False Covenant (A Widdershins Adventure)

  Then, of course, there was his rapier. The leather on the hilt was worn far too thin for a weapon of such fine quality. Either he didn't bother to maintain the blade—which she didn't believe for an instant—or it saw a lot of use.

  For a moment or two he simply stood, as though basking in her obvious examination. And then, “I assume, based on your conversation, that I have the honor to address the woman known as Widdershins?”

  “Uh…You do. And you are?”

  “Evrard. I thought we just covered that. A bit dim, are we?”

  Widdershins scowled. (So did Robin, but Shins was too distracted to notice.) “I meant who else are you? What's your family name? Or title?”

  “And why would you assume I have a title?”

  “Because you're either an aristocrat, or someone who wants people to think he's an aristocrat. If you were putting on any more airs, the rest of us wouldn't be able to breathe.”

  “Ah. I see. And of course, if I share with you my full and proper name, you'll do the same in return? I'm fairly certain, after all, that ‘Widdershins’ is not what your parents chose to call you.”

  By this point, the entire common room of the Flippant Witch had gone silent, save for the occasional clank, clatter, or gulp of a mug. No one present understood the intricacies of this confrontation—heck, Widdershins herself only halfway grasped what was going on—but nobody wanted to miss a word of it.

  “No,” Widdershins said through a clenched cage of teeth. “I won't be doing that.”

  “Shame. Then I fear I shall simply have to remain ‘that Evrard guy’ for the time being. And you,” he continued before she could speak, all traces of his smile sliding from his face, “can remain the same common, slovenly little criminal you've always been.”

  “Hey! Who are you calling ‘common’?!”

  “What else would I call you, Widdershins? You can pretend at being a tavern owner, a ‘businesswoman,’ all you want, but you're fooling precisely nobody. All you've ever been good for is slinking around in the dark, taking coin from those among your betters too foolish to hang onto it.”

  “Hey!” Robin shouted at him.

  Widdershins merely raised an eyebrow. “Now you're just trying to make me sound like a whore.”

  “You hardly need my help with that, mademoiselle.”

  More than a few gasps sounded throughout the common room, and several of the Witch's regulars rose (however unsteadily) to their feet, ready to defend the proprietor of their home away from home. But it was Robin who began a forward lunge, only to be brought up painfully short by Widdershins's sudden grab at her collar.

  “Robin, no!”

  “But—but he—!”

  “I know. It's all right.”

  “No,” Robin muttered, as angry as Widdershins had ever heard her, though at least the girl was no longer struggling to charge headfirst into gods-knew-what sort of trouble. “No, it's not.”

  “Are you quite done hiding behind your little friend?” Evrard sneered.

  Widdershins very deliberately stepped around the now-sputtering Robin. Evrard just about gleamed with some inner light as her hand once more clenched the rapier at her side, and he grinned as she marched over to stand perhaps an arm's length from him.

  “Are you planning to challenge me, then, Widdershins?”

  “No, not really.”

  At which point, as Evrard was carefully dividing his attention between Widdershins's face and the arm she would use to draw the rapier, she kicked him square in the groin.

  Duelist that he was, Evrard might have dodged or deflected even so unexpected an attack, had there not been a brief surge of power from Olgun that caused the nobleman to “accidentally” slip on the sawdust-covered floor as he spun away. He choked once, all arrogance finally draining from his expression, and crumpled to a heap, clutching at himself.

  Robin let out a whoop to match her prior eep, and a round of snickers circled through the observing patrons.

  “You…” Evrard seemed to be having a great deal of difficulty speaking all of a sudden. “You…”

  “I'm sorry, what was that?” Widdershins put a hand to her ear. “I'm afraid I can't actually hear your voice when it's that high.”

  Maybe it was Widdershins's taunts, or perhaps it was being laughed at by the crowd for the second time in half a minute, but Evrard pulled himself together. His face was pale, and he winced with every inch, but he rose slowly until he stood flagpole-straight.

