Tonight, Adrienne smelled none of it. She didn't hear the muted whispers circling the market like carrion crows. She didn't taste the charged excitement that spiced the air, or feel the sodden sense of fear that brushed across her skin.
No, tonight Adrienne saw only the hideous sea of red through which she'd waded; smelled and tasted only the iron pungency of blood and the bitter stench of death; felt nothing save the clammy embrace of her gore-soaked gown.
In the back of her mind, Olgun yammered away in his own peculiar fashion, a barrage of emotions that Adrienne lacked the practice and the presence of mind to interpret. In later years, she would look back on this moment and realize that her divine companion, too, had been scared witless. It was one thing she never, in all her days, teased him about.
Adrienne flitted from alley to roadway and back again, keeping herself cloaked in the ambient darkness as she swept through the muted heart of Davillon. City Guard patrols passed her on the street, couples foolishly out for a late-night stroll meandered by, yet she remained unseen.
The claustrophobic confines of the city's center faded away, slowly metamorphosing into the well-kept and far more spacious properties of Davillon's better districts. Through this, too, she drifted, until finally she found herself before the high walls of the most prosperous, if not necessarily the largest or most pretentious, of the lot.
It occurred to Adrienne, through her exhausted fugue, that she might do better to avoid the guard at the front gate. Andre, like all the servants—except Claude—had never treated her with anything but kindness. But somehow, she couldn't see even easygoing Andre taking her current condition with aplomb, and she wanted to avoid a ruckus until she'd spoken to Alexandre, made sure he was safe and asked him what the hell she should do.
Eventually, without ever really remembering how she got there, she found herself clinging to a tree branch outside Alexandre's sitting room, listening in growing horror to the conversation within.
On the other side of the window, a small fire crackled in the hearth, popping in cheerful counterpoint to the low susurration of voices around it. The room was lined on two sides with floor-to-ceiling bookcases. The other two walls sported trophies of their master's more adventurous past. An old rapier hung above the fireplace, crossed by a primitive arquebus. A lion's head roared silently from above the door, stuffed and mounted to perfectly match the face of Cevora, its gaze locked with that of the small albino rhinoceros that stared just as ferociously from above the mounted weapons.
A quartet of richly upholstered chairs faced one another, a small tea table set between them. Alexandre Delacroix, clad in rumpled nightclothes, sat directly opposite the window; Claude, fully dressed, loomed over his master's shoulder. The other three chairs were occupied by Guardsmen. On the right was the young constable, Bouniard, and the commander himself sat nearest the window.
“…be some mistake,” Alexandre was insisting when Adrienne pressed her ear to the glass, his jaw incredulously slack. “Or else a jest in unbelievably poor taste! Whatever your game, Major Chapelle, I can't say I find it amusing.”
“I'd hardly expect you to find it so, my lord,” the old Guardsman said respectfully. “And I assure you, I couldn't be more serious. I think the murder of twenty-six individuals, and most especially these particular individuals, falls well outside the bounds of humor.”
Alexandre shook his head, fists clenched. “Major, I don't for one moment doubt you when you tell me what happened. Gods, those poor…I know most of these people! So if I'm a bit distraught, I trust you'll forgive me.”
Over the top of the chair, Adrienne saw Chapelle's head dip in a brisk nod.
“But to come here,” the master of the house continued, “and tell me that you think Adrienne, of all people…Good gods, man, it's insane! I've raised her as my own daughter for years! Even assuming any human being were capable of the sort of carnage you've described, there's no way my Adrienne could be involved. She's not that person, no matter what gossip you've been listening to!”
Adrienne almost gasped in relief. He still believed in her….
“Monsieur Delacroix,” Chapelle said calmly, “I can only begin to imagine how hard this must be to hear. If the situation were any different, I would have preferred to do this slowly, more gently. But we simply haven't that sort of time, so I must be blunt. You've asked my forgiveness for your emotional state. I now ask yours for following the dictates of my job.
“What we found, monsieur, was a religious cult, devoted to no god of the Hallowed Pact. Until we learn more about this god, we've no idea what the cult might have been about, or what aims it might have pursued. More to the immediate point, however, is the fact that we located, at the scene, a log of sect membership.”
“The sect kept names?” Alexandre asked, incredulously—and perhaps just a tad fearfully.
“Names, no. But numbers.” Chapelle seemed to completely miss the aristocrat's faint shudder of relief. “And that is sufficient for us to note that one or two members of the sect were not present amidst the dead.
“The bloodshed was atrocious,” the constable continued relentlessly, driving his arguments home with a cold efficiency, “yet there were no bodies but those of the cultists themselves. Either they failed to kill even a single one of their attackers, or all other bodies were removed. In either case, that suggests an overwhelming force, and to me, that also suggests collusion. For a large group to even find the hidden shrine, let alone enter it without being detected in time to allow for some sort of escape or defense, would have all but required inside help.”
Alexandre nodded softly. “I can certainly see how that could be, Major. But I fail to see what my Adrienne has to do with it all.”
