by Ari Marmell
It was more than enough to prevent Widdershins's drenched clothes and hair from drying out, and she was starting to feel a bit chafed. She could only imagine how bedraggled she must appear; probably looked like a drowned scarecrow.
Still, cleaning up and changing remained out of the question. She'd been halfway to one of her other boltholes after her talk with Faustine when several questions, previously held at bay by shock and anger, had finally returned to her mind. Questions that Olgun not only couldn't begin to answer but that—judging by the radiating waves of shame—he felt should have occurred to him earlier, too.
“How…? Olgun, how…?”
The words chewed through her mind, even if they refused to reach her throat. How had Lisette known of her connection to Alexandre?!
The Taskmaster had been present during the Apostle's rampage, if not particularly involved. Could she have heard something? Something linking Widdershins to Adrienne Satti, the girl she once was?
But then, if Lisette knew that, why not spread the word? She'd have a lot more people looking for Shins, that way.
“Okay,” she breathed. “We'll come back to that.” Mostly because if she remained focused on it now, she might just panic. “Let's look at more practical stuff.”
Practical stuff such as…Leaving alone the question of how she'd found the various boltholes, how in the name of Banin's backside had Lisette known which of them we'd use when she returned? Even I didn't know! How had she known where to leave the bod—Alexandre?
That Lisette was, indeed, the one responsible, Widdershins never questioned. The timing and the sheer inhuman cruelty of the act both fit too well. Their first question, in turn, had led god and worshipper both to another, even more awful.
What if she hadn't known which apartment to pick?
Shins had immediately changed course, crossing half the length of Davillon. First to a smaller cemetery, where the Guard buried their own when no family plot or crypt awaited. Then here, to a much larger graveyard, on whose winding paths Shins had walked so many times.
The plot was unrecognizable when she finally reached it. The many flowers and flourishing vines, growing things that never faded in even the harshest winters thanks to Olgun's divine touch, had been ripped from their roots and left to rot. The stone itself was defaced, cracked across the front by some sort of hammer or heavy blow. And, just like the grave of Julien Bouniard—the reason she'd gone to the smaller cemetery that morning—this one wore a thick layer of soil clearly fresher and far more recent than it should be.
As though the burial had occurred weeks ago, not well over a year.
The desecration, too, appeared roughly that old. The interior of the broken stone remained bright and relatively clean; those portions of dead foliage that hadn't rotted or blown completely away were slowly decomposing into soggy sludge.
Shins knelt beside the grave, her knee sinking into the mud with a sort of squelch. She carefully lifted the rotting remains of what had been a lush rose, held it briefly in her palm before squeezing shut her fist and letting it dribble between her fingers. Even the rage she'd been stoking had faded, leaving nothing but an empty, numbing chill.
“Olgun? Groundskeeper?”
She felt a faint tug, nodded, and rose to follow.
He wasn't that hard to find, though; Shins probably could have managed it without Olgun's hints. Opposite the main gate, the cemetery's far end had been recently expanded. The earth still showed a few open wounds where the walls had been partly dismantled and moved, and whole rows of graves were obviously fresh. The caretaker—for that is what Shins assumed the ashen-haired older man in the beat-up woolens to be—leaned wearily on a spade and watched a band of workers digging up yet another new plot some yards distant. Shins didn't envy them their task, not with the earth both drenched by the weather and packed down hard by so many feet over the past weeks. The scent of loam in the air was so thick, Shins was surprised it didn't disturb the occupants.
She made no effort to conceal her approach, and the groundskeeper turned to greet her at the sound of her footsteps. “What can I do for you, madamois—?”
“The Marguilles grave. What happened to it?”
“Happened? I'm afraid I don't know what—”
Widdershins heaved a sigh so deep, it could itself have come from one of the coffins. “Are we really going to do this? Genevieve Marguilles was my friend. I've been to her graveside more times than you could count without undressing. So spare me the fake ignorance, yes?”
