Lost Covenant: A Widdershins Adventure

by Ari Marmell

  Shins moved away from the door. “Tell me if you recognize anyone.”

  Cyrille nodded, leaned in, placed one palm on the wall to steady himself—and the other on the door.

  Simple habit, reflex. He caught himself almost immediately, yanked his hand back, but that brief moment of contact was enough. The door drifted open a few inches farther, and what few snippets and blurs of conversation Widdershins could hear ceased completely.

  Gods, save me from turtle-brained, hoof-fingered blue bloods! “Go! Get out!”

  “Shins, I'm so sorry—”

  “Running comes before apologizing! Go!”

  Shins pulled the door shut, searched frantically for any means of locking or holding it, and ultimately had to settle for grabbing an old spade from the heap of tools and shoving it hard under the door. It wouldn't hold long, especially as the thing opened outward, but it might stay wedged between wood and stone long enough to buy some extra seconds.

  Seconds they'd need.

  A grunt grabbed her attention, and Widdershins wanted to stamp her foot in exasperation. Cyrille was struggling to haul himself back through the window, but the aperture's small dimensions and the stone of the wall—smoother inside than it had been out—conspired to slow him. He had only just now wormed his way about halfway through, legs kicking as he sought a bit of extra purchase.

  Widdershins dashed up behind him, grabbed one of his feet, and shoved. Cyrille popped through the window, a thrashing, yelping cork, and vanished from view. Shins retreated a few steps, called on Olgun as she darted forward, and jumped. She felt the stone whip past her on all sides, felt the rocky earth beyond come up to meet her waiting hands, and was tumbling back to her feet when she heard the wooden door disintegrate behind her.

  Without stopping to look behind her, trusting Olgun to warn her if she was about to be shot in the back, she hauled the whimpering aristocrat bodily to his feet and ran, dragging him, stumbling and panting, behind.

  He was a big man, the kind of big that just seemed clumsy, no matter how carefully he moved. Broad shoulders and long arms, a thick, bald head on a squat stump of neck. He looked dangerous; he looked strong; he looked mean. He did not look graceful or sneaky. Or, for that matter, especially smart.

  He was just fine with all of that. In his profession, in his world, deception was more than a way of life. It was the only way of life.

  Specifically because those who didn't learn to deceive, didn't tend to live.

  Laremy “Remy” Privott, taskmaster of the Finders’ Guild, second-in-command over Davillon's thieves beneath the mysterious Shrouded Lord himself, would normally have been inside at this hour, rather than tolerating the frigid humidity that couldn't decide if it wanted to be fog, rain, sleet, or some ungodly spawn of all three. He would have been—should have been—deep in the bowels of the complex that was the guild's headquarters, either ensconced in his office or settling into his own personal chambers. Possibly with one of the pretty younger thieves who mistakenly believed that the taskmaster's bed was the shortcut to advancement. There were always a few who thought that way; it was a rumor Remy himself encouraged.

  Normally. Not tonight.

  Tonight, for the first time in a few years, the taskmaster himself was in the field. Wrapped in cheap, tattered clothes that just “happened” to provide perfect camouflage against the night's shadows, accompanied by three of his most trusted Finders, he slipped in ghostly silence through Davillon's streets. His destination loomed ahead, or rather the fence surrounding his destination did.

  Locked, guarded, and watched, obviously. It wouldn't matter, also obviously.

  A few loose boards in the fence—boards that remained loose, thanks to a few well-placed coins in the hands of the carpenters hired to maintain them—provided Remy and his men with easy access. Within was an entire lot filled with wagons, from tiny carts that were barely more than old-style chariots to multiwheeled contraptions capable of carrying several families, or whole heaps of cargo, in comfort.

  Davillon boasted a number of such lots, in which traveling merchants could load, unload, or store their vehicles. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the better the location and security of a given lot, the more it cost to use.

  This one was cheap. Very.

