Covenant's End

by Ari Marmell

  Paschal was already sweeping into the darkened room, slipping aside to clear the doorway, when the room flickered and barked with the sound of a single shot. Constable d'Ilse cried out from behind him; no way to tell how bad it was, though the fact that she kept up a string of muttered expletives was proof enough, at least, that the wound hadn't been lethal. The others should come bursting in, drawn by the sound of trouble, but the major had no attention for them, either.

  No, his focus fixed entirely on the brass barrel of his flintlock, and the enemy—crouching low by a door in the far wall—at the end of it.

  He returned fire, the thunder even more deafening than before, and then the enemy was lying by the door in the far wall. Except for small bits of his shoulder, which were splattered across it.

  The injured man screamed; the injured woman cursed a bit more before subsiding into the raspy breathing of suppressed agony. Colliers knelt beside her, treating the wound as best he could, while Reno moved quickly to secure the prisoner—not that he was apt to go anywhere any time soon.

  Which left Paschal to check that far door. None of the other offices he'd seen in this hall had a second door….

  Narrower than the exit to the hallway, it was otherwise functionally identical. The major slammed it open, charging in with rapier in hand…

  A massive shape loomed from the shadows, a tall and barrel-thick figure wielding an equally massive pistol.

  Idiot. Gods damned bloody idiot! “Nobody by themselves!” I'd have a constable on latrine duty for pulling something like this!

  Paschal crossed the distance between them in a desperate lunge, blade outstretched—a blade the colossal thief sidestepped with ease—his other hand grabbing for the gun even as it fired…

  “Ow! Gods bloody dammit!”

  The pain was sharp, biting, sending tingles of aggravation throughout his entire arm. Still, it was preferable to having been shot. He and the large-framed Finder both stared for an instant at the flintlock—and the flint clasped in the hammer, which had come down not on the striker but on the web of flesh between Paschal's thumb and forefinger.

  Laremy Privott, Taskmaster of the Finders’ Guild—now, up close, Paschal recognized the snake-bald head and apish body from prior encounters—grunted something vaguely disbelieving but otherwise unintelligible, then said, “You have got to be shitting me.”

  “I am as shat as you are,” Paschal said, even as he grabbed desperately for a weapon with his free hand. Not his rapier; this close in, it'd be awkward to the point of useless. No, the guardsman dropped his longer blade and went for his dagger, a heavy-basketed main gauche. Went for it and got nowhere near it, as a vise pretending to be a fist clamped down hard enough to grind the bones of his wrist together. He couldn't help but gasp between his teeth in pain.

  They staggered about the inner office, slamming one another into walls and furniture, locked in this peculiar duel. Paschal could not risk releasing his grip on the flintlock, agonizing as it was; Privott couldn't relax his own hold without being stabbed.

  In better shape than most, Paschal still had no doubt that this was a contest in which he could only come out second best. Privott, judging by his mocking grin, knew it, too.

  “Anything you want to say before I tie a pretty little bow in your spine?”

  “Actually…yes,” he answered between grunts. “You're…under arrest.”

  The taskmaster chortled.

  “You can surrender…to me now,” Paschal croaked on, “or you can…kill me and then…be shot dead by my people…in the next room.”

  Privott froze. “You're bluffing.”

  “No,” d'Ilse rasped from the doorway, voice firm despite the obvious pain it carried. “He's not.”

  She and the other two soldiers stood or crouched, leaning around the doorjamb to aim bash-bangs at the struggling pair.

  “Were you waiting…for an invitation?” Paschal asked them, still bent halfway backward.

  “Didn't seem desperate enough to try shooting through you, yet, sir.”

  “The consideration is appreciated.” The major looked up into the Finder's eyes, which were now darting side to side, seeking an escape that didn't exist. “You could try taking me hostage, of course,” he said, his breath slowing. “That might get you past those three. But there are a lot more of us in the hall. Nowhere you can turn where you won't be exposing your back to someone.

