by Ari Marmell
Then, thank the gods, Jean Luc and the others emerged, apparently unharmed. They looked this way and that, as though getting their bearings, but for a split second the assassin met his eyes and nodded. All right, they had what they needed. Now it was his turn.
Jean Luc and the others disappeared down a side street, followed a moment later—as they'd known they would be—by several guild thieves, determined to learn whom they served. Roubet let them go; they weren't his concern.
The second group, however, led by the large, limping man with the hammer, were definitely his concern. Sticking close to the shadows, Roubet flitted after them.
“I see that you're not the only crazy man out and about tonight, Major.”
“Of course not,” Julien Bouniard said as he carefully slid both rapier and scabbard from the frog at his belt. “You're here with me, sir.”
“Amusing, lad. But that's not what I meant.” Chapelle reached out and grabbed the guard by the shoulders, physically turning him so that he would have to gaze down over the lip of the roof on which they stood. From above, the pair of them watched as multiple groups departed the structure across the lane.
Julien's eyes narrowed at the sight of the second group. “That big fellow there may be the man who was fighting with Widdershins,” he noted.
“Good. Go chase him. It's by far the saner activity.”
“You agreed this had to be done, sir.”
“I did no such thing. I agreed to help you do it, because I'd feel guilty if you went off and got yourself killed and I could've done something. That doesn't remotely alter the fact that I think you're mad as a syphilitic hatter.”
The younger man's eyes widened just a bit, and Chapelle muttered something about his years out of uniform having made him too lax about watching his tongue.
And then there was nothing to be done but for the old former sergeant to watch as his companion—his friend—moved down the rickety stairs and made his way, unarmed, toward the heart of organized crime in Davillon.
Julien struggled to keep his breathing even and his shoulders straight as he neared the doorway, but there was nothing he could do about the sweat gathering on his palms, or the hairs rising on the nape of his neck. The Finders' Guild had lasted this long, in part, by staying smart—they weren't going to murder a member of the guard without cause. Then again, the incident in the gaol suggested that their attitudes might've changed recently, and even if they had not, the guild acting smart didn't mean everyone in the guild had a brain to call their own.
A faint breeze gusted along the roadway, hauling the scents of woods and meats and smokes on its back, setting Julien's cloak to rustling. He was certain he was being watched, that the guild must have eyes trained on the street, but damned if he could spot any of them. With a fist that wasn't shaking at all—and he was rather proud of himself for that—Julien pounded on the door.
A sliding panel, so cunningly concealed in the woodwork that Julien hadn't the vaguest suspicion it was there, slid open with a loud clack. He couldn't see much of the person behind it, just barely enough to guess that it was a woman. Her voice confirmed that guess when she barked out, “We're closed for business at this hour, and we're not looking for new clients at any rate.”
“I want to see the Shrouded Lord.”
It was, at the least, unexpected enough to stay her hand before she could slide the aperture shut once more. “What?”
“You heard me. Let's not waste either of our time pretending that this place is something it's not. I need to speak to the Shrouded Lord. Immediately.”
“You…” The woman clearly hadn't the slightest idea how to respond. “You're mad!”
“Getting there,” Julien told her. “Nearer every moment we stand here arguing, in fact. I'm unarmed. I'm planning no tricks. Now be a good little thief and let me in.” Then, at the narrowing of her eyes, “And don't even think it. I'm not alone.”
He waved, and at that prearranged signal, a lantern blazed from atop the roof, then just as swiftly vanished. Julien knew that Chapelle was already moving to a new vantage point, in case any of the thieves chose to converge on the source of the light. But it was enough to prove that Julien was being watched by eyes from both sides of the law.
“So,” the major continued, “your options are exactly these. You can refuse to let me in, and risk the possibility that what I've to say to your master is something he'd wish to hear. You can kill me, of course, but then you've committed the cold-blooded murder of a Guardsman—with a witness, no less—right outside your headquarters, and I'll just bet that that wouldn't make you popular with your boss, either. Or you can let me in, and allow me to speak with him, and let him decide what's to be done with me and the news I bring.”
Almost a full minute passed as the thief on guard duty struggled with a conundrum for which she obviously wasn't remotely prepared. And then, finally, Julien heard the clank of a heavy deadbolt. The door swung slowly open before him, and with a nervous swallow, a frantic prayer to Demas, and a sudden deluge of second thoughts for which it was already far too late, Major Julien Bouniard stepped across the threshold into the headquarters of the Finders' Guild.
Lisette wound her way along darkened corridors, hollow worms that twisted through the depths of the Finders' Guild. It was nothing but a modest and mildly dilapidated building on the surface, but the sprawling complex beneath was nearly as large and convoluted as the palace of Galice's king. Any poor soul who didn't know what he was doing could easily find himself lost for days on end down here—assuming one of the guards didn't end his visit prematurely.
Lisette's journey finally carried her into the gargantuan stone shrine roughly at the center of the complex. She settled to her knees atop a long, plush cushion that some thoughtful soul had placed before the idol, and offered up to her patron her heartfelt thanks.
Her reverie was interrupted perhaps fifteen minutes later by the gentle swish of a chapel door.
