“In a moment, my impatient friend. I need to pray, seek guidance for my next step. I'll ask you all to bide just a few minutes. Except you.” He pointed imperiously at Jean Luc. “You, come stand beside me.”
The aristocratic killer blanched, though it went unnoticed in the cloak of shadows that draped the room, and reluctantly shuffled forward.
The Apostle turned to face the image and began to chant in a low, sonorous rumble, his lips, tongue, and throat twisting themselves around words that came from no language Jean Luc had ever heard. It sounded…“guttural” wasn't a strong enough term. Chthonic, perhaps, not just inhuman but inhumane.
A single horsefly circled the room once, buzzing softly, and then set down on the floor and spat up something tiny and unidentifiable, coated in blood. The insect convulsed as though suffering some sort of fit and then burst, adding its internal fluids to the tiny viscous pile already deposited.
A second horsefly appeared. It, too, vomited something strange into the minuscule but growing mass, and then ruptured. It was followed just as swiftly by a third, a fourth, a fifth, and then the chamber shook with the drone of a thousand horseflies, and even the dullest of the assassins knew that something was very wrong.
From every conceivable hiding place they came. From the corners of the room, the edges of the door, the folds and drapes of clothing, even the ears and nostrils and mouths of the horrified killers they flew, buzzing angrily, forever adding to the swelling thing upon the floor. The room filled with a nauseating, acrid odor, a miasma of rot and decay. The air blurred visibly with the heavy stench.
It wasn't until the leather-garbed assassin glanced down at his arm to see it shrivel and shrink, muscle and flesh disappearing from under the skin, that he knew what was happening.
And with that knowledge, so came pain. Suddenly, the men couldn't just see the horrific fate befalling them, they could feel it, now consciously aware of each and every fly-sized morsel that detached itself from their innards to be regurgitated across the room. Four mouths gaped open, to scream, to cry, perhaps to beg. Nothing emerged but an atrocious gurgle as various fluids mixed within their lungs. Blood and bile erupted from between cracked and drying lips; eyes collapsed as aqueous humors bubbled through punctured membranes and ran in monstrous tears down sunken cheeks. Limbs folded as bones and tendons liquefied beneath the unrelenting assault.
The shape on the floor began to pulse, palpitating in time with some unseen heart. With each beat, the mass shifted. Crests and ridges that formed with one pulse didn't quite subside with the next; hollows and cavities remained despite the press of fluids.
For long minutes the horror grew, and the helpless men writhed on the floor, deflated from within, until nothing remained save four sopping, gummy sets of clothing, each with a ring of teeth lying neatly nearby.
Jean Luc fell to his knees and retched, his stomach heaving long after it was empty of anything to purge. His expression thoughtful, the Apostle stood over him, watching the ongoing transformation.
The mass on the floor resolved itself into a clearly humanoid shape. It twitched once, twice, and rose to its feet. Even as it stood, a rough skin blossomed across its surface. Fingers flexed, testing muscles; eyes rolled up from within, sliding into formerly hollow sockets. Finally complete, it loomed above the watching mortals, death incarnate, and Jean Luc was certain that the abhorrent fate of his companions was nothing compared to what this monstrosity held in store for him. If Jean Luc could be grateful for one thing in this night of terrors, it was that the room's feeble lighting prevented him from seeing more details of the beast.
But then, he didn't have to look at it now. He'd seen it once before, two years ago…
“Do you know why you're alive, Jean Luc?” the Apostle demanded. “Do you know why you aren't currently a part of my pet here, like your companions?”
“I…I…”
“Get a grip, man! It was you who told me of Adrienne's illicit activities. That buys you some leeway. I also need your connections in the city's criminal element to track her down—and guide my little pet to her doorstep.”
“Oh, gods, no! Please, you can't—”
“I can. My own people will accompany you. Both of you. Succeed, and all previous failures will be forgotten. Fail me again, though, Jean Luc…” He felt no need to complete the threat.