  “How loyal are you to Suvagne, Privott? Are you ready to martyr yourself for her?”

  The hefty fellow slowly straightened, releasing his grip on both his opponent's wrist and the flintlock (the latter of which Paschal gingerly detached from his throbbing and already bruising skin). “I believe, officer” he said, “I'd like to turn myself in.

  “You don't want to do that.”

  Muskets and flintlocks hung on the walls and in racks throughout the chamber. Crossbows sat, unstrung but otherwise ready to go, on the shelves of massive cases. Swords and daggers, some on those selfsame shelves, some standing upright in stands, smelled heavily of oil. And from behind an iron-shod door, currently standing ajar, drifted the pungent and sulfuric scent of black powder.

  Nearly a score of Finders occupied the Guild armory, gathering up weapons and equipment, and all of them stopped to stare as Igraine Vernadoe stepped calmly through the chamber's outer door.

  “It's not too late,” she continued. The priestess paused, ensuring all attention was on her, before she resumed her casual stroll through the armory. “You can still return to the Shrouded God's grace.”

  “Like you?” one of the men spat “By siding with the fucking Guard?! You're a traitor! You're—”

  “The Shrouded God utilizes what tools he needs, Pierre. The Finders’ Guild is currently under the thumb of an apostate, who has dismantled our priesthood and banished our most senior members. Do you truly believe that our god will let such an affront stand?”

  “We're not a church!” the other—Pierre—snapped back. “Suvagne's made us more profitable than we ever were under the Shrouded Lord or your god!”

  Rumbles of agreement from more than a few of those present, but Igraine could see, as well, the doubt and hesitation in the faces of many.

  “Lay down your weapons,” she commanded. “Merely being present here isn't a crime. Most of those arrested by the Guard will be free in a matter of days and can assist in rebuilding the Guild into what it should be.

  “Or you can fight, and possibly die, on behalf of the true traitor among us. Even if, by some stroke of fortune, you were to prove victorious, how long do you believe you can survive this life without the Shrouded God's approval?”

  By now, she had crossed the armory, wending her way between the racks and the shelves and the indecisive thieves, so that she stood near the door to the powder chamber. Even those who seemed unmoved by her words hadn't yet made any move against her, as she'd known they wouldn't. Perhaps they'd turned their backs on the Shrouded God, but they would still hesitate to murder one of his priestesses within the walls of the Finders’ Guild.

  Hesitate, but not necessarily refuse. Pierre and several of the others raised their weapons.

  “You're standing with the Guard, against Finders. In my book, that's a lot more treasonous than anything you're blathering about.”

  “Then we shall prove it. All of you willing to hear me out, please seat yourselves upon the floor.”

  Confused glances and worried murmurs followed, but a small number of the thieves did, indeed, sit down.

  “So few? A shame.”

  Pierre grinned nastily. “I think you're done here, Vernadoe.”

  “Yes. Yes, I suppose I am.”

  She ducked suddenly behind the armored door as the Guards in the hall, who'd crept up on the armory while she'd held the Finders’ attentions, opened fire.

  Opened fire over the heads of those few thieves who had been wise enough to heed the warnings of their priestess.

  “You realize you just wasted your time and she
d blood for nothing, right?” Although manacled and on his knees, the presence of so many of his brethren—equally restrained—had apparently reignited some of Laremy Privott's defiant streak. “Even if all this shit was legal without Commandant Archibeque's orders—”

  And how did he know that, I wonder? Paschal mused, not really wondering at all.

  “—the Church is going to crawl all the way up your asses and kick them from inside, for violating the laws of the Hallowed—”

  Paschal cleared his throat and held out an open palm. One of his constables immediately slapped a coiled scroll into it. The major examined it, turned it around so Privott could see the seals of both House Luchene and the Church of the Hallowed Pact. Snapping them both with one thumb, Paschal flipped the scroll open—with, he would admit, a totally unnecessary flourish—and began to read.

