They stopped briefly by the priestess's own quarters. Widdershins stood outside the door, tapping her foot, twiddling her thumbs, grunting occasional sarcastic comments to Olgun, and otherwise fidgeting for what was probably less than ten minutes, but she herself would have sworn included two or three changes of season, and possibly a birthday. Finally, however, the door swung open and Igraine reappeared. She had abandoned her cassock of office for men's trousers, a heavy coat, and a pearl-hued tunic that perfectly offset her dusky skin. She carried no sword, but the pair of flintlocks and the small truncheon that she wore openly on her belt, to say nothing of the small dagger hilt protruding from her right boot, were evidence enough that she didn't care to be disturbed.
“You sure you're ready?” Widdershins asked flatly. “You don't need to stop by and pick up a blunderbuss, or a battleaxe? Maybe a cannon?”
“As soon as you're through being foolish,” Igraine said, “we can be on our way.”
“Nah, let's be on our way now. We don't actually have that much time.”
The priestess blinked, opened and closed her mouth twice, and then began walking.
As they finally approached the exit, Widdershins saw immediately that someone was present up ahead—someone other than the sentry on duty. She couldn't help but grin, despite every effort she made at sculpting her face into an expression more serious.
“Heading out for a walk, Renard?”
The foppish thief grinned and smoothed his mustache between thumb and forefinger. “I thought this would be a good night to show off the new ensemble.” He twirled, displaying hose and half cloak of deep indigo, tunic of forest green.
“You look like a peacock,” Widdershins told him.
“Well, but is it a handsome peacock?” Then, after waiting for Widdershins to oblige him with a chuckle, he bowed his head. “Priestess.”
“Lambert. I suppose it's you who the Shrouded Lord has asked to accompany us?” Her voice sounded oddly atonal as she asked.
Renard bowed more deeply. “I am to be of service in any way that I can. And of course, other Finders shall be made available if we should require them.”
“Very well.” She sounded, if anything, resigned; Widdershins wondered briefly if the priestess didn't have something personal against Renard. Then again, it wouldn't surprise her. On the one hand, Renard did rub many people the wrong way; and on the other, Igraine—at least in Widdershins's own experience—developed personal objections to many people on a fairly regular basis. “So, what,” Igraine continued, “is our first step?”
She directed the question at Renard, who looked to Widdershins, who shrugged. “Well, if we're supposed to bring the Guard in on this…” Renard raised an eyebrow at that, but chose not to interrupt. “…then I should probably speak to my friend alone. It'll be, uh, easier to convince him.”
“You are not,” Igraine protested, “about to tell us to simply wait here!” She didn't add After you let me go through all the trouble of changing, but Widdershins heard it anyway.
She was tempted to say yes, just to watch the reaction, but, “Nah. I don't think Ju—Major Bouniard would be all that reassured if I asked him to accompany me back here. Why don't I get you settled in at the Flippant Witch, make sure there's a private room ready for us to talk, and then you can relax there while I fetch our own personal officer? Igraine, you can fill Renard in on any of the necessary details while you're waiting.”
Neither Igraine nor Renard looked thrilled at the notion of just sitting around, but since neither of them had any better suggestions, either, they both reluctantly acquiesced.
Widdershins was already moving ahead, striding through the darkening streets as though the city couldn't possibly throw anything unexpected at her. (And who knew, after all she'd been through, or claimed to have been through, maybe it couldn't.) Renard followed a few paces behind, and barely glanced over as Igraine appeared behind him.
“I'm not convinced this is a good idea,” she said.
“Why not? I've been to the Flippant Witch. It's nothing to crow about, but it's not a bad little—”
The priestess sighed. “That is not what I meant, and you know it. Aren't you at all concerned that she'll figure it out?”
Renard's voice dropped to something barely above a whisper. “That I'm the current and oh-so-enigmatic Shrouded Lord? Were you planning to tell her?”
“Certainly not!”