Jean Luc watched the demonic form collapse in on itself, flesh crumpling like old parchment before once more smoothing into a roughly human size. It couldn't be mistaken for mortal on close inspection, but seen briefly on the night-dimmed streets, it shouldn't draw attention.
And then, with a grin that wasn't remotely human, it bowed and gestured toward the door, allowing the weeping assassin to exit first.
“Again, Major, I would never presume to tell you how to do your job, but aren't you being just a wee bit excessive?”
Julien Bouniard glanced irritably at the black-frocked churchman—seated quite calmly, fingers steepled together before him, at the writing desk—and tried to blink back the first stirrings of what promised to be a right monster of a headache. The room was pristine, neat and organized; surprisingly so, considering that Bouniard's men had dug through it with rabid gusto last night, seeking any evidence the intruders might have left. Behind de Laurent, the young monk who had so meticulously straightened the room paced nervously, wringing his hands and muttering to himself. The three of them—as well as six guards in the hall outside, four standing on the grounds beneath the chamber's window, and two dozen more scattered throughout the house—awaited the archbishop's carriage, at which time the entire procession would head to the dignitary's next temporary domicile.
The Guardsman shook his head. “Excessive? No, Your Eminence, I don't think so. There's already been one attempt on your life, one that the Marquis de Ducarte will never live down. I don't think we want another.”
De Laurent's expression turned wry. “For my sake, or for the sake of whichever noble is next in line to be so dishonored?”
“Truthfully, Your Eminence, some of both. Look, your assistant knows enough to be concerned. Why don't you?”
The archbishop craned his head. “Brother Maurice,” he chided gently, “you'll wear a hole through our kind host's carpeting.”
“Good. Maybe you can use it as an escape route the next time someone tries to kill you.”
The high official smiled broadly. “There, you see?” he asked Bouniard. “Maurice worries quite well enough for the both of us. For me to fret would be redundant, and I so frown upon wasted effort.
“So,” he continued swiftly, before the vague reddening of the major's face boiled over into something unpleasant, “tell me about this young lady we're so worked up about.”
If de Laurent hoped to calm the incensed guard, he'd chosen his topic poorly. Julien's lip curled under, and he fumed visibly. “There's little to tell, Your Eminence. I'm going to find her, and wring her scrawny neck with my bare hands.” He waved dismissively, as if shooing away an insect. “Everything past that is pretty much ancillary detail.”
“My, but we're taking this personally,” the archbishop commented. “What do you have against this poor girl whom you're planning to murder on my behalf?”
Julien's frown grew even deeper, a feat of true muscle contortion that threatened to flip his entire face upside down on the front of his head. He'd been exaggerating, of course. He had no true intention of killing Widdershins, but the archbishop's quiet criticism was still a slap in the face.
“Your Eminence, I've a burnt-out husk of a building, one dead guard, another who'll be off work for a week until his head heals, and I very nearly found myself winging off to meet the gods myself!”
“And you believe this girl responsible?”
“At the very least, she played me for a fool,” the Guardsman admitted after a few deep breaths. “I'm still not entirely certain how she did it, but she played me, and managed, in doing so, to escape from a prison with a seventeen-year vomit recor
d.”
“Vomit record?” de Laurent repeated cautiously.
“Escape,” he clarified apologetically, flushing slightly. “When someone escapes, we, umm, we usually refer to the prison as having vomited them out. Thrown them up, as it were.”
“I see. How droll.”
“Yes. Ah, well, my point is that no one's escaped from that particular gaol in seventeen years, Your Eminence. But she did it, and she used me to do it. That'd be enough to make me irritable even if I didn't have the rest of it to deal with.”
“I'd never have guessed,” Maurice whispered as his pacing carried him past the archbishop's shoulder.
“Down, boy,” de Laurent hissed, hiding a smile behind an upraised hand. “Do continue,” he said more loudly.
The Guardsman let the whispered exchange pass without comment. “I would have thought that her attempted assault on you would have put you in a fouler mood than I, Your Eminence. Even with the whole ‘forgiveness doctrine' bit, you seem remarkably unconcerned about this.”
“'Forgiveness doctrine bit.' Oh, it warms my heart to see that the Church's teachings are so happily embraced by the masses.”