  “If you were of noble blood…,” he growled, fingers seeming to twitch toward his rapier of their own accord.

  “Then I'd probably have died of hypocrisy poisoning by now. Evrard, what do you want?”

  “I want,” he said, his breath coming more easily now, “to inform of you my intentions.”

  “Your…?”

  “As I understand it, Gurrerre Marguilles briefly challenged his daughter's will? Specifically the provision granting you ownership of her tavern?”

  Widdershins scowled. “That was dropped.”

  “Yes, because as the city's trade dried up, Lord Marguilles couldn't afford to waste time and resources on a prolonged legal struggle. But it remains true that ‘Widdershins’ isn't your legal name, and therefore, the will may not be binding.”

  “It's how Genevieve knew me, you rat! I have a dozen people ready to testify to that! It's why Marguilles couldn't afford to continue his challenge!”

  “And do you think he'll feel that way when I tell him that the entire will was forged?”

  Widdershins felt as though she was suddenly tumbling backward, down an unseen hole; could barely hear the common room through the sudden frantic pounding of her heart, which must surely be deafening to everyone around her. She could only hope she sounded a lot more confident than she felt when she said, an eternity later, “I don't know what you mean.”

  “Of course not.” Evrard leaned in, as though to whisper, but continued in a perfectly normal tone of voice, “I have connections everywhere, Widdershins. There's nothing you can do that I cannot discover. Genevieve would be ashamed of you.”

  The young woman's whole body went taut as a crossbow string, and there's no telling whether she'd have actually drawn her blade at that point or simply attacked Evrard with her bare hands (or booted feet), but as she'd held her friend back a moment earlier, it was now Robin who returned the favor.

  “Shins, no!”

  “I see,” Evrard continued, as Widdershins relented against the tide of gangly limbs pressing against her, “that you're not, in fact, done hiding behind your friends.”

  “I won't let you do this!” Widdershins wasn't sure if it had come out as more of a growl or a whine; she desperately hoped for the former.

  “You'd have to kill me,” Evrard said simply.

  “Why?” Robin fell away as Widdershins deflated. “Gods, what did I ever do to you?”

  “Maybe, if you really can't figure it out, I'll explain it to you someday. In very short words. Have a good evening, ladies and gentlemen. So sorry for the interruption.” He tossed a handful of coins at the bar; they skipped and scattered over the smooth wood, tinkling as they fell, and nobody—employee or patron—moved to pick them up. “A round on me, to compensate you all for your trouble.” With that, and a last sardonic bow, Evrard strode through the door, cloak flapping with an almost deliberate melodrama in his wake.

  “It's fine, everybody.” Widdershins's tone put the obvious lie to her words, but none of the customers appeared willing to challenge her assertion. “Everything's fine. Please, go back to your drinks.” And then she just stood in the center of the room, gazing at nothing at all.

  “Shins?”

  “Hmm?”

  Robin's face, even more pallid than normal, interposed itself between Widdershins and the nothing she was staring at. “Can he actually do that? Can he take the Flippant Witch?”

  “I—I don't know, Robin. He has no proof that the will was fake, but just the accusation might be enough to spur
Gen's father to new efforts. He could certainly make life really, really hard for us.”

  “Right.” Robin attempted to force a shallow smile. “Because things were going so smoothly before now.” And then, blinking at Widdershins's abrupt turn, “Where are you going?”

  “I'm going to follow that—that snake! He knows so much about me? Fine! I'll even things up!”

  She was gone before Robin could possibly have decided whether to protest or to cheer her on.

  “There she is!”

  Squirrel followed his friend's pointing finger just in time to see Widdershins, apparently having burst through the door at something of a run, haul herself up short. She took a quick but steady look around, as though searching for something, and then headed off down the Market District's main avenue at a much slower pace. Swiftly she blended in with the crowd, occasionally vanishing completely into pockets of shadow between the glowing lantern posts. (This despite the fact that she wasn't currently dressed in her “business-related” blacks and grays.) Clearly, she didn't care to be detected.