Straightening to his full height, he scowled down at her. “As we're digging so many new plots,” he said primly, “we decided to take the opportunity to touch up a few of the older ones, where time and weather had begun to—”
“The face-saving cover story now? What, do you have a checklist to run through? Just tell me the truth, for figs’ sake!”
“Stop interrupting! Mademoiselle, I don't know where you learned your manners—”
“Her body's missing, isn't it? Someone dug her up. And this cemetery's not the only place it happened.”
The panic in the old man's eyes and the brief stammer before he could manage an indignant “I've never heard such nonsense!” were more than evidence enough.
“Thanks,” she called as she began to walk away. She'd covered perhaps three or four paces when he called out to her.
“Mademoiselle, wait!” Although tempted to ignore him, she stopped long enough for him to catch up. “Please,” he said, hoarse and quiet. “I've no idea how you found out, but you can't tell anyone! Everyone's scared and upset enough as it is. If word of this should spread…”
“How bad are things?” she asked. Then, at his baffled look, “I'm only just back in town.” She waved a hand at the new expansion. “Frankly, and no offense, but yours isn't a business I like to see thriving.”
It was his turn to sigh, that peculiar mix of exasperation and sorrow that only people old enough to speak seriously of the “good old days” could muster. “Crime's gotten awful, the Guard can't handle it, and the house soldiers ‘helping keep the peace’ are sparring with political rivals as much as anyone else. I've never seen the like. And that's not even counting…”
“Counting what?” she prodded when it became clear he had no plans to continue.
“Oh, the usual rumors. Sort you get every time there's civil unrest. Only, well, there's an awful lot of them this time.”
Teeth grinding in her impatience, she prodded again. “Rumors of?”
“Well, some folks are saying that there's something supernatural stalking the streets. Lot like it was last summer…”
Olgun gibbered something that even Shins found incomprehensible.
“Uh, thanks,” Shins said again to the groundskeeper, then broke into a steady jog, headed for the gate. She swiftly left the old man behind, shouting after her not to tell anyone.
“Yeah,” she muttered, “that's a good way to keep a secret.”
More frightened blather from her god.
“Oh, calm down! It's just another of Lisette's tricks. Taking advantage of something she knows frightens people. Vile, nasty frog of a woman. I should have killed her the first time.”
Quivering, almost childish uncertainty.
“Well, maybe it is. But even if she found a way to summon something, it still starts and ends with her. This is not going to be like Iru—like before.”
Olgun didn't sound—well, feel—convinced, but he let it drop. Instead, after Shins had cleared the gate and made an abrupt turn down a nearby road, he wafted a question across her mind.
“No!” She skidded to a halt, took a moment to catch her breath, which had abruptly grown sharp and ragged. “No,” she repeated, “we are not going anywhere near any of the flats. We already know what we're going to find there, and I can't…no. No place to sleep, and no time. You'll just have to keep me going until we're done.”
Perhaps she was being foolish, at that. Gods knew she could use some rest after the last coupl
e of days, and while Lisette was no great threat one-on-one—Shins had full-well proven that once already—there was no telling how hard she might be to get to.
But Widdershins absolutely could not face the idea of returning to any of her boltholes. The thought of having to confront Gen or Julien, finding them in the same state as Alexandre…no. She'd had far, far too much. She was tired of death.
Well, except for one upcoming death in particular…
Widdershins sat on the wet rooftop, legs dangling off the side, and carefully cleaned the diluted blood from her rapier with a bit of torn cloth. Beneath her, in an alley ankle-deep in old rainwater and the “juice” of various garbage heaps, groaned and whimpered a trio of disreputable men who would all live—assuming none of their injuries grew too badly infected—but would probably never walk normally again.
She hadn't meant for it to go this way. Once night had again fallen and she'd succeeded in locating a roving gang she recognized as Finders, the plan had been for Widdershins to tail them, observe all she could about the new behaviors of the Guild, hopefully eavesdrop enough to learn some of what was going on in the halls of underground power.