“I—”
“Major, I believe I have told you—more than once, in fact, which is not a frequent experience for me unless I'm giving a classic sermon—that this girl…” He frowned. “What was the bizarre name you called her?”
“Widdershins. Most of Davillon's thieves have—”
“Widdershins, yes. I believe I've told you that Widdershins was not here last night to do me any harm.”
“Your Eminence, with all due respect—”
“A statement,” de Laurent noted to the young monk, “that is never followed by anything even remotely respectful.”
“Disgraceful,” Maurice confirmed.
“Indeed.” The archbishop smiled once more. “If I may take a wild guess, Major? You were about to tell me, in the most respectful manner imaginable, that I'm a foolish old man who forgives far too easily, can't tell an assassin's dagger from a butter knife, and wouldn't know real danger if it came up and bit me on something that I cannot, as an official of the Church, admit to possessing. Is that about the size of it?”
Julien's jaw clamped shut tighter than a chastity belt.
“Major,” he continued, leaning over his desk, all trace of good humor sliding from his face, “allow me to be absolutely, perfectly clear. I appreciate your concern for my well-being. I appreciate that you're trying to do your job to the best of your ability. And I will happily admit that I'm far less familiar with the bloodier aspects of life than you.
“At the same time, I am no stranger to violence. My life has been threatened more than once, and I have defended it more than once. I believe in the afterlife, and I even have the audacity to think that I'm headed to the more pleasant place when my time comes, but I'm in no rush to prove it. I am not an idiot, no matter what gossip you might hear, and I am not some ignorant old fool to be taken in by a pretty face.
“When this Widdershins burst into my chamber, she was wounded, and attempting to warn me of some coming danger. As you yourself informed me, she seems to have rather handily dispatched another disreputable fellow who was lurking about the house, one who most likely did intend me some amount of bodily harm. So tell me why I should be worried about this woman?”
“Your Eminence,” Bouniard told him, fighting to keep his voice under control, “I'll acknowledge that she probably wasn't here to kill you. It's not her way. But she's involved with people of a much bloodier bent—and putting thoughts of murder aside, she was definitely here to rob you. I don't approve of that, even if you do. And someone wants to cause you harm. So either way, you're in danger. And either way, Widdershins is connected to it, and she's the only lead I've got.
“Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go see if your carriage is ready.” Fists clenched so hard his leather gauntlets squeaked, the major rose, bowed stiffly, and swept from the room.
“That,” Maurice noted as he moved to stand behind the archbishop's left shoulder, “is not a happy jasper.”
“Indeed, no,” William agreed.
“Maurice,” he said suddenly, swiveling to face his young friend, “you'll not be traveling with me to our next residence. There's something I need you to do for me.”
“I'm a very busy woman, Jean Luc.” Lisette Suvagne leaned, hawklike, over the edge of the table, her face illuminated hellishly by the lamp blazing between her and her unexpected guests. “I have no work for you, and I certainly didn't summon you. So what the hell are you and your…”
She scowled irritably at the motley assortment. Jean Luc had always struck her as little more than a common dandy—he reminded her vaguely of Renard Lambert, come to think of it, even if he lacked the foppish thief's flamboyance—though she had to admit he was decent at his job. She didn't know the others: two, in their dueling vests and cheap rapiers, looked the part of common thugs. The last was tall, shrouded in a worn cloak, his hands and face bandaged as though to evoke the leprosy scares of old. Only the fact that Jean Luc had worked for the guild before, and swore he'd come on a matter of urgency, had won them admission past the guards. The red-haired taskmaster fully intended to have someone lashed if this didn't prove very, very important.
Or at least interesting.”You and your friends doing here?” she finally concluded, twisting a dagger between her fingers, scarring the heavy table with the blade. The sound of tiny splinters being gouged from the wood snuck through the chamber and went to go lurk in the corner, where it occasionally bounced back at them as an echo.
“That's not good for the steel, you know,” Jean Luc said neutrally.
“Oh, thank you so much. I've never held a dagger before. They're sharp, aren't they?”