  It was also, of the cheap lots, the nearest to any of the main gates. Thus, it wasn't entirely uncommon for successful but parsimonious traders to use this lot, make a big show of how poor their business had been this season, and then attempt to sneak away with much greater profits than they were believed to have. Security through secrecy.

  The Finders had enough eyes on the lot that such “secrets” were anything but.

  They struck here only occasionally, only if a score seemed particularly worthwhile. Too often, and people would catch on; they wanted vendors and travelers to believe that their hidden treasures were secure. Tonight, however, the Guild had moved against a spice-and-perfume merchant whom they knew had made some ten or twelve times the coin he'd sadly reported to his compatriots. (And, for that matter, to Davillon's tax collectors.)

  It should have been simple. Straightforward. In-and-out, easy.

  It should also have been over with hours ago.

  When the team he'd assigned failed to return, Remy had followed all the procedures that, as taskmaster, he was supposed to follow. He had dispatched runners, each assigned to acquire very specific information.

  When they returned, their reports were all negative. No, the Finders hadn't been pinched; the Guard had undertaken no operations in the area, and none of the gaols had seen a sudden influx.

  No, none of the other (and far smaller) criminal gangs had interfered. All of those were keeping their heads down, still reeling from the last time the Finders had made an example of one of their number.

  No, none of the missing thieves were at any of their favorite drinking holes, hideouts, or homes.

  All the runners gave the same answer, all save the one assigned to dash by the target and see if the team, for some reason, remained there.

  That runner had not returned at all.

  And it had been then that Laremy, taskmaster and lieutenant to the Shrouded Lord, had decided not to follow one particular procedure.

  When he chose to head out in person with his own trusted seconds, he should have reported it. He should have sought permission from the Shrouded Lord, or at least left detailed word of where he was going.

  It was a risk; even if nothing went wrong, he could face some unpleasant discipline if the Shrouded Lord found out. But there was one other detail of the plan for tonight's job, one tiny factor that made Remy bound and determined to solve any problems before his guildmaster learned of them.

  The plan had been his.

  “All right, gents,” he rumbled, his voice startlingly deep even in a whisper. “Spread out, eyes open. You see something, you bloody well speak up! I don't need anyone else disappearing tonight.”

  “Oh, Remy. Nobody's disappeared. Your boys are just a bit indisposed.”

  He knew the voice. It rang every bell in his head, tugged on his memories like a ravenous dog, but he couldn't quite place it, not in this context. He could tell that it was feminine, and that it drifted down to him from atop one of the covered wagons.

  The taskmaster glanced up casually, hand drifting slowly and obviously to his belt. He knew, at that moment, that three small but brutal crossbows—less powerful than flintlocks, yes, but also much quieter—were trained on the stranger from multiple directions. He'd chosen his companions tonight carefully, for just this—

  The canvas atop the wagon billowed as the figure, all but invisible in the darkness, slid down one side. Remy heard a brief yelp, a snap that sounded sort of, but not exactly, like the twang of a bowstring, and then a limp thump.

  The big man drew his blade and sprinted around the vehicle, skidding to a halt when he saw one of his own people charging from the other direction. Another of his men lay on the earth between them, unmoving, but of the
stranger, there was no sign.

  No sign except another dull thump from the side of the wagon he'd just vacated.

  “That's two of your people down, Taskmaster. They're still breathing. So's your team from earlier. A gesture of goodwill.”

  “Oh, thank you. I'll just kill you a little bit, then.”

  Something flashed from above, a dark raptor plunging from the night sky. By the time Remy registered that he'd just seen a nigh-impossible leap, that what he'd mistaken for wings was in fact a billowing cloak, his third companion was down, bleeding from a nasty gash in his arm.

  “You could attack me,” the stranger observed. “But I think we both know how that'd work out for you, don't we? Put the steel away, Remy. I only lured you out to talk. No need for you to hurt yourself.”

  She moved forward, then, walking with a faint limp that seemed utterly incongruous with the acrobatic prowess she'd just displayed. Hands reached up to lower her hood, revealing jagged features and a cascade of fiery hair.

