False Covenant (A Widdershins Adventure) (28 page)

“…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.”

This, the bishop's favorite holy litany, was now familiar to a huge swathe of Davillon's populace. Sicard invoked the same divine names (with perhaps a little variation, so as to avoid offending any of the more minor deities of the Hallowed Pact) in each of his services—and with each service, the Basilica of the Sublime Tenet grew ever more heavily attended. As the terror of the city's murders spread, and with it the fear of some supernatural agency at work, more and more of the people forgot their anger at the Church's treatment of Davillon (or, more accurately, allowed their worry to overshadow said anger). They sought comfort in the words of the priests, and the protection of the houses of the gods.

At this particular service, despite the fact that the day was just now dawning outside, the pews supported enough prayerful rears that the wooden planks, perhaps having grown accustomed to lesser loads, offered the occasional squeak or groan in counterpoint to the bishop's words. Perhaps only one of every five or six seats remained vacant, and a great many of the attendees were dressed not in their finery, but in workday clothes. The implication—that church attendance was once again considered, by some, to be an everyday event—was unmistakable.

“In times as trying as these,” Sicard said, tugging at one sleeve of his cassock to remove a stubborn wrinkle, “it does us all good to recall that the gods of the Hallowed Pact watch over those who honor their names. Let me recall to your memories a tale I'm sure you've all heard before, involving the cavalier Verrell d'Ouelette and his seemingly impossible quest to slay the Charred Serpent of Lacour….”

The sanctuary itself was lit in a rainbow of colors, resplendent in the thin shafts of light that speared through, and were cheerily rouged and shadowed and otherwise made up by, the stained glass windows. And indeed, for most of the audience sitting in that rain of colors, the tale was aptly chosen, for it told not only of one of Galice's greatest folk heroes, but specifically of how the gods protected and guided him through his most troubled days.

But it was not this to which
everyone
in the audience reacted, no. For Widdershins (who was largely dressed as herself, not guised as Madeleine, though she'd thrown a less conspicuous green tunic over her leathers), the bishop's choice of stories was more interesting for other reasons. While he was not a primary character in the tale, d'Ouelette also made a brief appearance in “The Princess on the Road of Beasts”—perhaps the most popular of the fairy tales in which Iruoch himself played a part.

It was, most probably, coincidental—d'Ouelette popped up in a
lot
of Galice's stories—but she found it apt, if not actually ominous.

“You know,” she whispered, leaning so that her nose was just about inside Igraine's ear, “Iruoch doesn't actually behave much as the stories portray him. He's…wilder.”

The priestess glared and raised a finger to her lips.

“Oh, like you haven't heard
this
story before,” Widdershins huffed. But when that brought nothing but a second glare—as well as several irritated murmurs from the others seated nearby—she sunk into her seat, crossed her arms, and contented herself with an impatient, but
silent
, sulk.

It was a sulk that continued unbroken, save for the occasional subvocal snide comment to Olgun, until the sermon and the final benedictions were completed. At that point, Widdershins and Igraine stood with the rest of the human tide rising around them and let the milling worshippers slowly filter by them.

“Anything?” Widdershins asked, once more directly into her reluctant companion's ear.

“No. No, nothing. If he's consorting with any sort of unnatural entities, they haven't left a mark on his soul.”

Igraine might not have said
Unlike yours
, but Widdershins heard it clear as the cathedral's bell.

“All right,” the thief said. “Go join the others outside. I'll try to follow him, but if he slips by me, one of you needs to keep him in sight until I can catch up.”

“Yes, Widdershins. I was present when we went over the plan the first time.”

“So go be present when we execute it.”

Igraine snorted something and joined the departing worshippers. Widdershins returned to her seat. Several other parishioners were also lingering, offering their own prayers or perhaps waiting for an audience with Sicard, so she didn't look particularly conspicuous. All she had to do now was wait and…

“Your pardon, mademoiselle.”

