But she wasn't done. From the pouch on her belt came her primary set of wires and lock picks; from hidden niches in boots and gloves and even wound into her hair came several more. She sensed Igraine's startled look, and even Olgun's disapproving glower.
“There,” she said, handing those over to an equally startled Sorelle. “You can search me, if you want, but that's all of it.”
“I…What…?”
“I surrender myself into your custody, Constable,” she told him formally. “But only on your word as an officer of the Guard and a gentleman of breeding that you'll deliver me to Major Bouniard, and nobody else, for interrogation.”
“You're that serious about this?”
“You're the one holding my dagger and my tools, Sorelle.”
“All right.” Sorelle nodded to the other constables. “Colette, you're with me. The rest of you, continue taking statements and seeing what evidence you can turn up. Madame Vernadoe, you may accompany us if you wish, for the moment.”
“How generous. I do indeed wish.”
Widdershins offered Gerard a wan smile and a whispered, “We'll get her back,” and then the two constables and the two Finders were on their way, leaving behind them a crowd of Guardsmen and witnesses who were even more puzzled than they had been before.
Widdershins hadn't been making an empty brag with her comment to Sorelle. While obviously not every Finder was “better” than every member of the Guard—were that the case, none of the thieves would ever be arrested, save from meanest luck—it was certainly true that the more skilled Finders could readily avoid detection by the average constable. That was, indeed, how Renard Lambert had departed the Flippant Witch without being noticed, despite the presence of watchers at every obvious exit.
It was also how every man and woman present, whether constable or otherwise, managed to overlook the spy on their periphery.
Again, this shouldn't be taken to suggest either carelessness or incompetence on anyone's part. Widdershins and the other Finders were heavily focused, first on their mission, and second on the discovery of the Guard's presence at the tavern. The constables themselves were attending primarily to their investigation (as well they should have been), and then to the presence of known criminals in their midst. That someone might have been hanging from the eaves of the Flippant Witch, cloaked in the shadows away from the street lanterns and listening through the half-shuttered windows, was a thought that simply—and, one might argue, reasonably—had never occurred to any of them.
All that said, and even allowing for the fact that he'd always been among the best at going unnoticed, Squirrel found the whole thing almost too easy. He hung beneath the eaves, and never once felt the tremor or cramping of muscles. No matter what dance steps the moon and the clouds followed, or where the constables wandered below, the shadows never once threatened to reveal his presence. The night itself was his coconspirator, and he found himself even more afraid than he had been.
What, precisely, was his association with Iruoch doing to him?
He overheard it all, Squirrel did; perhaps not every single word, but more than enough for him to understand what was happening within. He thought, long and hard, of simply running. He didn't even have a destination in mind, just the nigh-overwhelming desire to hit the ground, pick a random direction, and go until he couldn't go any farther.
But of course, he did no such thing. It wasn't even his fear of Iruoch's wrath that kept him tied as tightly as any leash, though of course that was part of it. It was, instead, his fear of himself.
If he abandoned his “master,” if he broke free of his self-inflicted bondage, it would mean that everything he'd done for Iruoch, every horror he'd aided the creature in perpetrating, was meaningless. It would mean that he had been free not to participate in the nightmares of the past week.
That the indelible stain on his soul was not just Iruoch's, but well and truly Simon Beaupre's.
Once Widdershins, Vernadoe, and the two constables had departed, and the remaining Guardsmen had congregated inside, Squirrel allowed himself to drop from the overhang. A split second spent on hands and knees, and then he was off down the road. He struggled to keep himself to a casual walk, but the sidelong glances he got from the sporadic, rushed passersby suggested that his stiff-legged, twitching gait wasn't quite doing the trick. Still, given the maelstrom of conflicting emotions that churned from his belly to the base of his skull, it was the best he could do.
He passed, at one point, a storefront with actual glass windows (it was, he thought, a jeweler's of some sort, though he couldn't be sure), and he practically leapt in fear from the reflection that loomed beside him. His eyes and his cheeks were sunken pits in a skull-shaped field of waxen, corpse-gray. Dirt and oil plastered his hair to his scalp, save where occasional tufts jutted out at irregular angles. His clothes, whose original colors he'd long since forgotten, held enough dirt to begin a small garden—or, more aptly, a shallow grave.
He looked…Well, he looked like someone that he himself, even in his hungriest and most miserable days, wouldn't have bothered to mug.
Squirrel found that thought oddly droll, and spent the next minutes of his walk struggling desperately not to break into hysterical giggles. The effort occupied his mind until he finally found himself standing before the house, and all thoughts of laughter were purged, perhaps carried away by his sudden sheen of sour perspiration.
