by Ari Marmell
The boy's face twisted in blatant disbelief, but he nodded. “All right. Whatever you need.”
“Thank you.” She started to move away.
“Shins? What's the signal if you need help?”
“Screaming,” she said over her shoulder. “Lots of screaming. Probably breaking things. Sometimes, there's fire.”
With that, she slipped into the small knot of people gathered aimlessly before the Second Home and vanished through the open doorway.
Cyrille watched until she was gone, and for several minutes more. People came and went, the throng in the street shifted and flowed, the wind grew chill, and the snow began drifting downward in flurries large enough to stick. Only a few of Aubier's citizens or visitors seemed inclined to let the weather drive them indoors; the rest merely pulled up hoods or tightened collars, and otherwise went about their conversations.
The young Delacroix chose the latter, and then nearly lost himself in the scents of Widdershins's hood. The dirt and perspiration of a garment not washed as frequently as he himself was accustomed to, yes—but also the soft tang of her hair. He swore he could feel her breath on his cheek, and his fingers twitched of their own accord, seeking the touch of her skin.
He would have berated himself, severely, for becoming so distracted, for failing to keep up the careful watch that was the job she'd asked of him, had he been given the time to think of it. As it was, he was still all but blind to the world, reveling in imagined intimacies, when a pair of hands closed on his shoulders from behind and yanked him back off the street.
Shins went straight for the hearth, and the fire roaring within, pulling up a chair and joining several others who sat with hands outstretched, warming themselves. A few surreptitious glances as she crossed the room were enough to offer the gist of the place, and the fireplace itself provided an excuse to sit, study, and scheme.
The common room of the Second Home was not so much tavernlike, as with the case in most hostels with which she was familiar, as it was a communal social area. Multiple tables were set up for games, including cards, dice, and a complex board game of unique tokens and tactical maneuvers representing two of the pre-Galicien tribal states attempting to “civilize” one another. The normal tavernish odors were at least partly cloaked by some combination of floral herbs thrown on the fire, though where they'd gotten such things at this time of year was a mystery unto itself.
Food and drink were available, of course, but they were selected from a menu and provided by servers who came and went from a kitchen off to one side. The concept of the restaurant was only a few generations old in Davillon; she was a bit surprised to see that it'd taken root in a community as small as Aubier. Then again, the place did have to cater to a wide variety of travelers and…
And she was getting way, way off track. “Quit distracting me!” she hissed at Olgun, then ignored his emotional double take in response. All this was well and good, but it wasn't getting her any closer to finding the man she'd followed—or, for that matter, identifying anyone, Crow or otherwise, who might actually be here looking for her.
“Shouldn't be too hard getting upstairs,” she noted to her incorporeal companion. Indeed, people were tromping up and down the wide, wooden steps all the time, heading to or departing from the various rented chambers. “Problem is, then what? Going to attract a little attention if we just start knocking on random doors, yes? If we—”
The serving girl didn't actually look all that much like Robin. This young woman was taller, not quite as thin. Her hair was darker, longer, curlier; her carriage somehow, in a paradox Widdershins couldn't begin to resolve, both more graceful and clumsier all at once. Put the two of them in a room together and nobody, from close friends to utter strangers, would ever mistake one for the other.
Still, the general waifish resemblance was just enough to send an icicle of homesickness through Widdershins's heart, hotly pursued by an angry, despairing clench in her gut. She only realized she was staring when the serving girl tossed her a nervous glance and then skittishly headed for the kitchen, just shy of a run.
It was only then, struggling to rein in her wildly disparate emotions, that it occurred to Shins: That girl, and all the other servers of the Second Home, were differentiated from the patrons only by the simple aprons they wore over whatever clothes they'd happened to don that morning.
“Olgun,” she said, a smile breaking through the mask of tension, “I bet you've always wanted to be a bar wench, yes?”
Since Not-Robin had already noticed her, and Shins felt disinclined to make herself stand out to any more people than she must, it was the waifish girl she eventually spoke to. (Once she'd finally emerged from the kitchen and gone back about her duties, of course.) She'd been more than a bit frightened when Shins approached her, and seemed ready to break into a run when the thief offered her a handful of coin, but calmed a bit when Shins explained she wanted only to borrow the woman's apron. That, in turn, had led to a number of suspicious but predictable questions, which Widdershins had deflected with some yarn about sneaking up to see a lover who didn't visit Aubier that often, and whose staff would only let her pass if she appeared to have legitimate business.
It took a bit more convincing after that—but given that the coin Shins offered was more than the server would make in a week, only a bit. Not-Robin “got sick and had to go lie down,” while Widdershins carelessly stuffed Cyrille's cloak in a corner, donned the apron, and proceeded upstairs.
Where she discovered doors, and hallways, and more stairs, and more hallways, and more doors.
Guests came and went, servers came and went, tromping down what might once, long ago, have been fine carpeting into a solid, if fuzzy, slab. The place had absorbed the odor of so many people through the years, it could have driven a bloodhound to hard liquor. Voices rose and fell as doors opened on conversations or groups of people chattered their way along the halls.