  “Whereas Beatrice Luchene, the Duchess Davillon, has executed her legal right under emergency powers and claimed full ducal jurisdiction over Davillon and its official entities, including the City Guard….” That last bit wasn't actually written; the major just wanted to make sure it was quite clear.

  Ignoring the low muttering, he continued, “And whereas, in response to its actions in expelling its senior priesthood and turning from communal worship of the Shrouded God, His Eminence Sicard—in concert with a legal quorum of fourteen ordained priests—has declared the establishment known as the Finders’ Guild to no longer fall under the protections granted religious institutions of the Hallowed Pact—”

  He didn't bother to read any further; nobody could have heard him over the roar of protesting disbelief, anyway.

  “You can't do that!” Privott finally shouted when the noise level had subsided to only almost bone-breaking. “Not even the bishop has the authority to make that sort of declaration.”

  It was not Paschal who answered, but Igraine Vernadoe, slipping out from behind the front rank to crouch before the flushed and sweating taskmaster. “It's a gray area,” she admitted. Then, with a broad smile, she added, “I'm quite certain you can appeal to the Church, just as soon as you're capable of getting a message to anyone in the upper echelons. It's even possible they'll agree with you, though I rather doubt it.

  “But in any case, as the most senior clergyman currently accessible and a bishop in the ranks of the Mother Church, His Eminence's declaration stands as legitimate until and unless overturned.”

  “You treasonous bitch!” he hissed, yanking futilely at his chains.

  “Me? You're the one who chose to follow the usurper, Remy. You should thank her, by the way. It was only because of the threat she posed that we were able to get the Church and the Houses on board with something this massive.”

  She leaned even closer, until she could whisper almost intimately in the taskmaster's ear. “The protection of the Shrouded God was never just silly superstition, you ridiculous fool. Such a pity you had to learn that the hard way.”

  Then she was up and back amongst the guards, leaving her former friend and ally cursing and spitting in a frustrated, fearful rage.

  Riding the momentum of another humanly impossible sprint, Shins dropped to her knees, leaned back, and slid the length of the hall, passing beneath the fusillade fired by the gathered Finders. Beneath the fusillade, and beneath the outstretched arms of the first rank, slashing a calf here or a hamstring there as she swept by.

  Then she was up in the midst of them. She snatched one of the Finders by the belt and collar as she shot upright, driving his head—with a bit of Olgun-boosted strength, of course—into the ceiling.

  Those still standing in the front spun to face her; the bulk from the back pressed forward, eager to see her bleed.

  Which, of course, had been the point. Clumped, focused on her, facing in multiple directions, this last gaggle of sentries were not watching down the hall whence she'd come.

  Widdershins smiled, dropped her rapier, and leapt. Her right hand and foot slapped hard against the wall, her left against the ceiling. Even with her god's assistance, it was a position far too awkward, far too lacking in any real support, for her to hold more than a few seconds.

  But a few seconds was long enough for Renard and the guards accompanying him to fire down the hall, unimpeded by any return shots.

  Those thieves who survived wisely raised their hands.

  Shins dropped to the floor, landing—for no reason other than showing off, at this point—on the pommel of her sword with the toe of her boot. Pivoting on the basket hilt, the weapon flipped into the air inches from her chest, where she caught it as smoothly as though it'd been handed to her.

  “I can't help but wonder,” Renard mused as he strode up beside her, “if that last bit was truly necessary.”

  “It'll just have to remain one of life's great mysteries.” She indicated the door with a tilt of her head, looking first to her friend, then to the squad of soldiers with whom she'd met up moments before. “Everyone ready?”

  Gruff nods and the hefting of very large weapons were her answer.

  She hurled open the door to the Shrouded Lord's chamber.

  So accustomed was Widdershins to seeing the room choked with smoke, she needed a moment to realize that it wasn't supposed to be anymore. That, and the fumes were far darker, and far more redolent of singed flesh than the incense-laden stuff the Shrouded Lord had used.