Widdershins craned her head around, looking over her shoulder. Behind her stood one of the ceremonial Church guards, normally assigned only to the protection of eminent clergymen such as Sicard himself. His uniform was almost clownish, replete with baggy pantaloons, steel breastplate and helm, and an old-fashioned halberd that was probably too big to even function as a genuine weapon in any room more confined than the sanctuary itself.

The pistol and dueling sword at his waist were another story entirely, however, and his expression suggested that he clearly meant business.

“Uh, yes?” Widdershins asked with a shy smile.

“His Eminence wishes to see you. Now.”

“Umm…”
Oh, figs!
“Of course. Up on the dais, or—”

“He'll await you in his office.”

Widdershins forced herself not to frown.
How could he possibly—?

She felt a brief flash from Olgun.
Of course. Igraine sensed me. Archbishop de Laurent sensed me. I just never thought he could pick me out of a crowd, from so far…

“Mademoiselle, I really must insist.”

Run? Fight? Not without drawing a
lot
of attention—and probably losing their only chance at learning what Sicard was up to. She sighed once and rose to her feet. “Of course. Lead the way.”

As they started across the room, the rapidly diminishing crowd thinning out before them, she saw Igraine watching from the doorway. Widdershins tried to shrug without being obvious about it, but the guard bustled her around behind the raised platform before she could see if the priestess understood.

They proceeded into a curving hallway half-hidden behind the dais. The sea-green carpeting here was thin enough that their footsteps echoed, albeit only faintly, between the narrow walls. They could hear voices from up ahead and from various rooms they passed, but never clearly enough to make out more than the occasional syllable.

Finally, they approached a door somewhat larger than the others, with the Eternal Eye symbol of the entire Hallowed Pact embossed in silver at—appropriately enough—eye-level. Just as the guard raised his fist to knock, Widdershins said, “Please tell the bishop I'll see him now.”

The fellow's clean-shaven face twisted her way. “Are you trying to be funny?”

“I'm not trying one bit,” she answered cheerfully. “It all comes naturally.”

The guard grumbled something, knocked, and pushed the door open at the response from within.

Framed beyond the portal stood Sicard himself, still clad in the silver-trimmed ceremonial robes he wore for his sermons. Very little of the chamber was visible behind them, but Widdershins had the faint impression of a third person present. Probably the monk, Ferrand, if she'd had to guess.

“Well,” Sicard said, “I don't believe we've ever been formally introduced, but I imagine you would be Widdershins?”

Widdershins blinked.
How much does the bishop already know about me?
Even Olgun felt more than a little startled. “Uh…” She gave some thought to denying it, then decided it wasn't worth the effort. “You imagine correctly, Your Eminence.

Sicard stepped back, gesturing for Widdershins to enter. “Martin, please ensure that our guest is unarmed, and then see that we're not disturbed.”

She might still have time to run. Gods alone knew what Sicard was capable of, what his schemes were, how much of the recent bloodshed was, indirectly or otherwise, his doing. Being trapped with him in his own chambers, unarmed, didn't precisely seem to be the pathway to a long and prosperous life.

Bah! I can take care of myself!
And there was so much she needed to learn…

Widdershins smiled once more at the guard—Martin, apparently—and held out her arms. The guard's efforts were professional, but thorough. He located and confiscated not only Widdershins's main gauche, but a few smaller blades she had secreted on her person. “Well,” she said to Olgun in her not-even-a-breath voice, flinching as the office door slammed behind her, “that could have gone a little better, yes?”

Struggling to keep the doubt from her face, Widdershins smiled, nodded in response to Sicard's gesture, and moved to take a seat. The office was large and well furnished without crossing the line into opulent. Several chairs with thick cushions stood around a marble-topped table, upon which sat several glass carafes and a number of narrow goblets. Bookcases lined one wall, a few tasteful portraits (presumably of saints or other holy figures) the opposite. Across from the door, a large window allowed the early-morning sun to illuminate the room. Before that window stood a desk with a chair, but it seemed rarely used, suggesting that the bishop preferred to sit at the table.