  But by then, she needn't have bothered, for Laremy had finally placed her voice.

  “Gods…Lisette…”

  Lisette Suvagne, taskmaster prior to Remy and now hunted exile from the Finders’ Guild, grinned wide enough to give a serpent nightmares. “How do you like the office?”

  “I should…I'm supposed to take you in. We all are. Dead or alive.”

  She nodded thoughtfully. “It would be hard to take me in if you're dead, though.”

  Remy glanced at the two men lying nearby, and nodded. “My team's all right?”

  “Some of them won't work for a while, but they'll live. You want to do the same?”

  “Uh…Given the option, I'd prefer it, yes.”

  “Oh, good!” Lisette actually clapped once. “Self-preservation is a wonderful motivator, don't you think?” Then, before he could answer, “I have a proposition for you, Remy.”

  “You're about to ask me to betray the Shrouded Lord.” It wasn't a question.

  “Only temporarily,” she protested.

  Remy cocked his head, puzzled. “The betrayal's only temporary?”

  Somehow, Lisette's smile widened farther still. Remy would have sworn unnaturally so. “The Shrouded Lord's only temporary.”

  The taskmaster knew he said something in response to that. He just wasn't certain what it was, or that it was even a word.

  “Are you going to hear me out?” Lisette asked, the first traces of impatience creeping into her tone. “And if not, could you tell me who's your most likely successor, so I needn't waste too much of my time?”

  She could, and she would, kill him. Somehow, even if he hadn't seen her drop his people so easily, he'd have known that to be true. No harm in listening, then, and quite a bit of harm in refusing. He could always turn her in to the Shrouded Lord later on.

  Or make whatever other decisions seemed appropriate at the time.

  “Let's hear what you have to say.”

  Lisette's disturbing smile finally faded, but it truly appeared as though her eyes began to burn.

  A small and winding depression, carved through the dirt and lined with occasional flattened stones, was probably a stream in wetter months. Now it was a makeshift hiding place, where Cyrille and Widdershins lay flat in the cold dirt, peering through barely visible flurries of light snow, watching to see who might come after them.

  Or rather, Widdershins peered over the tiny lip, watching. Cyrille—whom she'd dragged to the ground and now lay atop of to make sure he didn't move, hand clasped over his mouth to make sure he didn't speak—probably couldn't see much of anything.

  He also, despite a position that couldn't possibly have been comfortable for anything with an interior skeletal structure, wasn't putting up much of a struggle to change that position.

  The brutish, oily leader of the Thousand Crows had appeared first, leaning through the window, brandishing a heavy flintlock. Moments after he'd pulled back inside—rather like a snail retracting into its shell, Widdershins had thought—he and Josce both appeared from around the side of the mill. Ivon now had his grotesque cleaver in one meaty fist, pistol in the other. The Carnot servant carried a double-barreled flintlock, both hammers cocked. Some distance behind them followed the third, carrying nothing in his hand except his other hand; he wrung them both together, whining nervously. (Shins couldn't begin to make out the words, but the tone said “nervous” and “whining,” thank you very much, and she'd dealt with enough of both in the Finders’ Guild to know.)

  A brief but animated argument, or discussion, or arguscussion followed. Again, Widdershins couldn't hear much other than tone from that distance, but judging by the broad gesticulations in their general direction, Ivon wanted the trio to spread out and scour the property for whomever might have been there, while Josce was more inclined toward returning to town.

  The third man obviously favored Josce's preference, and eventually, perhaps because Ivon didn't care to do his searching alone, they turned and headed away from the mill, in the direction of Aubier proper.

  Shins rose, taking a moment to brush the powdery soil from her gloves and her knees.

  “Widdershins,” Cyrille began hesitantly, also standing, “I'm—”

  “I did say you could apologize after the running,” she admitted, “but I have to tell you, if you do, I'm very seriously inclined to break your nose. This isn't a game, Cyrille, and your birthright won't protect you! You mess up doing what I do, you get hurt, or you get dead! Or hurt, then dead. And it's hard to apologize when you're dead, yes? At least, that's the rumor.

