They stood before an old house in middling condition, not all that different than his own, save for its larger size. A vegetable garden, barren for the winter, was the only concession to aesthetics he could see. The other homes nearby looked much the same, and the street was, at this hour, largely empty.
The old guardsman knew he must look a fright: disheveled, filthy, limping faintly, and—despite the care his assailants had taken—he could taste a bit of matted blood in his mustache. He wasn't even certain if it was his or not.
Shout for assistance, or even just attention? This wasn't the most upstanding of neighborhoods, but neither did it appear a bad one. It would take only the right person to peer from a window at his cry….
Either something in his face or his posture gave him away, or—more likely—the brigands were simply taking no chances. A fist sank into the flesh of his gut, forcing the breath and very nearly the most recent meal from his body. Doubled over, wheezing, Archibeque felt hands lifting him by the arms, hauling him like a sack of meal. Drunken meal, in fact.
It was the piercing and all-too-familiar tang of gore, no longer fresh but not too aged, that snapped him out of it. As he glanced around, equilibrium gradually returning, he saw a fairly simple dining chamber, a plain but sturdy table, and a pair of corpses. Man and woman—married couple, the major's guard training suggested, based on a dozen tiny signs—shy of, or having just crossed into, middle age. He lay flat on the floor, facedown, pointed away from his chair; she was slumped on the table, chest in what, a day or two ago, had been dinner. Both had died violently, but at least, from appearances, swiftly.
Unfortunately, while Archibeque was no stranger to carnage, the gut punch already had him on the verge of vomiting. He felt his shoulders spasm, the sweat form on his forehead; tasted bile in his suddenly burning throat. The guardsman successfully choked back his surging gorge—no chance would he show any such weakness in front of these bastards!—but it was a long and difficult struggle.
By the time he'd recovered from that, several more people had entered the room. One or two he recognized from past experience—members of the bloody Finders’ Guild. The woman between them, however—slender, sharp-featured, hair like searing flame—he didn't know.
“If you're having difficulty with this,” the woman told him, gesturing vaguely at the bodies, “I strongly suggest you not take a look in the grandfather's bedchamber. Or the children's.” Then, at his expression, she merely shrugged. “We do what we need to.”
“Your Shrouded Lord is growing sloppy and stupid,” Archibeque snarled, determined to take charge of the conversation. “If you think the Guard is just going to ignore the slaughter of a family, let alone the abduction of an officer—”
“Relax, Commandant. We don't represent the Guild.”
Archibeque stiffened. Was this all a bizarre case of mistaken identity? “You've been given bad information. I am not Commandant Trivette.”
“Oh, we know who you are. Archibeque, Major, Trivette's most probable successor. My name is Lisette.
“And as for Trivette himself…” The woman's grin was positively unholy. “Who do you think the dearly departed grandpa I mentioned might be?”
The guardsman choked, staring once more at the corpses, only now seeing the family resemblance between the woman and Archibeque's superior officer. Or former superior, apparently. He found himself struggling, thrashing, and accomplishing nothing at all. The men held him too tightly, were still too strong.
“Whatever you thought to gain from Commandant Trivette,” Archibeque announced, back stiff once more, “you'll not have from me, either.”
Lisette laughed, a rather twisted chuckle. “So easy to say, old man. Perhaps you should wait until I've explained.”
“Explain all you like. You'll have no cooperation from me.”
A second, softer chuckle. “I've been flitting around Davillon for a little while, now, Major. I've offered a proposition to a great many important people. Some accepted. Some are dead. Strangely, there is no overlap between those two groups. I can't imagine why that is.”
She stepped nearer, grinning, and delivered a light, almost playful slap to Archibeque's cheek. “Can you guess why that is?”
“Of course Trivette declined. As, to my last breath—”
“Oh, shut it.” A second slap, harder, made his ears ring. “I'm tired of hearing it.