Sicard lit a chandelier hanging above that table and waved. Ferrand—for it was, indeed, he who Widdershins had noticed—drew the heavy curtains, so that the newly kindled flame became the room's only light.

“We don't have
many
passersby in the courtyard,” the bishop explained, “but nonetheless, I'd hate for anyone to spot us talking and get the wrong idea.”

“No, of course,” Widdershins muttered. “Couldn't have that.”

Sicard took a seat across from her, with Ferrand hovering behind him. “Wine? Juice?”

“Uh, no, thank you.”

He nodded and poured himself a goblet of a rich, sweet-smelling vintage. “So, tell me, young lady…What, precisely, did you hope to accomplish here?”

“I beg your—”

“Please, let's not insult one another's intelligence, hmm? Your
last
visit here was about studying me, so that's not why you came back. It certainly wasn't to hear my sermon. Were you hoping to spy on me, or simply to attack me outright?”

Widdershins felt her jaw trying to unhinge itself again.

“Your plan
was
one or the other, was it not?” Sicard pressed.

“Um, of course not,” she lied.

“Of course not.” Sicard chuckled. “Widdershins, a man doesn't reach my position without learning the ins and outs of intrigue. You wouldn't last five minutes in the political wrangling I've seen.”

“William wasn't like that,” she muttered.

Sicard's smile fell. “William de Laurent was a great man. One of the best I've ever met. But he left his footprints on enough backs and shoulders on the way up. We
all
do.

“And
you
,” he suddenly roared, his wine threatening to spill across the table and his pristine cassock, “haven't the right to speak his name!”

Widdershins couldn't help it; she actually recoiled, sinking back in her chair against the unexpected surge of fury. Even Brother Ferrand jumped a little, and his expression was ever so slightly wild.

“What…What are you talking about?” she asked.

“You know damn well! I have no idea what your vendetta against the Church may be, little girl, but it ends now!”

“Vendetta?
Vendetta?!
I've done nothing—!”

“We know you were involved in Archbishop de Laurent's murder—”

“I was trying to
save
—!”

“I've read Brother Maurice's report. It's confused and spotty, and leaves out far more details than it includes. I doubt his conclusions, frankly.”

“But—”

“
Especially
since you're so obviously working to sabotage us
now
, as well!”

“I never—”

“Is it something personal, thief? Something in your past? Or is this a move on the part of your heathen god?”

Widdershins, who had by now realized that Sicard didn't intend to let her complete a sentence any time soon, clamped her mouth shut and tried her best to burn a hole through his forehead with nothing but the power of her stare.

“Oh, yes, I know about him,” Sicard continued. “Not his name, or where he comes from, but I know he exists. I felt his presence the first time you entered my church. Between what I read of Brother Maurice's report—”

“The one you doubt?” Widdershins growled, but the bishop didn't hear.

“—and everything else I've dug up on you, it would have been only a matter of time before I pieced it together even if you
hadn't
appeared in my church this morning. And of course, now that you're right here, I can just about
see
him! How you kept his presence from de Laurent—”

“He knew,” Widdershins said, relishing the chance to interrupt. “William understood. He approved.”

“Nonsense!” Sicard was practically spitting. “And your own actions put the lie to any such ludicrous claims!”

“And what actions would those—”

“You're a
murderer
as well as a thief!”

“If you interrupt me one more—Wait. You think I'm
what
?”

“Oh, yes, I know. I made certain,
absolutely
certain, that nobody would be hurt!
Nobody!
Everything was proceeding as well as I could have dared hope, with nothing but a few scrapes and bruises. And then, you! You stick your nose in, and now Davillon has blood running in the streets!”

Widdershins realized she was standing, as was Sicard, and wasn't certain when either of them had risen. Brother Ferrand virtually vibrated in place, as though torn in multiple directions at once.

“You think
I
killed those people? Me? Gods,
why
?”

“There's nobody else involved who—”

“It's not me, you idiot! It's Iruoch!”