by Ari Marmell
“So, out with it!” This from Charles Doumerge, the Baron d'Orreille, a limp-postured and limper-haired dishrag of a nobleman, who, it was commonly accepted, must have had a weasel, or some form of large rodent, in his ancestry. “Now that you've blackmailed us all into coming here, you could at least be prompt.”
“Blackmail?” Sicard asked innocently. “I merely made a request of you all, as the civic leaders of our fair city.”
“Laying it on a bit thick, Your Eminence,” Beatrice Luchene warned, not without a touch of humor.
“Ah. Apologies, Your Grace. If you'll permit me just one more moment's unpleasant business…. Guards?”
Backs and halberds snapped to attention, and most of the nobles couldn't help but flinch.
The bishop glanced down at a small scrap of paper, mumbling to himself, then nodded. “Him,” he said, pointing to one of the guests, who had now gone far more than fashionably pale. “Him. Her. Her. And…” His finger ended its ragged course aimed directly at Doumerge. “Him.”
“Now just a minute—!” the baron began.
“Would you kindly escort these five madames and monsieurs to my office? And keep them there until I instruct otherwise?”
Multiple voices shouted protests, Doumerge's only one among them. Even several of the House worthies who had not been named decried this bizarre treatment of their own.
“We can hardly discuss how to deal with conspiracy,” Sicard boomed, cutting everyone off short, “with conspirators actually present, can we?”
Everyone but the select five went silent, and amidst those five, protests and expressions had gone wan indeed. Surely, when Sicard had singled out everyone present who represented a House that had refused to put armsmen on the streets, they must have known he was on to them. Nonetheless, they were unprepared for the direct accusation—no, not even accusation, announcement, for it contained no trace of doubt.
A bit more shouting and other chaos ensued, but when all was said and done, the gathering was smaller by five participants, and the Church soldiers’ intimidating reputation remained fully intact.
“The gentlefolk I've just had removed,” Sicard told those who remained, “represent only a portion of a larger plot. Quite a few of the smaller Houses are engaged in all manner of illicit activities. It's important that you—”
“I cannot help but notice,” observed one Baron Merchand, a slightly rotund but imposingly tall fellow who always seemed quite jovial—until his temper flared, “that our five absent colleagues all represent Houses whose priests claim to be able to protect their people, and the citizens of Davillon, from unnatural threats that the Church cannot. If, as I suspect, you are about to name the other such houses as collaborators in this conspiracy of yours, Your Eminence, I should warn you that you may find the rest of us a dubious audience.”
“Do you truly believe, Monsieur, that I would concoct a charge against any of the city's nobles, in the midst of the present crises, purely to remove political rivals?”
Merchand's heavy-lidded expression was more than answer enough.
The bishop sighed, wandered over to the icon of the Eternal Eye, kissed his fingertips, and then lightly brushed them against the holy symbol. “We thought you might feel that way,” he admitted. “Which is why I will not be the one telling you of this.”
He waved broadly at one of the doorways. The nearest soldier responded to the obvious signal, hauling open the door and admitting three newcomers, only one of whom was garbed quite as nicely as the attending aristocrats.
“Igraine Vernadoe,” Sicard announced, “is a priestess in good standing with the Mother Church. Monsieur Lambert is…a concerned citizen with certain useful contacts. And I believe many of you already know Evrard d'Arras.”
The first two inclined their heads in respectful greeting; the third swept his hat from his head and offered a full bow from the waist.
The trio quickly delved into a basic (and heavily edited) summary of Lisette's schemes. Unfortunately, even with Evrard doing most of the talking, his fellow aristocrats weren't buying a word of it.
They didn't trust the source; the d'Arras scion could have political ambitions, the priestess answered to Sicard, and they knew absolutely nothing about Renard.
They didn't believe anyone could have the power or influence to do what they claimed Lisette had done, certainly not without them becoming aware of it. It was too far-fetched, too crazy.