Gracefully, her gaze remaining locked on the god of Davillon's thieves, Lisette stood, a rising serpent. Only then did she look away from the stone deity, turning toward the newcomer and nodding her head in acknowledgment.
“He wants to see you,” the thief told her. He didn't say, and she didn't ask, who “he” was. Head high and haughty, she made her way to the smoke-filled chamber.
“I understand we've had visitors,” the Shrouded Lord announced without preamble.
“We have indeed,” she confirmed.
“Tell me.”
For long moments Lisette spoke, the triumph in her voice marred only by the occasional cough as the fumes in the chamber tickled her throat. Still longer moments passed in silence when she was done, as the Shrouded Lord sat immobile, considering her words.
The taskmaster grinned again, nothing but teeth. “I told you she would hand us enough rope to hang herself. It's time to tie us a noose.”
“I…” Was it her imagination, or was the Shrouded Lord hesitating? “Yes, I suppose we—”
Whatever he might have said was lost in a loud tapping at his chamber door. “Enter!”
One of the Finders—the same who had fetched Lisette from the shrine—stuck his head through the doorway. “You've got a visitor.”
“Can't you see that we're busy?” Lisette snapped at him, furious that her moment of triumph had been interrupted.
“I—yes, Taskmaster, but I think you two really need to see him.” Only then did Lisette recognize the underlying sense of astonishment beneath the man's words.
“Our little clubhouse seems popular tonight,” the Shrouded Lord observed before his lieutenant could speak further. “All right, escort him in.”
She wasn't certain what she was expecting, but a man clad in full uniform, sporting the fleur-de-lis of the Davillon Guard, was absolutely not on the list. Lisette couldn't help sucking her breath through her teeth in shock, and even the Shrouded Lord, obscured by the smoke and his ragged garb, seemed to twitch in surprise.
“
He's been searched,” the thief behind the door announced. “Three times, at least. He's unarmed.”
“Go,” the Shrouded Lord said simply, and the thief vanished, pulling the portal shut behind him. “You're a brave man, Constable…?”
“Or a stupid one,” Lisette muttered, not entirely under her breath.
“Major,” the other man corrected. “And with your indulgence, I believe I'd like to forgo names for the time being.”
Lisette opened her mouth to object, thought better of it. Best see where this leads….
“Very well, Major,” the mouth growled from behind the shroud. “If we're forgoing the pleasantries, what the hell are you thinking?”
“I'm thinking that neither of us wants open bloodshed in the streets of Davillon, so with all due respect, perhaps you should tell me what the hell you were thinking?”
Lisette struggled to hide a smirk—partly because she enjoyed seeing someone else speaking to the Shrouded Lord without simpering to him, mostly because she was pretty sure she knew what was coming. If the Guard was just as furious at Widdershins's actions against the archbishop, was prepared to hold them against the guild, it was just that much more impetus to hunt her down and—
“Sending an assassin into a city gaol, ‘my lord'? Murdering Guardsmen? Are you trying to start a war?”
Oh, shit…
“Because I'll tell you, ‘my lord,' if we have to petition de Laurent to find us a way around the ban on conflict within the Pact, we're fully prepared to—”
“Major, shut up.”
The Guardsman's mouth clacked shut.
“Are you going to tolerate this from him?” Lisette demanded, desperate to get the man out of the chamber. “We should—”
“Taskmaster? Kindly follow the major's example and be silent!”
Her face nearly as red as her hair, burning with an almost painful fury, she obeyed.
“Wonderful. Now…” The Shrouded Lord leaned forward, seeming almost to drift closer within the smoke. “Tell me, Major, exactly what happened.”
“What makes you so certain,” he asked when the tale was concluded, “that this has anything to do with the Finders' Guild?”
“It was well organized,” the major told him. “He had partners to set the fire, distract the guards. It was well funded, considering how much he was able to offer in bribes. And this all happened in front of a hall full of convicts. It took some doing, but I found a few willing to identify the fellow as one of yours.”
“I see. And you feel certain that he was there for Widdershins?”
“I am.”
Lisette seethed, but there was precious little she could do.
“Hers was the only door open; she was the only one missing,” the Guardsman continued. “I can't say if he was there to free her or to kill her, but either way, a Guardsman is dead because of it. If you're going to start coming into our house, we cannot justify allowing—”
“Major, I respect the risk you took in coming here. And while I know you didn't do it for our sake, an open war would indeed be as bad for us as for you—perhaps worse. So let me assure you, I did not authorize any operation within your gaol, either to free or to kill one of your prisoners.”
“I see. But I can't just accept that on faith and forget that it ever—”
“Nor am I asking you to. Taskmaster?”
“What?” she asked, voice sullen.
“You will spread this announcement for me. Whoever is responsible for this act has one day to come forward. If he does so, he will be turned over to the Guard for punishment.”
“That's hardly a convincing—”
“If he does not, and I later learn who he is, it will be I doling out punishments.”
“Oh.”
The major looked as though he wanted to object, then thought better of it.