  Just as clearly, she was expecting any potential discovery to come from in front of her. She wasn't nearly as well concealed from anyone following behind, especially not anyone who knew most of the same tricks.

  “All right, boys,” Simon said through a tight little grin. “Let's see what our girl's got going on tonight, shall we?”

  And they, like Widdershins before them, moved out into the street and vanished into the crowd, pursuing a quarry utterly unaware of their presence.

  So furious was Widdershins's burning anger, her determination, and yes—though she'd never have admitted to it—her fear, that it took several moments of intense emotional “shouting” before Olgun was able even to attract her attention.

  “What? No!” She cast an ugly glance at the nearest passerby, who was currently staring at her, and then continued in a much lower tone of voice. “No, I do not think this is a dumb idea. In fact, I think this is the best idea anyone has ever had in the history of anyone ever having ideas!”

  That response, if nothing else, was apparently enough to cause dizziness, because she'd pushed through the rapidly thinning crowd—most people were hurrying home, if they were out at all this late in the evening—and had covered another two blocks or so before…

  “Well, I don't care if you think it's a bad idea! You're not the one who's about to lose your best friend's life's work, are you? What would you even know about—”

  Widdershins actually moaned aloud and stumbled, barely catching herself before careening into the worn and discolored wood that was the nearest wall. She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt something from Olgun that powerful, that overwhelming. She actually found her gut clenching with a shame that very much reminded her of those times she'd bitterly disappointed Alexandre.

  “You…Olgun, I'm so sorry. I know what you've lost. I had no right to say that to you. Forgive me?”

  Acceptance, grudging for an instant, then growing stronger—but still tinged with more than a little anger, and more than a lot of worry.

  “But you won't lose me, not over this. No, I don't know who he is, but you and me? We can handle anything, yes?”

  She was moving again, struggling to catch up before she lost Evrard completely, and though she could sense Olgun's grumbling, she could sense, too, that he wasn't about to argue any further.

  The street steadily evolved from mud with the occasional cobblestone to well cobbled with the occasional pothole—and even those began to fade as Evrard's path drew him, and Widdershins, ever nearer Davillon's richer districts. Any doubt the thief might have had regarding her adversary's nobility (in birth and blood, if not in demeanor) was swiftly washing away.

  So who was this guy? And why did he harbor such hatred for her?

  Evening had taken her leave of the city some minutes earlier, leaving night to assume its rightful place. The roads weren't empty, not entirely, but pedestrians were sparse, and Guardsmen ever more common. Widdershins found herself with no crowds in which to hide; forced to resort ever more often to shadows, doorways, and alleyways any time Evrard thought to look around, her pace slowed and her quarry began to pull ahead. She realized, with a weight in her stomach as though she'd swallowed a whole goose—and not one braised and roasted, either, but feathered and honking—that she was on the verge of losing him entirely.

  She peered briefly toward the rooftops, wondering if the “thieves' highway” might not be a wiser option, but quickly dismissed the idea. She didn't know this part of town well enough, didn't know if she'd find herself stranded before a gap too wide to cross. No, best to keep to the roads, maybe even to sacrifice stealth for speed and just hope that the irritating aristocrat wouldn't happen to check behind him at any point where Widdershins couldn't—

  The rest of the thought was lost in yet another surge of emotion from Olgun, but this was not anger, nor was it directed at Widdershins specifically. It was, as best she could determine once she had a moment to gather her scattered wits, an intense puzzlement, tinged with, just perhaps, a tiny sprinkling of fear.

  “What? Olgun, what?”

  An urging, then, as though he was trying to guide her way.

  “No! Olgun, Evrard's going that way. I'm not…No! I don't care what might be down that way, I'm not letting—”

  She felt a surge in the air around her, as well as within her own mind, and recognized the sensation of Olgun's power. The voices of the few other pedestrians in sight resounded in her ears, each word burning itself into her thoughts. She could hear footsteps as clearly as drumbeats, her own heart as though it had crawled up into her skull (perhaps in search of a better view).