“I was just—”
“Just about to tell me why you're here, why I should talk to you when I frankly have no use for you, and why I shouldn't just have all your throats slit and your carcasses dumped in a deep hole with the rats.” She grinned maliciously. “You don't necessarily have to answer to that last one, if it's too much of a strain.”
Jean Luc returned her smile, obviously not cowed in the slightest. “I would very much like to know when the Finders' Guild was taken over by idiots and cretins.”
Lisette rocked back in her seat. He couldn't possibly be talking about the attempt to kill Widdershins in gaol; not even the Shrouded Lord, let alone anyone outside the guild, could have linked her to it! And yet, what else could he…? “Explain yourself—quickly,” she hissed at him.
“What could possibly have possessed you,” Jean Luc continued, ignoring the woman's posturing, “to authorize a job on the archbishop? That sort of attention's bad for all of us, not just your precious guild!”
The taskmaster's jaw snapped shut like a bear trap, allowing only the release of a strangled, “What?!”
“The archbishop,” Jean Luc repeated slowly, as though explaining something to a child. “One of your thieves made an attempt on his belongings the night before last. My employeer—”
“And that would be who, exactly?” she interrupted.
“You know full well that I can't tell you that, mademoiselle. But I'll say that it's someone who would make a very bad enemy.” He fluttered his fingers in dismissal, as though shaking a clinging strand of cobweb from his gloves.
“I have plenty of enemies,” Lisette told him stiffly, when it became clear he would offer no further answer. “One more doesn't scare me. But as it happens, we authorized no such operation. Perhaps you'd tell me more about it?”
“Really?” Jean Luc leaned back, thoughtfully rubbing his chin. “Not to doubt your word, but I find that hard to fathom. She was clearly a professional, mademoiselle.”
“She?” Lisette's face lit up to shame the lantern. “Describe her,” she all but cooed.
Jean Luc shrugged, and began. He'd scarcely gotten beyond eye and hair color before Lisette's own eyes blazed like a funeral pyre.
&n
bsp; “Widdershins!” The woman's grin was somehow both wolfish and serpentine at once.
“Really. Don't any of you people have normal names, Taskmaster?”
Lisette ignored him. “The little scab was specifically ordered to keep away from de Laurent! I told them she'd be trouble, but no, have to give her the chance to hang herself first. Well, now she's done it, hasn't she?”
And made things much easier for Brock and me, for that matter.
Jean Luc rose to his feet and bowed politely to the woman sitting across from him. “I see this has become an internal guild matter, then. We'll leave you to your affairs, content in the knowledge that you can handle the situation. Good evening.”
“Just a moment, Jean Luc,” the taskmaster interrupted as he rose, her voice oily as a well-greased hinge. “And what, precisely, were you doing at the Rittier household to witness little Widdershins's activities?”
The assassin ran a hand down his fine vest. “I was a guest,” he said simply.
Lisette Suvagne was no fool; Jean Luc hailed from the aristocracy, yes, and he could have been innocently attending the party, but she didn't buy it for a moment. He'd been there on his own job, one that could have thrown the entire city into chaos if he'd meant to kill de Laurent himself. She was tempted to demand answers from him, even though she knew well she'd get none.
But there were always alternatives.
Lisette waved him away, waited until her guests had departed, then rose and strode from the room. She whispered instructions to the nearest guard, who nodded and darted off along the hall; then she moved in the other direction.
Widdershins had finally given Lisette cause to deal with her as she'd always wished. Not even the Shrouded Lord could object if she took action now, not without appearing weak. Lisette almost felt like skipping along the darkened halls, and many of her fellow Finders recoiled in fear from the gleeful malevolence in her grin.
Huddled deep in a tattered cloak, good hand and bad both wrapped in a beggar's bandages, Henri Roubet waited in the shadows of a nearby alley. His companions had been inside a while, now, and the former Guardsman was growing ever more concerned that something had gone wrong—or that one of the guild sentries would decide he was more than the vagabond he seemed, and run him off. He'd give them a few more minutes, but then…