  “So don't apologize. Just stop messing up!”

  “I understand,” he said softly, scuffing the toe of one boot in the dirt.

  “Good. Now, they're far enough along not to spot us easily. Let's move before we lose him entirely.”

  “Him,” as Widdershins explained—quietly but impatiently, the third or fourth time Cyrille asked—was the third and currently unknown member of the trio. Much as she wanted to know where the Crows were holed up, following Ivon into their territory—especially given that she didn't yet have a solid grasp on how skilled the man actually might be—was a risk she preferred not to take with the youngest Delacroix son in tow. Josce was too good at spotting tails, and besides, they already knew whom he worked for. But the last? Widdershins very much wanted to learn who he represented, and while he nervously checked behind himself on a regular basis, he clearly lacked the knowledge and experience of the other two.

  Indeed, Widdershins swiftly grew certain that Cyrille could have followed the man, utterly undetected, without her help at all. When she commented as much, the boy's face beamed so proudly that she decided not to tell him it hadn't really been meant as a compliment.

  As they drew deeper into Aubier and the streets grew more crowded, Widdershins began to get nervous. Not that they might lose their quarry, no; that still proved simple enough, and her skills were more than sufficient to prevent them from being detected, even without Olgun's assistance. No, she worried that someone else—one of the Thousand Crows, or perhaps a Delacroix servant—might recognize either her or her companion.

  “Trade cloaks with me,” she said abruptly.

  “Um…” Cyrille glanced at her shabby gray garment, then at his own fine cloak of blues, deepest navy outside, sky-bright within. “What?”

  “Trade!” she insisted. It wasn't much of a disguise, certainly, but if anyone was looking for her—or him—by description alone, their eyes might just flit on over without stopping.

  Of course, her cloak only came down to his knees, while his hung nearly to her heels, but one couldn't have everything.

  The man they were following finally turned down one last street and stepped inside a large wooden structure, old but still in good repair and freshly whitewashed. A placard above the door identified the place, both in art and in letters, as the Second Home. It was, as Cyrille explained even though Shins already knew, one of the many hostels catering to visitors staying
in Aubier long-term.

  After which, he asked, or began to, “Was this one of the handful of—”

  “Two hundred ninety-one,” Widdershins interrupted.

  Twelve, Olgun corrected her.

  “—places you checked earlier?” Cyrille concluded.

  “Yes,” the young woman admitted. “But I was looking for the Crows, specifically. And it's not as though I saw or spoke to everyone here.”

  “Just asking. No need to be defensive.”

  “I'm not defensive! You're defensive!”

  “Um…”

  “You're also,” she added more calmly, “going to wait out here while I poke around.”

  If Cyrille had huffed up any further, Shins was convinced he'd actually have burst a button. “Not a chance! I—”

  “Of the two of us, Cyrille, who's the actual outsider?”

  “You, but—”

  “Of the two of us, who's the one who won't draw inordinate amounts of attention if a server or some other citizen inside happens to be familiar with the local nobility?”

  “You,” he repeated, growing sullen.

  “Of the two of us, who's actually had some fair idea so far of what the figs she was doing?”

  Cyrille merely glared this time, rather than answer. Just as well, as Widdershins might not have heard him over the sudden sound, or rather sound-like sensation, of Olgun's hysterical laughter.

  “Oh, I have, too!” she murmured. “Most of the time, anyway. Shut up. I could just rent a room and leave you here, you know. You wouldn't be able to leave. You have no hands. I…No, you couldn't just walk through the walls! They…Because it's not fair, that's why! Didn't I say shut up?”

  She turned her attention back to her flesh-and-blood companion, who was looking at her funny. “Cyrille, I'm not just trying to keep you out of the way. We have no idea who that man is, or why he came here. He probably works for someone inside, but if he's just ducking in for a few minutes, for whatever reason, I need someone on the street to see it. Someone who can follow him to wherever he's really going? It's important.”