“One of the dead was Lord Darien Lemarche. I've heard enough ‘gossip,' as you say, to know that he's rarely alone these days—and to know with whom he keeps his company.”
Alexandre's face twisted. “I see.”
“We must find Adrienne Satti, monsieur, preferably before anyone else. She is a suspect, yes. But the Guard, at least, will offer her the chance to defend herself. You know well that when the Houses hear of this, they may well decide she's guilty without benefit of investigation or trial. She must be questioned, and we must know what happened. So please, for all our sakes, including her own, where is she?”
For a very long while, Alexandre Delacroix gazed into the capering flames, his fingers restively twisting a goblet of untouched wine. The light played across his face, his hair, the glass in his hands, creating a mottled, shifting pattern. He seemed a phantasm out of a half-forgotten dream. Claude, in a moment of what was, for him, shocking tenderness, placed a hand on the old man's shoulder and squeezed.
Adrienne realized that she'd been holding her breath, forced herself to take a desperate gasp of air to clear the tightness in her chest and the will-o'-the-wisps that danced before her eyes.
And then, the master of the manor shook his head sadly, his expression utterly defeated.
“I can't tell you where Adrienne might be, Major. I honestly don't know. She slipped out earlier in the evening. Her life is, after all, her own.…” He trailed off. “If I knew,” he finished, his voice steadier if no less saddened, “I would tell you, Major. I'm sorry.”
Adrienne sobbed aloud, just once. None heard her through the window. Between their own voices and the crackling of the fire—and, just perhaps, the subtle efforts of a traumatized god—they remained oblivious.
“…constables to search her room,” she heard Major Chapelle say when she focused, once again, on the voices beyond the window. “They'll be respectful of your property, of course, monsieur, but I'm afraid I must insist. And I'll need to leave a few behind to guard the chamber for a day or two, in case she should return.”
Alexandre nodded shallowly. “Of course,” he conceded in a low monotone. “Claude will show your men where to go.”
“Then,” the major concluded, rising respectfully to his feet and gesturing for his
Guardsmen to do the same, “I'll take up no more of your time. My constables should be here in less than an hour.” He paused, and his expression softened ever so slightly. “For what it's worth, Monsieur Delacroix,” he said, his gruff tone almost gentle, “I'm sorry.”
Claude showed them out, leaving Alexandre to stare at the door that shut behind them. And then he hurled his wine goblet to shatter across the room, buried his face in his hands, and wept until his entire body shook.
Almost blinded by her own tears, Adrienne shimmied down the tree and scaled the back wall of the manor, near the window to her chambers. She paused a moment to wipe her eyes, shoving despair to the back of her mind.
She couldn't do it, couldn't go to him, though her heart screamed his name and her entire body quivered. Even if he trusted in her, even if he would help her—and she believed, to the depths of her soul, that he would—she couldn't ask it. He had too much to lose if he was caught.
In the dark, without the proper tools, it took her an unacceptably long time to jimmy the latch. The window creaked as it swung open, though not so loudly as the frantic pounding of her heart. She slithered inside, leaving flakes of dried blood across the sill.
She had only minutes before the constables would arrive to search the chamber, yet she couldn't bring herself to leave without first stripping the gore-spattered gown from her body, replacing it with the first dark-hued tunic and hose she could find. She wished she had the time to wash, to cleanse the blood from her hair, her hands, her skin…but the quick change of outfits would have to suffice.
Adrienne laid out everything she could carry that might come in handy. A blanket swept from the bed and tied shut at the corners made a passable bag. Five hundred gold marks kept on hand for emergencies, and twice that value again in various jewelry and baubles, landed haphazardly on the blanket, followed by a set of brushes and toiletries, and anything in her wardrobe that didn't blatantly scream “nobility.” And then, without really thinking about it, Adrienne swept up the rapier that leaned against the wall. The ornate basket of silver and brass somehow managed to glint in the dark confines of the bedroom.
The weapon dropped from her slackened fingers, bouncing first from the blanket and then from the bed. Sheer luck prevented it from slamming into the bedposts, where the clatter would assuredly have roused the whole household. Adrienne found herself on her knees, hands clutching her stomach as her entire body was wrenched by deep, soul-racking sobs.
“I can’t! Oh, gods, I can't be alone again! Please…”
Her tear-filled gaze fell again upon the fallen rapier. For a heart-wrenching instant, she seriously considered aiming the tip toward her own breast, ending her anguish in a single, final flash of pain.
Softly, tenderly, she felt a touch on the side of her face. An invisible hand cupped her chin and gently turned her tear-reddened face away from the blade glittering seductively before her. The air came alive, and she felt Olgun's mind brush against her own.
There was no trace, now, of the panic the deity had suffered earlier, no fear or uncertainty in his thoughts. There was only the gentle, calming tide she'd felt before, secure in the confines of his shrine.
And there was need, as well. Olgun—a startlingly weak god, now, but a god nonetheless—needed her. Cared for her. Would never leave her.
She wasn't alone.
Adrienne rose to her feet, drove the rapier into its scabbard without looking, and laid it across the blanket with everything else. She tied her makeshift sack, hefted it from the bed. Within, everything she needed to survive, and nothing but that blade to connect her to the noblewoman she'd been for years. The noblewoman she now left behind.