It wasn't truly as packed and bustling as Shins felt it was—the Second Home was still only a single establishment, after all, in the midst of what was not precisely the busiest trading and traveling season—but it was more than busy enough to complicate things. She still couldn't just start knocking on doors, nor could she loiter indefinitely in hopes of recognizing one man. She'd be spotted by one of the other servers, who would almost certainly recognize her as an imposter, even if she didn't start to make the guests suspicious.
She absently slipped aside, clearing room for a rotund little man with an armful of boxes to stagger past. She watched him go, not really seeing him at all, until he almost dropped the whole stack while maneuvering himself onto the stairwell. Then, smiling again, she dashed downstairs to recover Cyrille's cloak.
After that, it was just a matter of finding a guest who—due to dress or (if she could sneak a peek) the general state of his room—gave the impression of having been staying here for some time.
“Begging your pardon for disturbing you, sir, but could you help me out? Someone left this”—and here she held up the cloak that was clearly too fine to belong to some mere servant—“in the common room downstairs. I didn't get a very good look at the fellow while he was sitting there, but I did spot one of his companions.” Then, after as detailed a description of the third man from the mill as she could produce, “It would look very bad for me if I had to go to my employer and admit I couldn't find the owner. Do you have any idea, maybe, where he might be?”
The first two guests she approached had no idea who she was speaking of. The third rudely dismissed her two sentences into her speech, demanding she get out of his way. The fourth directed her to someone who vaguely resembled, but clearly was not, the man she sought, and the fifth, once more, expressed ignorance.
Number six, however (which was two beyond the point where Olgun had been forced to talk Shins out of giving up on the whole idea), directed her to the third floor, a full half of which was occupied by a single large party in adjoining chambers. A moment with Olgun boosting her heari
ng, allowing her to absorb the tone, if not the meaning, of the conversations within various rooms—along with a guess that whoever was in charge would want the most possible privacy—inspired her to begin with the room farthest from the stairs.
The door opened to her timid tapping, revealing a younger servant who was clearly not the man she sought, though he was dressed somewhat similarly. It didn't matter, though, for what drew her attention wasn't him at all, but someone else in the room, seated on a plush settee, a silver goblet in his hand.
It was all she could do not to stare, to keep focused on the servant as she apologized for the interruption and demurely asked if any of them had lost a cloak. The younger man glanced back, several voices spoke up in denial, the old man with the goblet merely shook his head, and Widdershins went on her way. It wasn't until she heard the door latch firmly that she broke into a mad dash for the stairs.
She'd seen the man only once before, and even then it hadn't been the fellow himself but a large portrait, hanging within a large manor in the city of Lourveaux. Still, she'd looked closely enough then to know him now. Despite the artist's liberties, despite the fact that he'd changed to far less ostentatious garb, she recognized Lazare Carnot, patriarch of House Carnot, when she saw him.
Finally it made sense to her. Once the Carnots had obliterated their rival's businesses in Lourveaux, they had indeed turned toward Aubier, last stronghold of House Delacroix. But they'd come in secret, anonymous and hidden. Only servants carried word from Lazare to the Thousand Crows, only Josce to the native Carnot branch. Hens and horses, how much did the local Carnots even really know of what was happening?!
“Cyrille will believe me,” she told Olgun between breaths, taking the steps three at a time, dropping her rented apron unnoticed behind her. “Matron Lemon-Face will grumble like a constipated cat, but she'll have to at least look into it, yes?” She dodged around a pair of startled customers and a server at the base of the steps, ignored the attention she drew in her sprint across the common room. “Once they know Lazare Carnot's here, they'll have to—”
Widdershins hit the front door like it had insulted her family, stepped out into the street…
And found it swarming with House Delacroix armsmen. A few Aubier constables stood in the throng as well, but none appeared to be officers, and they were very clearly subservient to the house guards.
No sign of Cyrille. Was he all right? Had the family taken him, or had something happened to him before they arrived?
No sign of Jourdain. Either the man had other duties, or he'd been held back from this outing for other reasons.
The only one Widdershins recognized, in fact, was the man leading them. One of Cyrille's older brothers; the fist-happy one.
Malgier.
“It's painfully apparent,” he said loudly, facing her but clearly addressing his men, “that Veroche cannot be trusted to perform her duties.” His smile was wide, cruel; his eyes colder than the slowly accumulating snow. “So I don't think there's any need to further disturb her with this. Trials are long and expensive, anyway.
“Make sure there's no need for one.”
“What in the name of gods and gophers is wrong with you people?! Your enemy's here! He's right here, right inside!”
The first rank of House Delacroix's soldiers advanced, blades sliding free of sheaths, a bristling thornbush of razor-sharp steel. To either side of the Second Home, the street emptied like an unstoppered tub, most of the civilians taking shelter in this building or that, a few hunkering in windows or doorways to watch.
This was a statement, then, as much as a move against her personally. Calanthe was flexing the family muscle for the edification of the Thousand Crows, and anyone else watching.
Not that ulterior motives would make Shins any less dead.
“You don't even have to believe me!” she tried once more, growing desperate. The sounds filtering through the door behind her faded as the people inside began to realize something big was occurring only yards away. “Just come with me and I'll show you! If I'm lying, you can kill me then, yes?”