And they scoffed overtly at tales of the Gloaming Court or monsters on the roads beyond Davillon. Many still refused to believe that anything supernatural had happened during last year's so-called Iruoch affair, and even those who did dismissed the possibility of such a thing happening again. It went against all odds.
It was this environment that Shins casually walked into, the bruised and unconscious commandant of the Guard slung over her shoulder like a sack of bearded, possessed, and mildly drooling potatoes.
The sudden rumble of shock and anger from the assembly only grew louder still when she dumped the guardsman in a heap on the floor at Sicard's feet.
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” she forced out between heaving breaths. “But in my defense, he's really heavy!”
“What in the gods’ names have you done to him?!” demanded one of the nobles, a stooped old man whose name and House Widdershins didn't know.
“Jumped up and down on him, punched him in the face, and shoved herbs down his throat. Why, what did you think I'd done to him?”
In the stunned silence that followed, Shins turned to face the bishop. “We were…interrupted,” she said softly. “Six of his guardsmen. They thought…well, you can imagine.”
Sicard's face went paler than his ecclesiastical robe. “You didn't—!”
“Nobody's dead, Sicard. But I had to…” Her shoulders slumped. “I did my best, I really did. But I don't think a few of them are going to be able to work in the Guard anymore. You'll make sure…?”
“The Church will see that they and their families don't go wanting, yes. I know you did all you could.”
“Yeah. Be nice if it was enough one of these days.”
“Widdershins…they made this necessary. Suvagne and her unholy allies are responsible for this. Not you.”
“Great. Maybe they can come help clean the blood off their sword. This man,” she said more loudly, turning from the bishop before he could speak again, “is not who you think he is. Or rather, he is who you think he is, but he's also not who you think he is.”
Dead silence. Narrowed glares.
“Well, how would you have phrased it?” she whispered to Olgun, before speaking aloud again. “Commandant Archibeque hasn't been in control of his own actions for some time. He's been possessed, by a creature of the Gloaming Court.”
“Your Eminence…” Duchess Luchene rose from her seat, carrying what appeared to be all two or three hundred yards of fancy gown and train with her. “I've no idea what you think you're doing, but I believe I've had just about enough—”
“Your Grace,” Shins interrupted, “with every last ounce of due respect, I think you need to lose some of that mountain of hair. Your brain's suffocating.”
The gasps from before her were insufficient to drown out the slap of several hands against several foreheads behind her.
“Am I the only one,” she continued while the noblewoman's outrage was still more rage but less out, “who remembers what happened to this city last year? Iruoch wasn't exactly likeable, but I thought he was pretty boiling well memorable.”
“Mademoiselle,” Luchene intoned, quite clearly using the term as a synonym for lowborn ill-mannered little bitch, “this is my city. The duchy of Davillon has been my family's to oversee since before there was a city by that name. Don't you dare insinuate that I might simply forget something as awful as the events of last year!
“But the notion that it was truly some supernatural creature, despite what many of the witnesses believe they saw—”
“I lost someone I cared abo
ut very deeply to Iruoch. I watched him die. Through the magics we used to try to kill that creature, I felt him die. And less than a week ago, I was tortured almost to death by one of Iruoch's lovely cousins. Not so much of a family resemblance, really, but they share certain hobbies.
“So don't you dare tell me these things aren't real!”
“As it happens,” Sicard cut in before Shins could talk herself out of a potential ally (or into a potential noose), “we have both a means of proving to you that these creatures have come to Davillon and a weapon against them. Faith and divinity are anathema to the entities of the Gloaming Court.”
“Commandant Archibeque,” Luchene said stiffly, “appears to be lying in a sanctuary of the Hallowed Pact without bursting into flame.”
“Because, as with anything to do with faith,” the bishop explained, “a symbol is only as powerful as the belief behind it.” So saying, he knelt at Archibeque's side, drawing an amulet from around his neck. Gleaming in the light of the lone chandelier, it was a smaller version of the Eternal Eye on the wall—only this one was pure silver.