  Just as swiftly as it began, it faded. No, not faded, narrowed. Sounds fell away as though she were moving past them, until she heard only what was occurring several streets off to her right.

  Gasps. Running. And the occasional scream, not quite loud enough to carry itself normally to her ears.

  “It's nothing to do with us,” she insisted, struggling to spot Evrard's flapping coat in the darkness ahead. “I wouldn't even know about it without your stupid jumbo god ears, so—”

  She felt, as though it were her own, Olgun's desperate curiosity, his need to know what bizarre power he'd sensed moving through the city.

  “I don't care. I've got to learn what Evrard—”

  He drew from her thoughts a distinct memory of the Shrouded Lord's directive, to learn precisely what was haunting Davillon.

  “I don't care!”

  Her hearing focused even further, until she could make out little but the ever-increasing shrieks of terror.

  “I don't—oh, figs!” And with a last, vicious glance toward Evrard's retreating back—though it might just as easily have been directed at Olgun—she was sprinting toward the sounds of fright that nobody else on the street nearby could possibly have heard.

  Her senses swiftly faded back to normal levels—there were, she knew, limits to how much power Olgun could exercise on her behalf—but it wasn't long before she no longer needed them. The screams, now clearly incorporating no small degree of pain as well as terror, drew near enough for her to hear on her own. Had she been any farther away, even Olgun wouldn't have detected whatever it was that had attracted his attention; had any of the patrols been nearer, rather than concentrated on the main thoroughfares, they could have dealt with this and Widdershins wouldn't have had to abandon her own pursuit.

  “We're gonna talk about this later, Olgun,” she snipped at him. Then, once she'd narrowed down her destination to a nearby side street, and realized, further, that there was indeed a building overlooking said street (a glassware shop, if she wasn't mistaken), she swiftly began to climb. Better to approach the trouble, whatever it might be, from an unexpected angle, yes?

  In point of fact, the “side street” wasn't much wider than most alleyways she knew. The rear of multiple establishments bordered it on both sides; in fact, had the entire street been thi
s way, rather than just these few blocks, it actually would have been an alleyway.

  But it was the alley's—that is, the street's—inhabitants, rather than its design, that snagged her attention as she peered out over the edge of the sloping roof, hands itching as they pressed up against the rough, wooden shingles. Two young men—either well-dressed servants of some noble, or rather cheaply dressed aristocrats themselves—crouched, huddled against the shop next door to Widdershins's own perch. One clutched at a red-smeared arm and stomach, and, though there didn't appear to be enough blood to suggest that either wound was especially dangerous, they were pretty clearly painful. The other fellow was holding his friend's shoulders, as though that would provide any protection against their attacker. An attacker clad all in swathes of black fabric; he looked, to Widdershins, like the Shrouded Lord's disreputable second cousin.

  But from her raised vantage, Widdershins could also see something that the two victims on the ground most assuredly could not: A second dark figure, garbed identically to the first, clinging to the shadow-cloaked wall just beneath the eaves of a building some ways down the street.

  “So, Olgun. These guys what you sensed?”

  Apparently, the god wasn't sure—she detected more than a touch of doubt.

  “Well,” she continued as the silhouette on the street produced a narrow blade, laughing as he (it?) made threatening jabs at the two sniveling travelers, “guess we should do something, yes? Care to lend a hand?”

  She felt the tingling in the air once again, this time concentrated around her legs and feet. Grinning manically, Widdershins backed away from the edge of the roof, drew her rapier, and charged.

  It was, every step of it, impossible—but impossible was a specialty of this particular partnership. With almost inhuman speed, Widdershins cleared the entire length of the roof and leapt, sailing majestically across the gap. She twisted as she flew, the envy of any acrobat, flipping over so that her feet landed against the wall of the opposite shop. She tucked and pushed, propelling herself once more across the street, this time angled and hurtling directly at the dark-clad figure who appeared utterly frozen in shock.