“Listen well, Major. I didn't ask your commandant a thing. My plans hinge on a few particular people, people I can't afford to have reject my generous offer. For them, I've had to resort to…other methods. Trivette, unfortunately, was too old. The process killed him. I do believe, though, that his successor is a stronger man. Let's find out, shall we?”
Other methods? “What are you—?”
The words turned into a scream, high, piercing, like a child trapped in a nightmare. It tore his throat ragged, strained his lungs, and kept coming.
And at first, he didn't even know why. He felt no pain, saw no horrors. Nothing had changed, save for a sudden alien scent, vaguely herbal and sickly sweet, and the involuntary shriek that he could not, no matter how he tried, make himself stop.
Lisette's thugs released his arms and stepped back. Archibeque felt his body slump, every one of his muscles slacken, and yet he remained upright, if slouched. The room blurred as his eyes grew unfocused. He tried to clear them, and realized he couldn't even blink. Felt a wet warmth down his leg, as his final grip on control was wrenched away.
Finally, as his face purpled and he felt ready to pass out, the scream pouring from between his lips finally ceased.
“See? This one survived.” Lisette took a step back, studying the guardsman as though he were a work of art. “Now, shall we discuss our next step?”
This time, his scream was purely internal, resounding through his thoughts without the slightest audible sound, as something else began to answer Lisette's questions through Archibeque's own lips and breath.
“Can you explain to me,” Widdershins begged of Olgun, “why, after traveling across more than half of Galice and over the span of three separate identities, I still can't seem to get away from the stupid parties?!”
Olgun's only answer was one of his metaphysical shrugs.
“Fat lot of use you are! Go back to eyeing all the hors d'oeuvres you can't eat or whatever it is you do at these things. I need you sober, though, so don't ‘not drink’ too much of the wine.”
Indeed, the banquet hall of Castle Pauvril had been bedecked and festooned—after, Widdershins imagined, a frantic but thorough dusting, sweeping, and de-cobwebbing—for as grand a gala as any she'd attended in Davillon, as either Adrienne Satti or Madeleine Valois. What the noble houses of Aubier lacked in terms of Davillon's rich excesses, they more than made up for in quantity and exuberance.
Banners displaying the icons of a dozen Pact gods hung from the rafters, along with the occasional Galicien flag. Widdershins still flinched each time she glimpsed Cevora's leonine symbol fluttering among the others. And flutter they did; the halls of Pauvril might have been built with defense in mind, but they were utter garbage where invading armies of breezes needed challenging.
Tables staggered and groaned beneath the weight of enough food—smoked meats, fresh pastries, and out-of-season candied fruits—to feed an army. The only army present within the walls, of course, was one of servants, dashing back and fro and to and forth, clad in clashing house colors, and permitted not a bite of the repast. That was for the aristocrats, who picked or nibbled or politely gorged (a talent Shins had never mastered), as their individual attitude and appetites demanded.
The odors of lingering dust and age tainted the aroma of food sufficiently that Shins, rarely one to turn down a free meal, had lost most of her appetite. She wasn't sure how the blue bloods managed it. Maybe they didn't manage it; maybe they forced themselves, at the risk of being sick, all for the sake of propriety and appearance. She wouldn't have been at all surprised.
Only tw
o details separated this particular fete from its spiritual brethren that she'd attended in the past. One was the utter lack of an orchestra or even a single mingling minstrel. That, apparently, had been deemed too festive for a gathering that wasn't really a party at all.
The other was a cluster of people off to one side, huddled under a heavy arch. All of them were clad in the formal colors of a single House, and they stood hemmed in by a small but grim-looking circle of city constables.
House Carnot, Aubier branch.
The Carnot outsiders, those who had come to Aubier alongside Lazare, languished, or so Shins understood, in the city's gaol. With the exception of the servant Josce Tremont, who had thus far eluded all efforts to locate him, the local members of the family were in a rather more nebulous state. They had been gathered together, their coin and any liquid assets confiscated, until the nobles of Aubier could determine how involved they had been in Lazare's plot, and to what extent—if any—they owed reparations to House Delacroix, or fines and penalties to the rest of the city. It was to make just those decisions that the nobles were here today, in the most neutral spot in Aubier—assuming they ever tore themselves away from the food and the chatter to discuss the issue.