He cast a single glance at Shins, one she interpreted as You better be right about this, and then pressed the icon to the commandant's chest. His head bowed, his lips began shaping themselves around muttered prayers.
“I think,” Baron Merchand began, “that we've all had just about enough of—”
Archibeque screamed. Or rather, something inside him did.
This was no human voice, for all that it issued from a human throat. No, not it, them. Two separate voices, coiling and sliding around one another. One was high, piercing, enough to make everyone in the room clasp hands over ears; the other deep enough to feel through the floor.
An awful stench, some foul combination of peppermint, rotting oranges, and bile, seared nostrils and lungs. Dull black sludge welled up from within the commandant's mouth, bubbling and oozing before it began to drip down the side of his face—and then trailed away into a wisp of smoky shadow.
“I'll need rather more time,” Sicard said, breathing heavily, “as well as the assistance of other priests, to drive the intruding spirit from him. But I trust you've seen enough?”
When nobody claimed otherwise—although that could just as easily have been because they still stared in fascinated horror at the sprawled guardsmen as because they agreed with him—he continued, “I've taken the liberty of summoning the most senior of your House priests. I had messengers waiting; they departed the moment mass adjourned. They can confirm for you that what you've just seen was no trickery.
“I also require them because my under-priests and I aren't sufficient to make up a formal quorum, but we'll discuss that later.”
The duchess, and her portable house made of dress, returned to her seat, beckoning the others to follow. “Perhaps you had better tell us your story and your theories again. I'm sure that Mademoiselle…?”
The cue was an obvious one. “Widdershins. My name is Widdershins.”
“Ah.”
Ah? What does she mean “Ah”? This is not a good “Ah.” I don't like it.
“Your, um, Your Grace, about before…”
“If what you said is true, you've been through a great deal. I'm willing to dismiss it as heat of the moment.”
Oh, are you? You're so kind…
“As I was saying,” Luchene continued, “I'm sure Mademoiselle Widdershins can add all manner of fascinating details to what the others have already told us.”
Oh, you have no idea…
Widdershins took a deep breath and launched into the nightmare that the past week had become.
To say the aristocrats appeared skeptical when her recitation wound to a close would have been rather an understatement. Narrowed glares, furtive whispers, and furrowed brows all suggested a rather distinct lack of credulity. At the same time, they hadn't dismissed her outright. Partly because she had the backing of the bishop and Evrard d'Arras, of course, and partly due to what they'd seen moments before. Still, Widdershins found herself more nervous than if they'd simply declared her crazy, a liar, or a crazy liar.
“I'm not liking this, Olgun…”
The duchess raised one imperious hand, and the muttered conversations ceased as though neatly beheaded. “You understand why we might have some difficulty with this tale?” she asked.
Shins nodded. “I only believe me because I was there to see me go through it.”
A faint quirk of the lips was the nearest thing to a smile Luchene appeared willing to part with. “I think,” she said—and though she hadn't turned, everyone present knew she was addressing the lot of them, not the thief alone—“that many of us have heard some of the whispers and rumors. Gossip among the servants and the guards, both, about the mysterious Widdershins and her unusual skills.”
And while several of the nobles looked nothing but puzzled, a good half of them nodded in agreement.
If she had stumbled out of bed and, two-thirds asleep, planted herself on a chamber pot sculpted entirely of snow, Widdershins might have been as shocked, as chilled, as she was now. She actually fought with her own body, her own nerves and instincts, to keep from fleeing the room. Olgun assisted as much as he could, but the bulk of his willpower was devoted toward keeping himself from the edge of panic.
It…made sense, though, as much as she hated the idea. People were bound to notice, especially once she'd gotten caught up in (or hurled herself into) city-wide incidents such as the Apostle's schemes or the Iruoch affair. It had just never so much as crossed her mind that said rumors would make their way any higher than the street.
Of course, it's not like I haven't robbed most of the people sitting here, at one time or another…
“Well,” she told Olgun, voice shaking until it almost crumbled, “that explains her earlier ‘Ah.’”
