False Covenant (A Widdershins Adventure) (6 page)

Robin was out the door before she even finished nodding her acknowledgment. Widdershins needed to know about Evrard; something about the man
really
worried Robin, and she could only hope Shins would have some idea of who he was. Thankfully, even if nothing else was going right that day, she had a pretty good idea of where to find the itinerant thief-turned-tavern-owner.

And she also had to admit, though she hated to do so, that Gerard had a point. Much as she loved Widdershins, they simply hadn't had these sorts of problems—or not often, anyway—when Genevieve was alive.

“Hello, Genevieve.”

Widdershins slowly lowered herself to sit cross-legged beside the ornate gravestone. Graven angels lined the marble monument, hunched as though supporting both the name inscribed across its surface and the cross of Banin that adorned its top.

Technically, Genevieve Marguilles had deserved a full-fledged mausoleum, with four walls, an ornate sarcophagus, and room inside for mourners. But the young woman had been estranged—very publicly—from Gurrerre Marguilles, her aristocratic father, and so the demands of propriety (and expense) for her final resting place were somewhat lighter than they otherwise might have been.

Widdershins, for her part, was just as happy this way. Here, she could sit close beside her best friend—and Genevieve herself, Shins liked to think, would have preferred it.

Now, at the tail end of spring, the grasses throughout the entire cemetery were healthy and thick, the trees draped in emerald, the many flowers bright and pungent. But around Genevieve's grave, those grasses were particularly lush. Roses, irises, and poppies intertwined around each other, forming a garland about the headstone and, in a few instances, creeping up the sides of the marble in intricate patterns. The aromas of those flowers, carried by a gentle breeze centered on this spot alone, somehow mixed into a perfect blend that reminded Widdershins overpoweringly of Genevieve herself.

She said nothing for a long moment, only offered a grateful, heartfelt smile through her falling tears. And Olgun, who knew the smile and the thanks were for him, and for the work he had done here, offered in return a single waft of comfort and support before withdrawing into the deepest corners of Widdershins's mind, so that she might be alone with her friend, and her thoughts.

Slowly, Widdershins removed a bottle of cheap wine from the sack she carried at her side. The sound of the popping cork was close enough to a pistol shot that, even though she herself had pulled it from the neck of the bottle, Widdershins couldn't help but jump. She poured a few mouthfuls into the soil beside the headstone, then took several deep gulps herself.

“It's not the best vintage,” she apologized, “but I didn't think you'd approve of us sharing the good stuff without some reason to celebrate. And, well, I can't pretend that my being here is a special occasion, can I? You're probably sick to d—ah, sick of hearing from me by now. How many times have I been here in the last…?” Widdershins ticked off days on her fingertips, and then, with a shrug, gave up on the whole notion and took another swig from the bottle. “I just wish I'd bothered to visit you as often when you were still…” Again she trailed off, this time with a moist sniff.

“Gen, I'm sorry!” The stone, the flowers, the entire cemetery were beginning to blur. “I'm trying to take care of your place, your people, I'm
really
trying! But I don't know what I'm doing; I don't know how to keep it going. You'd know; you'd know just how to deal with everything that's going on in this stupid city, but me? I was never any good at anything except…well, you know. I don't—I don't think you'd approve of me funding the Flippant Witch that way, and I've tried not to, but…”

Widdershins lay one palm flat against the marble, dropped her head, and sobbed as quietly as she could manage.

She ignored the distant sounds of footsteps on the cemetery's winding earthen paths. Mourners were constantly coming to visit this loved one or that, and here, if nowhere else in Davillon, everyone was respectful enough to leave everyone else alone. Already she'd noted, and dismissed, several strange faces—a few haughty and irritated, but some genuinely sympathetic—glanced her way during her crying jag.

This time, however, the steps didn't gradually pass beyond hearing. Instead, they grew nearer, ever nearer, and then…

“Shins?” The voice was soft, scarcely more than a breath.

Widdershins bolted upright, wiping her tears with the back of a hand as she came up on one knee and spun halfway around. “I—what? Robin?!”

“Shins, are you all right?” the younger girl asked.

“I—I'm fine.”

Apparently, whatever she saw on Widdershins's face or heard in her voice pretty well put the lie to that. With a soft cry of her own, Robin darted forward and wrapped her friend in a frighteningly intense hug. (One might have called it a “bear hug,” except that Robin could not possibly, in any stretch of metaphor,
ever
be compared to something that large. A “rabbit hug,” maybe.)

For a second, perhaps two, Widdershins stiffened, as though she'd pull away—and then she collapsed, burying her face in the shorter girl's collar. “Robin, I miss her!”

“Shh…I know, Shins.” They stood for long moments, Widdershins practically shaking in Robin's arms, Robin gently stroking her friend's hair. “I know…”

Finally, Widdershins straightened up once more and gently pulled away. Robin, after a moment's apparent hesitation, let her arms fall to her sides.

“But…” Shins said, blinking her now red-rimmed eyes. “Robin, what are you doing here?”

“Looking for you, actually. It wasn't hard to figure out where you were. You've been spending a lot of time here and with, uh, Alexandre.”

Widdershins nodded. Alexandre Delacroix's grave was in a different cemetery—but both graveyards, reserved primarily for the aristocracy and their families, were fairly near one another.

“I've lost a lot of people, Robin,” she said, slowly lowering herself to sit once more on the grass, gesturing for her friend to do the same. “But none of them ever hurt this much.”

Robin said nothing to that, perhaps with the full understanding that there was nothing she could possibly say.

“So, all right,” Widdershins continued some time later. “You were looking for me. I assume for some reason other than you just missed my sparkling wit and engrossing conversation, yes?”