Knowing the aristocracy as she did, the visitor from Davillon was fairly certain that, even if they were found largely innocent of any direct wrongdoing, the Carnots weren't likely to see much of that wealth again.
Said wealth, currently stored in one of the castle's lower chambers, was one of the reasons—the other being the paranoia of the nobles themselves—that, while the only army within the castle was made up of servants, a small army of constables and armsmen from every local House were currently standing guard outside the walls.
Not long ago, the situation would have had Widdershins drooling over the opportunity, looking for any means to liberate a portion of the riches from the room below. Now, however, it just made her edgy.
“Ah! There she is!”
Or maybe the edgy has something to do with them.
Calanthe Delacroix and Aubier's reeve approached, drifting easily through the throng as people readily, even eagerly, cleared them a path. Widdershins offered the latter a shallow nod, the former a shallow curtsy—which looked rather peculiar, given that she had refused the offer of formal clothing and wore the same leathers (although thoroughly washed) in which she'd arrived. Compared to Veroche's outfit, which was tailor fitted and loose shouldered, perfect for dancing or dueling, and the matriarch's, which was full and flowing and worth more than some villages, she looked like a crow among peacocks.
“I wanted to thank you again for staying,” Rosselin Veroche began.
Widdershins grinned, lips tight. “You wanted me to leave when I wanted to stay. Only follows you want me to stay when I want to leave, yes?”
The reeve returned a polite smile. “I realize this has taken a little longer than you'd hoped to remain…”
A little?! It's been over two weeks!
“…but your testimony is rather essential to offer the nobles a clear picture of what happened.”
Yes, so you've said a million and a half times. It's why you've had me go over the story until I'm sick of my own voice, and bring that stinky, nauseating thing as evidence.
But as none of that seemed worth saying aloud, Widdershins instead asked, “Any word from the observers?” As soon as they'd arrested Lazare Carnot, Rosselin had sent couriers requesting representatives both royal and ecclesiastical. One simply didn't try a House patriarch without such oversight.
“No. And given the political chaos you've described out there, I doubt it'll be any time soon. But once you've given your statement to the nobles here tonight, they can swear to your testimony on record. You won't need to remain for the trial itself.”
Thank the Pact for small favors!
“Veroche,” Calanthe said, “I wonder if you would give me a moment with the young lady.”
Oh, figs.
“Of course. I'll check on the status of the guards. Trying to organize the soldiers of every house? It's like herding cats.”
“Really, really dizzy cats?” Shins asked. The reeve blinked, gave her the sort of look she really ought to be accustomed to by now, and left.
“Walk with me,” the matriarch invited-slash-commanded.
Shins actually found herself casting about for an escape route. There were plenty, of course; even discounting the main doors, which currently hung open to the outside, the banquet hall boasted any number of archways leading to various halls and several sets of sweeping stairs. She could even climb the walls, if necessary; the brick was rough enough she could do it blindfolded. Some of the banners might even support her weight, if only briefly….
She suppressed a sigh and answered the only way she truly could. “Certainly.”
The matriarch began to stroll, Widdershins keeping up. The thief had attended enough formal events to recognize that Calanthe was idly circling the edges of the room, offering them some privacy for speech while remaining seemingly sociable.
“Any news?” Widdershins asked, abruptly disturbed by the woman's continued silence.
“No. Veroche believes there was at least one hideout unknown to the men who Josephi—who we caught in our trap.”
Widdershins nodded. Once Josephine had been well and truly cowed, getting her to send false signals to the next trespassing Crows had been easy, a matter of ordering her to do so and acquiring her a bit of colored glass to replace her lantern. They, in turn, had led the Delacroix guards and the constables to most of the Thousand Crow bolt-holes—including the ones in which Lazare and his Carnot had taken refuge. (It had been Calanthe herself who convinced the tight-lipped criminals to talk. Widdershins neither knew how, nor wanted to.)
