Covenant's End (24 page)

Laremy Privott, Taskmaster of the Finders' Guild—now, up close, Paschal recognized the snake-bald head and apish body from prior encounters—grunted something vaguely disbelieving but otherwise unintelligible, then said, “You have
got
to be shitting me.”

“I am as shat as you are,” Paschal said, even as he grabbed desperately for a weapon with his free hand. Not his rapier; this close in, it'd be awkward to the point of useless. No, the guardsman dropped his longer blade and went for his dagger, a heavy-basketed main gauche. Went for it and got nowhere near it, as a vise pretending to be a fist clamped down hard enough to grind the bones of his wrist together. He couldn't help but gasp between his teeth in pain.

They staggered about the inner office, slamming one another into walls and furniture, locked in this peculiar duel. Paschal could not risk releasing his grip on the flintlock, agonizing as it was; Privott couldn't relax his own hold without being stabbed.

In better shape than most, Paschal still had no doubt that this was a contest in which he could only come out second best. Privott, judging by his mocking grin, knew it, too.

“Anything you want to say before I tie a pretty little bow in your spine?”

“Actually…yes,” he answered between grunts. “You're…under arrest.”

The taskmaster chortled.

“You can surrender…to me now,” Paschal croaked on, “or you can…kill me and then…be shot dead by my people…in the next room.”

Privott froze. “You're bluffing.”

“No,” d'Ilse rasped from the doorway, voice firm despite the obvious pain it carried. “He's not.”

She and the other two soldiers stood or crouched, leaning around the doorjamb to aim bash-bangs at the struggling pair.

“Were you waiting…for an invitation?” Paschal asked them, still bent halfway backward.

“Didn't seem desperate enough to try shooting
through
you, yet, sir.”

“The consideration is appreciated.” The major looked up into the Finder's eyes, which were now darting side to side, seeking an escape that didn't exist. “You could try taking me hostage, of course,” he said, his breath slowing. “That might get you past those three. But there are a lot more of us in the hall. Nowhere you can turn where you won't be exposing your back to someone.

“How loyal
are
you to Suvagne, Privott? Are you ready to martyr yourself for her?”

The hefty fellow slowly straightened, releasing his grip on both his opponent's wrist and the flintlock (the latter of which Paschal gingerly detached from his throbbing and already bruising skin). “I believe, officer” he said, “I'd like to turn myself in.

“You don't want to do that.”

Muskets and flintlocks hung on the walls and in racks throughout the chamber. Crossbows sat, unstrung but otherwise ready to go, on the shelves of massive cases. Swords and daggers, some on those selfsame shelves, some standing upright in stands, smelled heavily of oil. And from behind an iron-shod door, currently standing ajar, drifted the pungent and sulfuric scent of black powder.

Nearly a score of Finders occupied the Guild armory, gathering
up weapons and equipment, and all of them stopped to stare as Igraine Vernadoe stepped calmly through the chamber's outer door.

“It's not too late,” she continued. The priestess paused, ensuring all attention was on her, before she resumed her casual stroll through the armory. “You can still return to the Shrouded God's grace.”

“Like you?” one of the men spat “By siding with the fucking Guard?! You're a traitor! You're—”

“The Shrouded God utilizes what tools he needs, Pierre. The Finders' Guild is currently under the thumb of an apostate, who has dismantled our priesthood and banished our most senior members. Do you truly believe that our god will let such an affront stand?”

“We're not a church!” the other—Pierre—snapped back. “Suvagne's made us more profitable than we ever were under the Shrouded Lord or your god!”

Rumbles of agreement from more than a few of those present, but Igraine could see, as well, the doubt and hesitation in the faces of many.

“Lay down your weapons,” she commanded. “Merely being present here isn't a crime. Most of those arrested by the Guard will be free in a matter of days and can assist in rebuilding the Guild into what it should be.

“Or you can fight, and possibly die, on behalf of the true traitor among us. Even if, by some stroke of fortune, you were to prove victorious, how long do you believe you can survive this life without the Shrouded God's approval?”

By now, she had crossed the armory, wending her way between the racks and the shelves and the indecisive thieves, so that she stood near the door to the powder chamber. Even those who seemed unmoved by her words hadn't yet made any move against her, as she'd known they wouldn't. Perhaps they'd turned their backs on the Shrouded God, but they would still hesitate to murder one of his priestesses within the walls of the Finders' Guild.

Hesitate, but not necessarily refuse. Pierre and several of the others raised their weapons.

“You're standing with the Guard, against Finders. In my book, that's a lot more treasonous than anything you're blathering about.”

“Then we shall prove it. All of you willing to hear me out, please seat yourselves upon the floor.”

Confused glances and worried murmurs followed, but a small number of the thieves did, indeed, sit down.