A couple of the guards did falter at that, glancing back to their commander for guidance, but it lasted only briefly. When Malgier gave no order to stand down, they fell back into step with their more stony-faced comrades.
And Widdershins, who'd struggled hard thus far to keep her newly inflammable temper in check, had finally bloody had it. She actually felt her pulse pounding in her temples as the whole world took on the faint tinge of red.
Fine! If that's how they want it…“Olgun?”
She swore she felt him nod.
They approached with care, those first guards, clearly having been warned of Shins's unnatural prowess. Perhaps they hadn't fully believed those stories, or maybe it was simply the best they could muster; whatever the case, “with care” wasn't careful enough.
The first man lunged, rapier extended in perfect form. Widdershins spun aside, unslowed by the thin skin of snow beneath her. She snagged the guard's wrist and yanked him forward, off balance. His blade sank into the wood of the door, stuck fast. The man himself flew back as Widdershins reversed her spin with impossible speed and planted a kick in the soldier's chest. He collided hard with a second guard, tangling them, if only momentarily, in a web of flailing limbs.
Another charge, and this time, the young thief leapt, fingertips snagging the top of the doorframe. She kicked both feet, so she hung nearly horizontal from her precarious grip. Nose broken and lip split against her heels, another man struck the frigid dust of the roadway.
When Widdershins's boots hit the ground once more, she held her own rapier in one tight fist.
“Stop dancing with her!” Malgier hollered.
Guards closed, steel chimed, snow crunched, blood flew. Here, the flesh of an arm opened up; there, a calf muscle utterly collapsed, punctured and torn. Shins was everywhere, a whirling dust devil of blacks and grays and browns. Olgun warned her of fists and blades from behind, quickened her limbs, held fatigue at bay.
Four soldiers down. Five. Seven. Had she wished them dead, they would, to the last, be dead.
They weren't. Even in her fury, Shins wouldn't cross that line, not unless they left her no other choice.
She came close, though, a time or two. A few of these men might never run or wield a sword with quite the same facility they once had.
Widdershins stood alone in the doorway, breathing heavily, blood sliding in rivulets along her blade. Armsmen groaned, sobbed, bled in a carpet of suffering all around her. Malgier and the remaining guards stared at her in an appalled mixture of anger and an almost superstitious fear.
Then the cruel Delacroix's hand dropped to the flintlock at his side.
“He wouldn't!” she gasped at Olgun. “Not when a miss could punch through the door or a wind—”
“Pistols!” Malgier shouted.
“Oh, figs!”
To their credit, most of the guards did no such thing, a few even daring to point out to their employer that a room full of civilians stood just beyond their target. A smattering of the armsmen did obey, however, firearms rising, and when Malgier snarled an abrupt, “Then don't miss!” Widdershins knew Cyrille's older brother really was genuinely mad enough to do it.
“Olgun!”
As familiar as he was with the little trick, the god couldn't cause every weapon swinging their way to misfire. Thankfully, he required only one. A pistol spat near the rear of the group, sending a lead ball deep into the snow and dirt, causing everyone to flinch, to twist about to see from where the shot had come.
In that snippet of distraction, Shins yanked open the door to the Second Home—setting the rapier embedded in the wood to wobbling obscenely—and dashed inside.
Patrons scrambled to clear her path, due perhaps to the bloodstained sword she brandished, perhaps to the stampede of armed soldiers who pursued only a few seconds behind her. She didn't think any of them, not even Malgier, would be insane enough to open fire in t
he room itself, but she ran an uneven line just in case. A leap to a table, a few running steps through various squishy meals, back to the floor, a jog to the left, spinning back as she sheathed her blade (which would require a thorough cleaning when she had a moment to herself).
Nobody shot at her, but her crooked course had kept her from building any distance between her and the armsmen.
“That's all right,” she explained to Olgun between breaths. “We want them close!”
The tiny god did not, for some reason, seem greatly comforted by that.
Widdershins pounded up the stairs, again taking three at a time. A quick glance told her that only a portion of the Delacroix guards chased her; the others, she assumed, must be waiting outside, in case she tried to escape from some alternate exit.
No matter. Once she'd led them to Lazare Carnot's suite, that ought to be the end of it. Even if the patriarch denied his identity, someone on his staff would be intimidated enough to corroborate it. Once they had their hands on the patriarch, the guards would have to—
That the hallway was empty was no surprise; she'd expected most of the guests to be hiding in their rooms until the chaos had passed. When Lazare's room—which she entered via a swift, Olgun-powered kick to the latch—proved equally empty, that was a bit more of a shock.
She wanted to break things, to lie down and weep, to curse as abhorrently as she ever had during her days on the streets. Furniture, clothes, the various comforts and decorations of a long sojourn, these all remained. Even the scent of expensive cologne lingered in the air, and while a small brazier had been doused, it was so recent that the ashes and charcoal still radiated a comforting warmth. No people, though; and Widdershins didn't need to search to be certain they'd taken anything incriminating or identifying with them.
“They must have fled the moment the soldiers appeared in the street,” she muttered bitterly. “Of all the lousy, rotten…”