Unfortunately, perhaps thanks to their spies in the Houses and constabulary, the Crows had seen them coming. A significant minority of the gang had escaped, and while several had been apprehended in the subsequent days, a handful—Fingerbone and Ivon Maline chief among them—remained uncaught.
“Is Aubier big enough for someone to hide this long?” Widdershins joked nervously.
They drifted past knots of conversation, a few of which the matriarch even deigned to join, if only to exchange pleasantries. Shins was beginning to grow irritated, and was contemplating asking Olgun to arrange some embarrassing mishap with Calanthe and the next bottle of wine they drew near, when the old woman finally spoke.
“Why did you help us, Widdershins? Honestly.”
“An old debt.” She shrugged. “One of your distant relatives saved my life—changed my life. He's gone, now.” She was surprised to find herself choking up, however slightly. Usually she could speak of Alexandre without too much pain. “This was my only way of repaying him.”
Calanthe nodded and continued walking, her gaze fixed straight ahead, seeming unwilling even to glance in Widdershins's direction.
“I want you to understand,” she began, distant and stiff. “The Delacroix have always had political enemies, here in the Outer Hespelene. A House doesn't dominate local textiles as we have without upsetting rivals. I've seen any number of plots against us, even before the recent upheavals. I've had allies turn on me. Try to turn my children against me.” Her voice grew brittle there, but briefly. “Seek political gain using us as a stepping stone. Even an attempted assassination, now and again. Every sort of sordid aristocratic scheme you can envision, we've repulsed.”
You'd be surprised what I can envision, you old—
“And now we appear to be the last surviving branch of our house. So, if I was…excessive in my distrust, my zeal to keep you away from us, and from my son in particular, I hope you'll understand. It's my family.”
The graceful, dexterous, almost inhumanly agile Widdershins stumbled briefly over her own feet. “I…Was that an apology, Lady Delacroix?”
“Of course not! Don't be silly. It would never do for someone in my position to be seen apologizing to someone in yours. Just isn't d
one.”
At which point the elderly, iron-spined and ironfisted matriarch of House Delacroix threw Widdershins a vaguely mischievous wink.
Before Shins could recover from that shock, Calanthe concluded with, “You are going to have to have some stern words with my son, however.”
“Wait, what? What are you talking—?”
But the matriarch had already stepped away, smoothly interjecting herself into a conversation of high-ranking aristocrats, where she began explaining how Josce Tremont had been funneling local Carnot resources to their newly arrived brethren.
“Olgun? What's she talking about? What words with Cyrille? Hey! You may not have eyes, but I can still feel it when you roll them at me!”
It was, however, all the god would offer—though Widdershins did somehow get the impression he was stifling the urge to chortle.
She made several more confused rounds of the room, occasionally stopping to answer this question or that about her experiences, growing ever more irritated, until the boy himself appeared at her side. The softest hint of wine wafted from his lips; a tiny spot of pink blossomed in his cheeks.
“Widdershins, um…Can we talk a minute?”
“If it gets me away from all these questions, we can talk for two. What's going on?”
“Uh…Could…? Maybe somewhere a bit more private?”
“It's kind of a crowded room, Cyrille.” She thought about following Calanthe's example, circling the edges of the chamber, but she wasn't entirely confident in Cyrille's ability to be discreet, or her own to flow in and out of conversations as smoothly as the matriarch had. “And I'm pretty sure the kitchen and coatrooms are swarming with servants. Maybe upstairs?”
“Yes! I mean, yes, that'd be fine.”
“Are you drunk?”
The red in his cheeks darkened. “No. I just had…no.”
“Right. Make sure you keep a tight hold on the banister, yes?”
The nearest stairwell, which seemed as viable a choice as any of the others, was a curved thing of stone, sweeping its way upward in an utterly unnecessary arc. Bits of dust, dirt, and the occasional insect carapace lay in a few of the more awkward corners, suggesting that the cleaning job here had been rather desultory.