Said plan had survived exactly as long as it took the robbers to find their first victims. When it became clear that the young couple's money was not all the gang was after, that they wouldn't be content without bloodshed or even worse, Shins hadn't been able to stand by.
The result, thanks to the element of surprise and Olgun's power, had been three mangled Finders and three healthy people—the couple and the fourth man of what had been a quartet of brigands—fleeing into the night.
“Wasn't an accident,” Shins explained to her curious partner, shifting along the ledge in a futile effort to find a spot where she could still observe the wounded below yet wasn't soaking her backside in a puddle. “I wanted him to get away.
“Oh, I did so! Why would I make up—what?! Right, like I'm going to lie to make you think better of me. You already know I mess up a lot, so why…wait, that's not what I…oh, horsebubbles.”
After a few moments, when the tiny deity finally stopped laughing, Shins continued. “As I was saying,” she growled, “I don't think he got a good look at me. He just knows someone turned his friends into a hedgehog's bedsheets. Since these guys aren't really in any good shape to talk to me, and they probably don't know much anyway, I figure, let their friend come back with someone more important and less, um, bleedy.
“And don't even think of trying to tell me that's not a real word, either. You don't talk. You don't get a say in how words work.”
This continued for some time, punctuated by the moans from below. Shins was just in the process of actually defining the word “word” for Olgun's edification when he abruptly alerted her to someone's approach.
“All right. If you'd be so kind?”
The night grew brighter, the sounds sharper. She could hear them clearly, now, the slap of boots, the dull thump of sheathed blades against hips and thighs. “Heh. Guess they're coming prepared. I wonder how many people he said it took to flatten his team?”
Olgun snickered.
The gang finally reached the alleyway, led by the man who'd escaped earlier. Shins got ten at a quick head count, more than she really wanted to take on even with Olgun's help. More to the point, though, she also recognized one of those heads: bald as a snake's bottom, sitting atop a leather-clad body built more like a bear or a gorilla than a man.
“Well, well. Taskmaster Remy Privott, himself. I guess not all the gods are annoyed with me yet.”
She merely sniffed, then, at her own god's response, which translated roughly to Give them time.
It really was a stroke of luck, though. Second only to the Shrouded Lord—or the woman who'd taken his place, presuming Lisette hadn't drastically rearranged the Finders’ hierarchy—the Taskmaster would be privy to nearly everything happening within the Guild. She just needed the opportunity to ask the right questions….
She grinned, wide and vicious, as a thought occurred. “Your ears are still better than mine,” she whispered. “Are there any Guard or house patrols nearby?”
Considering how many she'd seen the prior night, she'd have been surprised if he told her there weren't.
She was not surprised.
“All right. Wait for it…”
At Remy's gruff instruction, several of the Finders moved deep into niches between buildings, kneeling to check on their injured compatriots. Several others stood at the mouth of the alleyway, hands dropping to the hilts of daggers, swords…or flintlocks.
“That one,” she whispered.
The weapon all but detonated, the catastrophic misfire warping metal and splitting the wooden stock clear from end to end. The explosive crack echoed through the Davillon night, as did the piercing shriek—more startled than pained but certainly made up of both—from the man who owned the gun.
Every man and woman in the alley had spun about or leapt to their feet, weapons drawn and hearts pounding. Remy wasn't even remotely finished cursing when, even without the divine aid that Widdershins enjoyed, the lot of them could clearly hear the shouts and rapid steps of an approaching patrol, drawn by the gunfire.
Shins knew exactly what was coming next. She was counting on it.
“Scatter!” the taskmaster hissed. The Finders obeyed, vanishing—alone or in pairs—in every direction. And it was, indeed, every direction. While most of the group remained on the streets, several of them began scaling the sides of nearby structures, as others sought shelter within.
Only one of them mattered.