NOW:
Two years might change a person, but rarely a city. As Widdershins slipped through the darkened alleyways that flowed into Davillon's central marketplace, she couldn't help but remember that hellish night. The sights and sounds and scents were the same. People still shouted their arguments or whispered their black-market deals, and footpads still waylaid lone wanderers through the nighttime streets, taking money and lives.
And demons, Widdershins reminded herself with a shiver, still lurked in the shadows.
She'd escaped the confines of the Finders' Guild with ease—troubling ease, when she thought about it. True, Olgun had indeed remembered their route, guided her through the maze of passages. Still, she'd been certain there would be armed guards waiting at the exit, or skulking in ambush along the way.
But she'd met few Finders, and those she encountered allowed her to pass without incident, either having seen her moments ago with Hubert, or simply assuming that anyone this deep into the guild's headquarters must belong there. And it only got easier still. Near the front door, Widdershins encountered no sign of life, save the pained moans of the woman she'd dumped unceremoniously in the closet. It was just one more worry to add to her growing collection.
She lurked now across the street from the Flippant Witch, and wondered again if she'd been right to come here. Olgun swore he could hide her trail from the creature hunting her, at least for a while. But she knew there were other ways to find her, and she feared she might be putting Genevieve in terrible danger.
All the same, Widdershins felt a desperate need to know that her friend was all right.
“This is stupid,” she berated herself, as she abandoned her hiding spot, flickering across the street in a blur of motion. “I told her to find someplace safe until opening time; she's probably not even in there. Just Robin and the other servants…” Her hand closed on the door's tarnished latch.
“Pardon me, mademoiselle. I wonder if I might impose for a moment of your—”
Considering the evening's prior events, it's perhaps understandable that Widdershins reacted as she did. With a closed fist, she backhanded the speaker across the jaw before he could finish, knocking him from the steps. He landed hard, looking up to find her already standing over him, blade drawn.
“…time,” the young man finished with an audible swallow, his voice rising several octaves, one hand clutched to his bleeding lip.
Widdershins frowned. This gangly, brown-robed youth didn't look much like either a guild assassin or demon conjurer. Nevertheless, she kept her rapier rock-steady against his neck.
“Of course,” he continued nervously, “if that's too much to ask, I'm more than willing to negotiate.”
“Who are you?” Widdershins barked at him. “What do you want?”
“Oh. That is, my name is Brother Maurice. And as far as what I want, well, I imagine that the first priority would be to have your sword just a bit farther from my throat.”
She stepped back, moving the blade away from Maurice's jugular. “Stand up.”
He did so, and it was only then that she finally noticed the tonsure shaved into the top of his head.
Maurice brushed the worst of the dirt from his chest, attempting to salvage some modicum of dignity. He carefully smoothed the front of his robe and met Widdershins eye-to-eye, though he couldn't entirely hide the fear lurking behind his own. Widdershins reluctantly lowered the rapier.
“I wouldn't dream of speaking for you,” the young monk told her, “but I find this arrangement substantially more comfortable.”
“Did you want something, Brother Maurice?” she asked bluntly, eyes darting in all directions. This felt too much like a deliberate distraction.
“My instructions,” he said, taking refuge in duty and orders, “are to deliver to you an invitation. That is, assuming you are the thie—ah, lady called Widdershins?”
Lying just seemed more effort than it was worth at this point.
“Yes, that's me. An invitation from whom? And for what?”
“From the archbishop William de Laurent. Apparently, you made an impression at your first meeting. He's quite anxious to speak with you at your earliest convenience.”
Widdershins blinked. “He…I…Why?”
Maurice shrugged. “I couldn't say. He told me to deliver his request;
he didn't confide his motives, and I don't make it a practice to ask.”
“No, you wouldn't.” Widdershins shook her head, finally sheathing her rapier with a hiss that masked the monk's sigh of relief. “How did you find me, anyway?”
“His Eminence told me what part of town to start with.” The young monk raised his eyes heavenward. “I wouldn't dare speculate on the insights made available to the archbishop in times of need, but I imagine that knowing your name and, uh, profession was helpful. After that, I asked around until someone mentioned that you frequent this establishment.”
“You…you just went around Davillon's poor neighborhoods asking random strangers about a known thief?! You're suicidal, yes? I knew taking the cloth had to do bad things to the brain.”
“The gods watch over me,” Maurice said stiffly. “I was in no danger.”
Widdershins wondered how the man could fit that much naïveté into a frame that skinny. And yet—here he was. Nobody had harmed a hair on his tonsure.
All she could was shrug; given what she'd seen Olgun do, it wasn't as though she had any real standing not to believe. “All right, fine. Is there a particular place he wants to meet me?”
This, Maurice had been warned, was where it could get difficult. “The archbishop, unfortunately, is watched by too many eyes to go anywhere without being noticed. He apologizes for the inconvenience, but he fears you'll have to come to him.”
“At some House estate?” Widdershins's voice could have shattered glass. “Is he insane?!”