“So few? A shame.”

Pierre grinned nastily. “I think you're done here, Vernadoe.”

“Yes. Yes, I suppose I am.”

She ducked suddenly behind the armored door as the Guards in the hall, who'd crept up on the armory while she'd held the Finders' attentions, opened fire.

Opened fire
over
the heads of those few thieves who had been wise enough to heed the warnings of their priestess.

“You realize you just wasted your time and shed blood for nothing, right?” Although manacled and on his knees, the presence of so many of his brethren—equally restrained—had apparently reignited some of Laremy Privott's defiant streak. “Even if all this shit was legal without Commandant Archibeque's orders—”

And how did he know that, I wonder?
Paschal mused, not really wondering at all.

“—the Church is going to crawl all the way up your asses and kick them from inside, for violating the laws of the Hallowed—”

Paschal cleared his throat and held out an open palm. One of his constables immediately slapped a coiled scroll into it. The major examined it, turned it around so Privott could see the seals of both House Luchene and the Church of the Hallowed Pact. Snapping
them both with one thumb, Paschal flipped the scroll open—with, he would admit, a totally unnecessary flourish—and began to read.

“Whereas Beatrice Luchene, the Duchess Davillon, has executed her legal right under emergency powers and claimed full ducal jurisdiction over Davillon and its official entities,
including the City Guard
….” That last bit wasn't actually written; the major just wanted to make sure it was quite clear.

Ignoring the low muttering, he continued, “And whereas, in response to its actions in expelling its senior priesthood and turning from communal worship of the Shrouded God, His Eminence Sicard—in concert with a legal quorum of fourteen ordained priests—has declared the establishment known as the Finders' Guild to no longer fall under the protections granted religious institutions of the Hallowed Pact—”

He didn't bother to read any further; nobody could have heard him over the roar of protesting disbelief, anyway.

“You can't do that!” Privott finally shouted when the noise level had subsided to only
almost
bone-breaking. “Not even the bishop has the authority to make that sort of declaration.”

It was not Paschal who answered, but Igraine Vernadoe, slipping out from behind the front rank to crouch before the flushed and sweating taskmaster. “It's a gray area,” she admitted. Then, with a broad smile, she added, “I'm quite certain you can appeal to the Church, just as soon as you're capable of getting a message to anyone in the upper echelons. It's even possible they'll agree with you, though I rather doubt it.

“But in any case, as the most senior clergyman currently accessible and a bishop in the ranks of the Mother Church, His Eminence's declaration stands as legitimate until and unless overturned.”

“You treasonous bitch!” he hissed, yanking futilely at his chains.

“Me? You're the one who chose to follow the usurper, Remy. You should thank her, by the way. It was only because of the threat she
posed that we were able to get the Church and the Houses on board with something this massive.”

She leaned even closer, until she could whisper almost intimately in the taskmaster's ear. “The protection of the Shrouded God was never just silly superstition, you ridiculous fool. Such a pity you had to learn that the hard way.”

Then she was up and back amongst the guards, leaving her former friend and ally cursing and spitting in a frustrated, fearful rage.

Riding the momentum of another humanly impossible sprint, Shins dropped to her knees, leaned back, and slid the length of the hall, passing beneath the fusillade fired by the gathered Finders. Beneath the fusillade, and beneath the outstretched arms of the first rank, slashing a calf here or a hamstring there as she swept by.

Then she was up in the midst of them. She snatched one of the Finders by the belt and collar as she shot upright, driving his head—with a bit of Olgun-boosted strength, of course—into the ceiling.

Those still standing in the front spun to face her; the bulk from the back pressed forward, eager to see her bleed.

Which, of course, had been the point. Clumped, focused on her, facing in multiple directions, this last gaggle of sentries were
not
watching down the hall whence she'd come.

Widdershins smiled, dropped her rapier, and leapt. Her right hand and foot slapped hard against the wall, her left against the ceiling. Even with her god's assistance, it was a position far too awkward, far too lacking in any real support, for her to hold more than a few seconds.

But a few seconds was long enough for Renard and the guards accompanying him to fire down the hall, unimpeded by any return shots.

Those thieves who survived wisely raised their hands.

Shins dropped to the floor, landing—for no reason other than showing off, at this point—on the pommel of her sword with the toe of her boot. Pivoting on the basket hilt, the weapon flipped into the air inches from her chest, where she caught it as smoothly as though it'd been handed to her.

“I can't help but wonder,” Renard mused as he strode up beside her, “if that last bit was truly necessary.”

“It'll just have to remain one of life's great mysteries.” She indicated the door with a tilt of her head, looking first to her friend, then to the squad of soldiers with whom she'd met up moments before. “Everyone ready?”

Gruff nods and the hefting of very large weapons were her answer.