Robin's lip twitched. “Well, those, too. But yes.” In precise details—or what precise detail she could recall—she went on to describe the peculiar encounter at the Flippant Witch and the appearance of the man who had initiated it.

“Evrard?” was all Widdershins asked when all was said and done.

“That's what he told me.”

“But…I don't think I
know
any Evrard!”

“Well, he certainly thinks he knows you, Shins.”

“Great.” Widdershins idly kneaded the grass between her fingers. “You know, I don't need this. If I was going to make a list of things I don't need, this would be right near the top.”

Robin snickered. “You'd put something you didn't know about at the top of a list? How would you accomplish that, exactly?”

Widdershins stared haughtily down the bridge of her nose. “I,” she announced, “have talents you cannot possibly imagine.”

For reasons that Widdershins couldn't possibly fathom, Robin looked away, her face flushing ever so faintly.

“Um, right,” the older of the pair continued, now more confused than ever. “If nothing else, I'd get Olgun to help me.”

That, of course, wasn't really the right thing to say, either. Shins had tried, some months ago, to entice Robin into Olgun's worship. Robin had only grumbled something about Banin not protecting Genevieve, and that she'd little use for
any
deities, and refused to speak any more on the topic whenever Widdershins tried to bring it up.

It was, thankfully, Robin herself who provided the subject change for which Widdershins was so desperately casting about.

“Shins, I…Um…There's, ah, something else we probably ought to, you know, talk about….”

A single dark-brown eyebrow rose at that. “Oh, boy. This sounds serious. You haven't been this nervous since you smashed that bottle of Scyllian red all over the kitchen floor.”

“I told you, that wasn't my fault,” Robin protested absently. “The label was slippery 'cause it'd been over-waxed, and—”

“Robin? It's all right. What did you want to say?”

“Well, it's just…Shins, the Flippant Witch isn't doing real well.”

Widdershins's face went stiff. “I know that.”

“I'm not blaming
you
!”

A few heartbeats more, and then, “It's all right, Robin.” Widdershins's expression softened. “It
is
my fault.”

“It's
not
. The city—”

“Genevieve would know how to roll with it. I'm trying my best, Robin. I am.” Again she found herself clenching her fists in the grass, as though clutching for the woman who now lay beneath.

“I know you are, Shins,” Robin told her. “It's just…Well, some of the guys don't seem as sure. Maybe if you were there a little more often…If they could
see
you working alongside them, you know? But you've…You haven't been around much recently.”

Widdershins studied the base of the headstone. “I've been trying to save the tavern my own way,” she whispered.

Robin blinked, as though unsure what her friend meant. And then, “Oh, Shins. I don't know if Gen would've wanted you to save the Witch like
that
.”

“I don't either.” Widdershins sniffed; she would
not
cry again, by gods! “But it's all I know how to do.” She shrugged, then, smiling without much humor. “Or at least I used to. It's not as though last week went all that well.”

“Last week?”

Her own face flushing now with embarrassment, Widdershins told Robin of the attempted robbery at the Ducarte estate some days earlier, and the fabulous mess that had resulted.

“Bouniard let you
go
?” Robin squeaked.

“What, you think I belong in gaol with the rest of the thieves?” Widdershins's smile was, she hoped, enough to take the sting from her words.

“No, it's just…That doesn't really sound like him, does it?”

“He's…been coming by the tavern, Robin.”

“He has? I never saw…”

“Only occasionally, and only when I'm running a shift. It's like he knows. He always says he's just stopping by for a drink, but I think he's keeping an eye on me, yes? I thought, at first, he was hoping to catch me doing something illegal, but…I don't know, Robin. I've actually started looking forward to our conversations. They're—I don't know, a little awkward, but…”

The other girl, at this point, had tucked her knees up to her chest. “You can't trust him, Shins.”

“I wouldn't have thought so, but after that…He protected me. I'm not sure what to think anymore.”

Robin wrapped her arms around her knees, almost curling into a ball. “It's good that you have friends, I guess,” she said dully.

“I don't know,” Widdershins repeated, shaking her head. “Maybe he just didn't want to deal with me. I mean, he's smart enough to know that
I'm
not dangerous, so between the other thieves and whatever's been creeping around the streets at night, maybe he's got his hands full.”

Robin, who—like everyone in Davillon—had heard plenty of gossip regarding the strange and seemingly supernatural encounters that had terrorized portions of the city over the past week, shuddered briefly. It had never much bothered her wandering around in the dark; she could take care of herself, or at least run very fast and hide in small spaces. But the idea of running from something that wasn't even
human
…

“Has anyone died?” Robin asked, her voice suddenly tiny.

“I don't think so. Not that I've heard. Just a lot of scared people, and a few injuries.” Widdershins tossed her head, flipping a few stray strands of hair from her face. “I wouldn't worry too much, Robin. I'm positive that if it was
truly
dangerous, whatever it is, it would have been leaving bodies behind by now.” It was Widdershins's turn to shudder, given that it was barely six months since she herself had faced just such a nightmarish creature.

“Anyway,” she continued, rising smoothly, “I've got a meeting to get to.”

“Oh?”

“About last week's fiasco.”

“Oh.” Robin, too, climbed to her feet—rather more awkwardly than her friend. “
That
sort of meeting.”

“Yeah. Robin?”

“Yeah?”

“I'll take care of the Flippant Witch. And you. I promise.”

“I know.” The girl darted in, gave Widdershins a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek, and then was off and running. “See you later!” she called back over her shoulder.

Widdershins offered a goodbye wave, and then frowned. “What?”

Vague disapproval from some distant point in her mind.

“Don't think at me in that tone of voice, Olgun! I can
so
take care of the tavern! I just need one job to go right, and we're set! Well, for a while, anyway.