“Further,” the Shrouded Lord added, turning his gaze toward the Guardsman once more, “should you succeed in identifying the rest of the conspirators before we do—assuming you have real proof, Major—nobody in the guild will lift a finger to shelter them from you, nor to take vengeance for their arrest and sentencing.
“I should think that this—in addition to your being allowed to leave here unharmed—should be more than sufficient to avert any additional conflict that might arise from this unfortunate misunderstanding?”
“I should think so,” the Guardsman agreed, unable to keep a touch of relief from his voice.
“Excellent.” The Shrouded Lord pulled a small rope all but hidden in the smoke, and the door opened once more. “Show this fellow out,” he ordered. “Politely.”
“Ah, of course,” the thief acknowledged. And then he was gone, the major trailing behind.
“I assume you had no prior knowledge of this, Taskmaster?”
“Of course not,” she offered, her tone sullen.
“I'm so glad.”
“This doesn't change what Widdershins did. We still have to—”
“No.”
Lisette's jaw dropped.
“I am gravely disappointed in Widdershins's actions,” the Shrouded Lord told her, his sepulchral tones weighted down with a light frosting of regret. “But even if Jean Luc's accusations are true—”
“We've no reason to assume they're not, my lord,” Lisette insisted, panicked as she felt her long-awaited victory slipping through her fingers. “It fits her pattern. Underreporting her takes, refusing to pay us our due…There's no reason to think that she wouldn't—”
“I will hear it from her. The assassin has been useful in the past, but he's not one of us. I will hear her confession, or her denial, from her own mouth, as I would any other of my thieves. More to the point and as I was saying,” he continued, trampling the objections forming on Lisette's lips, “even if the assassin's told us the truth, Widdershins is also clearly mixed up in something larger, something that seems to involve rogue elements within my own guild. And I won't have that sort of thing in my house, Taskmaster. So listen and listen well, Suvagne. I want her brought in alive.”
Though these were his chambers, and it was his custom to dismiss visitors from his presence when their audience was concluded, the Shrouded Lord rose to his feet with those words. Two steps backward and he'd vanished into the smoke-hued curtains, leaving Lisette to fret and fume in the thick haze.
“How'd it go, lad?” Chapelle asked, falling into step behind the stiff-legged major.
“I'm alive,” Julien said, holding out an open hand. “So I guess as well as I had any right to expect.”
The old sergeant placed the younger man's rapier into the waiting palm, waited for him to strap it on, then handed over his bash-bang as well.
“I think I learned something important,” Julien said finally. “The Finders aren't behind what happened. They don't want a war any more than we do, and they're worried de Laurent might just authorize one.”
“Assuming,” Chapelle noted, “that you can believe a word they said to you.”
“Assuming that, yes.” The rest of the walk was silence, broken only by their heavy footsteps.
STILL NOW:
“Ouch!”
“Oh, stop fidgeting, Shins. This would all be over if you'd just stand still for a damn minute!”
“I can't help it,” the thief complained with a vague sense of déjà vu, shrinking from her friend's skillful, but not terribly gentle, touch. “You're hurting me!”
“Oh, in Banin's name, Shins! You're such a whiner!” Genevieve retorted, pressing a strip of cloth over the wound, trying for the third time to sop up the excess blood. “It'll hurt a lot more if I have to keep reapplying this stupid thing, so stop dancing like some drunk floozy and let me get this done! And it wouldn't be feverish if you'd just come to me straightaway, you know.”
Widdershins gritted her teeth, partially against the pain, primarily to avoid saying something thoughtless. It's never a wise prospect to annoy the person currently poking and prodding at one's seeping wounds.
&nbs
p; After her dramatic dive from the archbishop's window to the grounds of Rittier's estate, she'd made a beeline through the alleyways of Davillon toward one of her many bolt-holes, hiding out for almost a full day before she was convinced that neither the City Guard nor any Finder enforcers had followed her from the estate. Only then had she, limping and reluctant, found her way to the Flippant Witch. She'd nowhere else to go, though she wouldn't have blamed the barkeep for sending her away at the door.
Genevieve had, of course, done no such thing. Tired as she was from a busy night at the tavern, Gen took her friend in her arms and led Shins back inside to sprawl out on one of the tables. Only after Gen had relit the lamps, gathered supplies, offered Shins a stiff drink to dull the pain, and begun to tend to the embarrassed thief's injury did she set in on the lecture.
Widdershins didn't hear most of it. She was too busy having a silent argument with her ever-present partner.
“Tell me again,” she hissed at him, “why you can't just fix this up like you did the last time?”
She knew the answer, of course, even before she felt Olgun's irritated sigh. She'd been injured enough times to know that there was only so much healing the god could provide—and only so much a mortal body could take.
In other words: suck it up and deal like any other human being. It's not that bad.
“Easy for you to say!” she growled in response to his exasperation. “You're not the one with notches on your ribs! I—ouch!”
Which pretty much brought the conversation full circle.
“All right,” Gen finally announced, straightening up and arching her back with several loud pops. “I think I've got most of the, um, leakage taken care of. I just need to clean the wound one last time, slap a few new bandages on it, and you should be fine.”