Remy scrambled up the building next to the one on which Shins was perched, accompanied by a scraggly, unshaven thief who would have to clean up to aspire to “weaselly.” With impressive stealth, they jogged along the rooftops at a low crouch, hopping the narrow gaps between neighboring eaves, leaving the scene rapidly behind.
Widdershins found it laughably easy to keep up.
It would have been nice if the taskmaster had scampered off alone, but apparently her luck wasn't to be that good. Now she'd have to make him alone.
“Ah, well. What's one more injured thief? Safer streets, yes?”
Olgun pointed out that she really didn't need any more enemies in the Guild, but since she was already quite well aware of that, she ignored it. Instead, she said, “Going to need some extra speed and a boost here.”
The next obstacle Remy and his companion would have to clear was a street, not an alleyway, albeit a narrow one. It was a tricky jump to make, but not too difficult, certainly not for men with their training and experience.
Just as the two of them neared that edge, Widdershins's run turned into an impossible sprint. Inhumanly steady on the rickety roof, hair and hood flying behind her in the wind of her own motion, she closed the distance in a matter of heartbeats. When her quarry leapt, she was only steps behind them.
She felt Olgun's presence beneath her, propelling her up and out with her last step so that she soared through the open air, higher and far faster, than the others. She tucked her knees tight to her chest, giving herself just enough room to pass over the head of Remy's companion.
Then, still in midair, she kicked down hard with both feet.
The not-quite-weasel screamed at the sharp impact on his shoulders, the bone-shaking jolt as he was suddenly propelled downward. Shins's kick did not, of course, substantially alter his forward momentum, so that same scream ceased just as abruptly as he slammed face-first into the wall just below his intended landing point.
Neither that impact, nor the subsequent fall, should prove fatal, but when he finally woke up, he was going to seriously envy his friends back in the alley, who had merely been stabbed a few times.
Given the Guild's recent activities and behavior, Shins found herself remarkably guilt-free regarding the whole endeavor.
Thanks to Olgun's divine boost, Shins landed on the far roof a fraction of a second ahead of Remy. It was more than enough, especially sinc
e his brain still hadn't fully processed what was happening. The young woman dropped into a low crouch and spun, one leg extended, sweeping the larger man's ankles out from under him even as they had just begun to touch down. The taskmaster toppled forward—no, more than toppled, practically pivoted in space, so that he slammed to the roof face and chest down, his legs protruding over the edge. Shins gave him a helpful nudge with the toe of her boot; not enough to send him over, just to make him slide, forcing him to clutch at the rooftop with both hands to keep himself from a painful plummet.
He could, of course, have hauled himself back up—Remy was nothing if not a powerful man—had he not looked up to find the tip of Widdershins's rapier hovering about two inches from his nose.
“As I don't actually have any plans to stab you tonight,” she told him, “I'm going to be very put out if you impale your face on my sword. Talk about rude.”
“Well,” he wheezed, wincing at what she had to assume was a spreading pain in his ribs, “I wouldn't want to put you out, would I?”
“Exactly! It's so nice to understand one's colleagues.”
“I'm sure. When did you get back in town?”
Widdershins's gawp of disbelief was only partly exaggerated. “Really? That's the question you want to lead with under these circumstances?”
Remy started to shrug, then froze as he slid a few more inches back with the gesture. “I don't figure threatening you's gonna do me any good right now—though you are going to regret this—and you're going to tell me what you want when you damn well feel like it, anyway.”
“Fair.” Widdershins dropped to her haunches, her blade still steady. “I think you know my first question.”
He didn't even bother to equivocate. “Yes, Lisette's back. And yes, she's in charge now.”
“What happened to the old Shrouded Lord?”
“Gods only know. I…. Look, if this is going to be a long talk, can I pull myself up? My arms hurt.”
“I guess you'd better make sure it's not a long talk, then.”
The taskmaster growled at that, but they both knew it was empty.