“So what's the worry?” he asked with a shrug. “She and I have been friends for years, and it's never been an issue.”
“So, of course, you'll give her every additional opportunity to catch you in some slip?”
“She's my friend,” he said again. “And these are events of more than a little importance to the Guild. I think my participation is justified.”
“And I,” Igraine said, with as much fire in her voice as she dared allow, “am not certain that your judgment is entirely sound where Widdershins is concerned.”
“I don't know what you mean.” Enough ice dripped from each word to chill an entire punchbowl.
“Lambert…” And more quietly, “My lord, you must know that the priesthood is growing concerned about your obvious attachment to—”
“Don't call me that in public, no matter how quietly.”
“All right, but—”
“And this conversation is concluded.”
Renard quickened his pace to walk beside Widdershins, making sarcastic comments about this sight or that as they progressed. Igraine, for her part, fell back a few steps with a shake of her head and a second, worried sigh.
Narrow lanes grew broad, and rough buildings grew slightly less rough, as the trio made their way from the squalid Ragway quarter into the more widely used, if not necessarily more opulent, Market District. The scents of the various food vendors, though closed for the evening, permeated the air, soaking into the mud, the bricks, and the clothes of even those pedestrians who passed through only briefly. It was a route that Widdershins knew like the inside of her own eyelids—better, actually, and it was a stupid expression, anyway, since she couldn't really have described the inside of her eyelids even on a bet—and despite the severity of their overall situation, she found herself scarcely paying attention along the way.
Broad lanes narrowed once more, here at the very edge of the market. Widdershins rounded a shadowy corner to come face-to-face with the shallow steps and rough wooden door of the Flippant Witch—and the sudden weight in her gut suggested that the world now had her absolute attention.
The plan had been to leave Renard and Igraine here while she went to fetch the Guard.
The fact that the Guard was already here, as evidenced by three men and women in the black-and-silver tabards, sporting the fleur-de-lis, could not possibly be an indication of anything good.
Renard, Igraine, and even Olgun called for her to stop, to observe, to think, but she was deaf to them all. She was sprinting before she was even consciously aware of her intention to move, physically shoving through the assembled Guardsmen before they'd entirely registered her presence. (She never felt the tingle in the air as Olgun reached out to hide her approach for an extra few seconds, for if he had not—had the constables seen this woman charging them from the darkness—one might well have drawn a blade or a pistol and struck before anyone knew what was happening.)
Arms reached out as she burst into the common room, grabbing her from behind and holding her in place. Widdershins lashed out blindly, screaming something—she thought, later, that her words had been panicked questions as to what was happening, but she was never sure—and things might still have gotten ugly had not two voices called out together for the constables to let her go.
The first was Gerard, the red-bearded fellow who'd been with the Witch since long before it had fallen into Widdershins's possession. The second was a Guardsman with pale mustache and goatee; a sliver of Widdershins's mind recognized him as a companion of Julien's, though she couldn't for the life of her remember—or, f
rankly, care about—his name.
The brief jostling by the constables, however, combined with the sight of Gerard's flushing cheeks and bleary gaze, was enough to snap her back into some semblance of restraint. “What happened? What happened?!” She heard the shrill edge in her voice, felt tiny little teeth chewing at the already-frayed edges of her self-control; heard it, felt it, and hated it, but was as powerless to stop it as she was her own heartbeat.
“Widdershins,” Gerard began, “I—”
“Where's Robin?”
“I didn't know what else to do,” he said, gesturing helplessly at the gathered constables. “We couldn't find you, and I didn't think it was safe to hesitate, and—”
“Oh, gods, where's Robin?!”
“Mademoiselle?” The blond constable stepped closer, one hand raised. “We need to—Mademoiselle, please?”
But it was Renard who stepped in, laid a hand on Widdershins's wrist, and whispered, “You can't help her like this.”
