothing.”

“Precisely.”

“For the love of the gods,
why
?!”

Shins stared at the man as though he'd gone mad for even asking. “I don't want to lose track of all the details.”

Once again, footsteps, the very sporadic murmur of other pedestrians, the faint sizzle as the occasional bead of water worked its way inside the burning streetlamps. Otherwise, more silence.

“How did I let myself get talked into this?”

He hadn't really been asking Shins, hadn't even meant to mutter it aloud; it was just another repetition of what had become the
evening's anthem. Yet, without even looking his way, Widdershins answered.

“Because you and your family spent almost a decade doing nothing but playing at manners and propriety as ‘guests' in another country, yes? Followed almost immediately by your silly obsession with getting revenge on me.”

“Silly—?! You stole dozens of our family heirlooms! Gods' sakes, Lisette only hates you because you beat her to robbing
my
—!”

“Now that that's all behind you, you haven't the faintest wiggling idea what to do with yourself or your life. You're bored, you're completely aimless, and you're looking for something to do that actually matters.”

Evrard rocked, raising fingertips to his cheek as though he'd been slapped. “You have no idea what you're talking about!”

“Oh.” Another of Widdershins's shrugs. “Okay.”

“You
don't
!” he insisted.

“Okay. And Lisette's a few strands short of a mop, anyway. She'd have found some other reason to hate me. No reason to blame yourself.”

The aristocrat roared something that, at closest, was related to genuine words solely by marriage, and stormed ahead, his rapier an angry and twitching tail, with nearly enough force to leave an Evrard-shaped hole in the fog. Shins stood, blinking, in his wake.

“What'd I say?”

Olgun could only sigh.

“I'm worried,” Robin conceded, doe-eyed and imploring, from her spot at the end of the sofa. Around the room, the various conspirators took this seat or that, while Evrard—fulfilling his duties as host, for all that he constantly grumbled about it—passed around brimming goblets and morsels of those fruits available in this peculiar season.

To everyone other than Faustine, who was nowhere to be seen.

“I told her to stay here!” Shins fumed, not merely pacing but stomping as though the carpet were made of spiders. “I didn't want you alone!”

“Calm down, Shins. I wasn't. She didn't leave until Renard got back.”

“I'm not sure that's any safer,” she growled.