Her divine companion did not appear to take much solace in that.
“I'm…flattered?” she squeaked out, some ten or eleven years later.
“Don't be flattered. Show me.”
“I…what?!”
“Show us,” Luchene commanded. “Let us see that these vaunted abilities aren't just some trick. That you know what you speak of, where the supernatural is concerned.”
“You want me to put on a performance for you? Do I get to keep my clothes on?”
“Widdershins!” Sicard, Igraine, Evrard, and Renard barked in unison.
“Someday, Your Grace, I'm going to ask you to order them to tell me when they find the time to practice that.” Widdershins sighed melodramatically. “Fine. Sica—uh, Your Eminence?”
“Hmm?” Sicard asked in response.
Shins moved to stand beside him beneath the Eternal Eye, at the center of everyone's attention. “You have soldiers standing guard elsewhere in the Basilica than just this room, yes?”
“Indeed.”
“Would you please send someone to tell them that what they're about to hear is a demonstration, and there's no need to come running? And especially no need to come shooting or stabbing?”
The bishop's suspicious glower was not the only one to fall upon her, then, but he waved one of the guards to go deliver the message. The few minutes it took him to make the rounds and return were spent largely in silence, with everyone smiling awkwardly at everyone else.
Well, almost in silence. Shins did take the opportunity to fill Olgun in on what she had in mind.
The moment the soldier returned, the door shutting behind him with a dull click, Shins said, “All right.” She twisted, pointed a finger toward one of the other soldiers, a man stationed near the rear of the sanctuary—and who, she'd made a point to note, was wearing his flintlock in such a way that a misfire would strike the carpet, as opposed to his foot or perhaps a neighbor. “Him!”
Olgun's power flowed, a single spark sizzled, and the weapon fired.
Those in the assembly who hadn't already begun to turn that way when Widdershins pointed certainly did so now, jumping in their seats or at their posts
. Guards and more than a few of the aristocrats reached for weapons, while the lone soldier whose gun Olgun had triggered could only gawk, at it and at them, in almost puppy-like confusion.
As the burnt sulfur scent wafted through the room, Luchene turned back around in her seat. “All right, Widdershins, that's a…”
More whispers and mutters, then, as everyone intently studied the spot next to Sicard where Shins had stood an instant before.
“Up here!”
Crouched atop the chandelier, Shins gave them all a jaunty wave.
“Assuming it's not too much trouble, Your Eminence,” she continued, “if you would just pass my compliments on to the architect and craftsmen? I don't think this chain—” and here she flicked said chain, a great brass monstrosity that held the fixture in place, “—even noticed my weight.”
“Uh…the Basilica's almost a hundred years old. The folks who built it are rather long dead.”
“Oh. Well, then, you should know where to find them.”
“How did you get up there?!” one of the aristocrats squawked. “There's nothing to climb!”
“Noticed that, did you? That's why I didn't climb. I jumped.”
“Preposterous!”
“I'm here, aren't I?”
“Yes, but…you, but…I…”
Baron Merchand rubbed at his chin. “You didn't even disturb any of the lanterns.”
“Well, I don't know about that. This one here seemed right annoyed at me.”
Luchene shook her head, creating an odd ripple effect when the upper coils of her hair seemed to hesitate for an instant before following. “If you'd come down, now?”
Shins stepped between two branches of the chandelier and dropped. She was once again at Sicard's side, clearly none the worse for wear, before the various gasps had entirely ceased.
“So,” she said, “will that do? Can we get on with this, or do I need to jump through hoops and fetch a stick?”
“Widdershins…” The duchess stood and trundled her heavily swaddled way to the front of the chamber. “We've all seen that there's something—unnatural—in the body of Commandant Archibeque. We've seen your abilities, or a hint of them. Our House priests are apparently on their way—and you've still to explain that little breach in decorum, Your Eminence,” she added with a sharp look at Sicard. “—and I'm fairly certain, at this point, that they will confirm what he has to say, about Archibeque and about you.”