She froze, actually raised a hand to her cheek as though he'd slapped her, and nodded. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry, everyone.” She inhaled once, deeply, then faced the constable—and if he, or any of the others, noticed the violent trembling of her clenched left fist, they chose not to remark on it.
“I am Constable Paschal Sorelle,” he told her. He didn't ask her name; clearly, he already knew. “Your man here reported a crime, and we've come to investigate.”
“A crime? Robin…?” Keep calm, keep calm, keep calm…
She felt a slow but steady torrent of soothing emotions from Olgun, enough—just enough—to enable her to maintain her composure. Had he been tangible, she'd have kissed him.
Paschal nodded. “Your friend Robin has been abducted, mademoiselle.”
“I couldn't stop him!” Gerard sobbed, stretching out a hand to lean against the nearest table. “I wanted to, but…”
It never even occurred to Widdershins to ask who. Had Robin been murdered, there might have been options, but kidnapped? She had no doubt at all.
“I'll kill him. I'll kill him!” She spun, backhanding a carafe off the table with that same trembling fist. Several of the constables, as well as Igraine, leapt back to avoid the sloshing wine and shattering ceramic.
“I take it,” Sorelle said blandly, “that you believe you know who did this? Ah…Hmm. I'll take that glare as a ‘yes.’ You realize I can't permit you to—”
“Don't. Just don't. Gerard? Was…” Widdershins cleared her throat, tried again. “Was she hurt?”
“No. Not when they left, anyway.”
“Good.” The knot in her belly didn't disappear, but it loosened a touch. “Good, that's something. All right, the first thing we need to do is—”
“The first thing you need to do,” Renard said quietly, “is go with the nice constable. Talk to Bouniard. There's a lot that needs doing. I'll get Robin.”
“If you think for one second—!”
And, simultaneously, from Sorelle, “The Guard cannot allow you to make this into some personal—”
“One at a time! You,” Renard said, pointing at Sorelle, “patience. We'll explain in a moment. And you”—here he grabbed Widdershins by the shoulders and steered her over to the bar—“need to listen.”
The constable looked as though he might follow and demand to participate in the conversation, but he held his ground, scowling.
“Renard, it's Robin. I can't just—”
“Listen,” he said again, his tone low but sharp. “We need you to talk to Bouniard. Nobody else is going to be able to convince the Guard to help us deal with Iruoch.”
“I don't care about Iruoch right now! I—”
“And when he kills more children? Will you care then?”
Widdershins slapped him. Renard clearly saw it coming, and just as clearly held himself rigid rather than avoiding the blow.
“That's not fair,” she whispered, tears rolling down her cheeks.
“No,” he agreed. “It's not. Widdershins, I'm not an idiot. I know—a lot of us know—that you can do things, sometimes pretty amazing things, that most of us couldn't even attempt to duplicate. Even if you weren't the only one who could bring the Guard and the Guild together on this, you might be the only one with a chance of stopping that creature.”
At any other moment, the revelation that Renard knew more of her secret than she'd suspected would have elicited at least a comment, if nothing more. Now, she just nodded. “But I can't just—”
“Widdershins, why do you think Evrard's doing all this?”
“D'Arras tower,” she spat. “Why else?”
“No, I mean, why is he threatening you? Taunting you? Abducting Robin?”
“I…” Widdershins blinked. “I assume he's trying to goad me into doing something stupid.”
“Precisely. You've heard of Evrard's skill as a duelist?”
“Yes, but—”
“He's noble blood. You're not.”
“So?”
“So by custom, he can't challenge you to a duel. All he can do is sic the law on you, and for that, he needs proof. But if you challenge him…”
Widdershins's jaw dropped, and she swore the Flippant Witch must have shifted off its foundations. “All of this is because he wants me to attack him? Because it wouldn't be proper for him to draw first?!”
Renard shrugged. “I can't say for sure, of course, but that'd be my guess.”
“But…That's stupid! If he attacked me, he could just say it was self-defense! Who'd argue it?”