It was a modest structure, boasting only a single story. The shingles were rough and somewhat mildewed; the bricks of the walls, old and cracked; the parchment windows, stained and torn. Nothing, other than the fact that the small garden outside was somewhat more overgrown and less well kept than those of its neighbors, marked it as in any way different from the other houses that stretched away to either side.
Nothing on the outside, anyway. Alas, for the family that no longer lived here—that no longer lived—the inside was something else again.
Squirrel went around to the back and let himself in, recoiling against the stench of decay. It wasn't particularly strong, as Iruoch hadn't left much intact to rot, but still pervasive enough to fill the household.
The master himself sat cross-legged on the dining room table, licking with violent tenacity at the inside of a child's shoe.
“You don't want to waste even the tiniest portion,” he said in his awful twin voices, responding perhaps to Squirrel's unspoken question. “Not when there are so many children starving in this world—who will certainly die before we can get around to eating them.” He tittered briefly, then tossed the shoe over his shoulder, where it landed perfectly amidst the shrunken, desiccated remains of the house's former occupants. “Sing me a song, my young thief. Tell me of little girls and the littler gods that live between the folds of their deepest dreams.”
“Uh…Well, I found her. I mean, I knew she'd go back to the Witch eventually, so I, um…”
“Found her. Yes.” Iruoch slowly drummed the spidery fingers of one hand against his cheek, occasionally rustling the floppy brim of his hat. “As you said you would. Not an accomplishment, silly boy. Anybody can do something that's so easy that anyone could do it.”
“Um…”
“You may be impressing my friends”—and right on cue, the distant chorus began to ooh and ahh—“but you're not impressing me. I want you to impress me.”
“Well, I—”
“Impress me! Impress me! Now, now, now!”
“I know what they're planning!” Squirrel shrieked.
“Oh, do you?” Iruoch applauded twice. “That's a little impressive. Well, don't leave me in suspense.”
Squirrel nodded, trembling, and spoke for several minutes. As he neared the end of his recitation, Iruoch placed his hands on the table, lifted himself upon them, and—still seated, his legs crossed—began to walk himself back and forth across its surface on his fingertips.
“The thief and her god, the Church and the Guard,” he muttered as he “paced.” “Alone they're no dange
r, together…”
“They're hard?” Squirrel offered hesitantly after a moment of silence.
Iruoch ceased his peculiar pacing and swiveled himself about on his fingertips so he could face his servant. “I was going to say ‘they might be a bit of a problem.’ What's with the rhyming?”
“I, uh…”
“Still, I've never met a problem I couldn't eat.” Iruoch flexed his fingers and shot to his feet, coming to rest beside the table. At no point in the graceful arc did his coat so much as flap. “Thieves and Guards and Churchmen, with—what do you think? Butter? Cinnamon? Or perhaps a sprinkling of random passersby?”
“I think we should lie low,” Squirrel said.
“Lie low? Lie low?!” Iruoch took a single staggering pace sideways and was abruptly directly before the quivering thief. “Cower and hide, cower and hide, draw the curtains and stay inside? Let the citizens brush us aside, feast on nothing but swallowed pride? This is your ‘suggestion,’ my little morsel?”
“I…” Somehow, Squirrel didn't think that pointing out the rhyme would be an effective use of breath. “You're great and powerful and all that…”
“I knew this already.”
“But, I mean, all of them? Priests, Finders, the Guard, and Widdershins's, uh, personal god? I just think it'd be smarter to—”
“I. Don't like. Cowards.” Iruoch was looming over Squirrel, their faces nearly touching—enough so that Simon could see the twitching and writhing of something beneath the creature's lips. “And I think you've been just about as useful as you're ever likely to be….”
“You can't,” he whispered.
“Can't? Can't?” The distant children began to weep. “Not my favorite word, oh, no, not at all!”
“But you swore…” Squirrel was sobbing now.
And just that swiftly, Iruoch drew himself up and stepped away. “I did, didn't I? An oath is a promise is a vow is a bargain. I swore that no harm would come to you…”
“For as long as I served you,” Squirrel breathed, his heart pounding.
“Yes, yes. And I will not break that oath, no.”
The boy's shoulders slumped in relief.
“Simon?” the fae said thoughtfully.
And tightened once more. Iruoch had never, never used his name before.
“Yes, master?”
Iruoch's face literally stretched, distorting itself outward to contain his impossible smirk. “You're fired.”
Squirrel squeezed his eyes shut and wailed—even as a part of him, the tiny surviving sliver of his soul, welcomed what was to come.
“…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?”