  It billowed from the hidden trapdoor, the exit Renard had used to escape Lisette some months before. An entire contingent of the Guard had waited down there, armed with blunderbusses, and the area directly beneath the trap had been soaked in oil. Their orders, if anything were to come through that portal without shouting the proper pass phrase, had been to ignite the oil and then fill the passage with enough shot to stretch wall to wall, floor to ceiling. It should have been more than even Lisette, with all her unnatural gifts, could penetrate.

  It wouldn't be until later, after much careful examination and questioning of the survivors, that Shins and the others would learn what happened: that the madwoman had used the bodies of her own people to smother a portion of the flames and to shield herself from the wide-barreled guns. Once she'd closed to within the range of blades, the soldiers never stood a chance.

  But that, again, Shins would find out later. For now, she knew only that after all they'd just been through, Lisette had still managed to escape them.

  Twice the sun had risen and set again, since the raid on the Finders’ Guild, and it did so over a city fallen into a strangely controlled and formal chaos.

  Courts across Davillon swelled with thieves who argued that their arrest had been blatantly illegal, Guard and city officials who swore otherwise, and a woefully undersized population of magistrates who were coming to regret the choices they'd made in life to bring them here.

  The smaller Houses, particularly those who'd been involved in Lisette's schemes, huddled in tight and waited to see what fate might befall them. Oh, they made their own legal cases, challenging the laws and traditions by which Beatrice Luchene had seized power, but they made those cases quietly. Their House soldiers remained on the estates, guarding against attack but taking no other action; the patriarchs and matriarchs kept inside, never so much as appearing at an un-curtained window. With the Guard and the larger Houses arrayed against them—and the example of House Rittier fresh in their minds—none were willing to stick their heads up and risk being hammered back down.

  Those larger Houses? They weren't precisely glorying in the tension or legal limbo, either. That their interests and Luchene's currently aligned was no guarantee they would still do so next week, next month. The aristocrats of these more potent bloodlines cemented alliances, reinforced their businesses, and otherwise worked to ensure they remained stable and powerful enough to survive whatever might come.

  What they knew—what occupied the minds of every citizen of Davillon who paid attention—was that the next move belonged to the duchess. Any course of action the Houses might choose, indeed the entire future of the city,
hinged on a single question.

  Now that the immediate crisis was over, would she return shared power to the noble Houses of Davillon? Or did she intend to make the regional return to the proper feudalism on which Galice was founded a permanent one?

  It was a good question, one that might have led to the establishment of any number of legal precedents.

  Too bad it would never be answered.

  In her simple nightclothes—without the added bulk of her formal gowns, the armor of her corsetry, the looming height of her fancy wigs—Beatrice Luchene was beginning to look old. Still imperious, with a spine of iron and a glare sharper than any rapier, but old. And she knew it, though she'd never admit it aloud.

  She reclined on a fat sofa, lined in red velvet, its cushions so overstuffed it probably represented the end of entire dynasties of geese. On her lap lay a heavy tome, a book of laws and history, one of many she'd consulted over the course of the last few days. And like all the others, the answers it offered were muddled and inconsistent at best. Too tired to rise and restore the book to its proper resting place on one of the dozen bookshelves that made up her massive library, she instead rested her hands atop it, tapping it with one finger as she stared into nothing. Greedily sucking up the last of the oil, the lantern she'd placed on the small table beside the sofa began to gutter and fade, filling the chamber with gauzy shadow and a vaguely sour aroma.

  Lower. Smaller. Dimmer. Until it was no more than a glowing ember at the end of a wick, and the duchess had dozed off on her sofa.

  And then it was a conflagration, blinding in its intensity, the sun made manifest. Luchene rolled from the sofa, screaming, one arm thrown over her face—and only then did she realize that she felt no heat. That the room was not, in fact, engulfed in flame.

  No, it remained lit by that lonely lantern. Indeed, squinting as she waited for her tearing eyes to adjust, the duchess realized that it was still only a tiny, lingering ember! An ember that, against all reason, now illuminated the chamber in sharp contrasts, casting razor-edged shadows over the walls and shelves.