“Aristocrats,” the foppish thief said, “have a twisted sense of honor. I've never really understood it, myself.”
“That's because it's dumb, Renard!”
“Could be.”
“So I let you do this,” she said slowly, “it means we get that much closer to stopping Iruoch, and we make sure Evrard doesn't get what he wants.”
“Precisely.”
“But Renard, it's Robin.”
“I know.” He reached out, took Widdershins's right hand in both of his. “I know she's practically a sister to you. I swear to you—I swear to you, on the Shrouded God and the rest of the Pact—I won't let him hurt her. I'll bring her back safe.”
“You were just telling me what kind of an amazing, renowned duelist he is….”
“Indeed.” Renard's teeth gleamed in the lantern light. “But he's one man, whereas I…I am a Finder.”
For the first time since she'd spotted the black-and-silver assembly outside her tavern, Widdershins smiled, if only shallowly. “How will you find him?”
“The same way you would have. He wants you to come to him, so he won't make it difficult. If he's not staying in one of the various properties owned by the d'Arras family—probably a tenement or a warehouse, I'd wager—I'll be shocked.”
Widdershins nodded. “I don't like this. I understand, but I don't like it. Renard, if he's hurt her…”
“Then he'll regret it. Briefly.”
A second nod, followed by a chaste kiss on Renard's cheek, and then Widdershins squared her shoulders and turned to address Constable Sorelle.
Said constable was, to judge by the seemingly involuntary twitching in his jaw, not entirely convinced by anything she had to say.
“You're insane,” he told her finally, which certainly seemed to confirm said assessment.
“Look, Constable, if you'd just take me to see Julien, he—”
“Major Bouniard,” Sorelle said stiffly, “is more than a little busy at the moment. And even if he weren't, you're asking me to escort a known thief to him, while abandoning an investigation—to say nothing of leaving said investigation in the hands of a personal, civilian vendetta—in order to deliver to him some ludicrous story about a Church conspiracy behind a string of murders that you claim were committed by a figure out of fairy tales. Is that, more or less, the gist of it?”
“Uh, well…” Widdershins offered a broad, shaky smile. “Not exactly…”
“Oh? What did I get wr
ong?”
“You're not leaving the investigation in the hands of civilians. It already is in the hands of civilians.”
Sorelle spun, taking in every corner of the Flippant Witch, but the young woman's dapperly garbed companion had seemingly vanished. The constable muttered something that Widdershins pretended not to hear.
“How the hell…I have constables at every door! How did he…?”
Widdershins spread her hands. “We're better than you guys. Uh, no offense.”
“I believe I'll choose to take some, if it's all the same to you. I'm supposed to be arresting you, Widdershins!” he growled in a softer voice. “I'm trying to find a way around it, mostly for Major Bouniard's sake—feels wrong to nab his friend while we're investigating your friend's abduction—but you're not making it any easier!”
“Uh-huh,” Widdershins said. “Arresting me. At whose request, again?”
“The…” Sorelle blinked. “The Church.”
“And what does that tell you?”
“It does not tell me that they're part of some murderous conspiracy,” he insisted, but he sounded just a tad less certain of himself.
“Constable?” The voice emerged from over Widdershins's shoulder. “I am Igraine Vernadoe. You know the name?”
“I've heard it spoken a time or two. Read it a time or two more.”
“Then you know what position I hold?” When he nodded, she continued, “As a priestess of a god of the Hallowed Pact—and he is of the Pact, regardless of what you might think of him—I'm prepared to swear to you that Widdershins is speaking the truth as best we understand it. This is a threat against us all. We must speak to Major Bouniard.”
“I'm just…I'm not…”
Widdershins sighed and drew her dagger. Sorelle's blade was halfway free of its sheath, and they heard the other constables reacting as well, before it became apparent that she was holding the weapon out to him hilt first. With a suspicious glance, he took it. “What are you—?”