False Covenant wa-1

by Ari Marmell

  Hours. It'd been hours since she and Evrard last spoke. Hours in which Widdershins had failed to appear.

  Those guttering flames grew suddenly broad and bleary through Robin's unshed tears. She wouldn't give up; she wouldn't! And yet…

  She couldn't quite repress a startled shriek as Evrard appeared in her peripheral vision, his approach heralded by the ominous echo of footsteps-a sound she had utterly missed until he was right there. Perhaps he'd come to the same conclusion-that Robin's usefulness as bait had proved sorely lacking-because his stare was hard, his hand darting into a heavy leather pouch at his belt. Robin recoiled, squeezing herself back into the chair, as that hand emerged, clutching…

  A key?

  Robin held her breath as Evrard knelt for an instant at her side. A slight jostling, a loud click, and the manacle around her wrist fell away. By the time she rose, carefully rubbing and poking at the slightly chafed skin, he was already stepping away once more.

  “Go home,” he told her, unwilling or unable to meet her gaze. “I don't-”

  Pistol shots shattered the nighttime silence in the streets beyond the warehouse. The wood of the window shutters cracked and splintered as lead balls punched their way through, hurtling upward to embed themselves in the ceiling with a shower of dust and splinters. Robin screamed as something heavy slammed into her, knocking her to the floor. Except it wasn't something at all, but someone.

  Evrard. Evrard was actually lying atop her, shielding her with his own body.

  Not, they both realized at roughly the same moment, that it'd been necessary. The pistols had clearly been aimed upward, intended to fly over the heads of anyone within the chamber. Neither Robin nor Evrard himself had been in any danger, save for the risk of shallow cuts from flying shrapnel.

  A diversion, then? If so, it had done its job well, for by the time Evrard had climbed back to his feet, his ruby-hilted rapier unsheathed in his right hand, it was already too late.

  The door hung open, the lock apparently having been picked, and two men clad in blacks and grays had darted through, one to either side of the door. Both held muskets, aimed steadily at Evrard's breast. A third dark-garbed intruder-this one female, to judge by the shape, but otherwise similar to the first two-had crept in from one of the entrances at the back, and now stood at the rear of the chamber. She, too, had her weapon locked squarely on the young aristocrat.

  “Well,” Evrard said, his focus flickering from one to the next, “I suppose I should have seen this coming.” He stopped and faced a fourth figure, who was only now appearing between the two men at the door. “Too much to expect for you to come alone, wasn't…”

  His teeth came together with an audible click when the new arrival revealed itself to be not Widdershins at all, but rather a short dandy in bright tunic and hose, a half cape slung over one shoulder, his mustache perfectly trimmed. He wore a hat with an ostrich plume and a rapier at his side, and in his right hand he clutched a flintlock pistol.

  “You're not Widdershins,” Evrard said, his voice almost accusatory.

  “Goodness, no. I believe if I were, you should never entice me to leave the house.” He bowed low. “Renard Lambert, at your service. Robin? Are you injured?”

  “No,” she said, her voice quavering as she crawled a few feet from where she'd fallen and then stood. “No, I'm fine. Is…Where's Widdershins?”

  “I fear the good lady couldn't attend. I've come in her stead.”

  “Hah!” Evrard shook his head. “I knew the woman had no honor, no loyalty! She-!”

  “You would do well, monsieur, to be more careful about insulting people whose friends have loaded weapons pointed at your heart.”

  Evrard, apparently, felt there was some wisdom in that, as he fell silent.

  Renard directed his attention once more toward Robin. “Come on, girl. Over here.”

  She obeyed, her limbs moving mechanically, but her lips were pale, her jaw quivering. She felt the wet warmth of tears on both cheeks, and couldn't be bothered even to wipe them off. She knew she ought to be grateful, to be delighted that rescue had come (even if it was starting to look as though she might not need it), but any joy was swiftly overwhelmed and drowned beneath a rising tide of despair.

  Widdershins didn't even bother to show up.

  “So what now?” Evrard asked. He might as well have been discussing plans for dinner, so little did he seem to care anymore. “Did she send you to kill for her, as well?”

  “Any killing I do, monsieur, is entirely for me,” Renard retorted. “And you are simply bitter that Widdershins found a way around your snare.”

  “By abandoning her friends,” Evrard spat, his every fiber radiating contempt.

  Robin actually saw Renard's finger tighten on the trigger, saw his face go hard; she swore she even saw the weapon's hammer tremor with anticipation, though of course that wasn't possible, was it? At the last second, however, the fop relaxed his grip with a loud sigh. He studied the aristocrat standing nigh helpless before him, then Robin's tear-glistening face.

  And whether he directed his answer to one, the other, or both, Renard spoke once more.

  “You doubt her,” he said softly. “But you've no reason. It took every argument we could muster to persuade her not to come. I've never seen her so worried as she was about you, girl. And had it just been a matter of this idiot's trap, not every god of the Pact could have held her back.”

  “Then why?” Robin asked softly, but her question was lost in Evrard's own.

  “And I presume I'm supposed to ask, then, what it was that kept her away? Fine. What, pray tell, could that have been? A theft she couldn't pass up? A rendezvous with some lover?”

  Again the leather of Renard's gloves creaked, again his weapon almost discharged. “She's a little busy,” he hissed, “working with the Guard and the Church to keep the creature stalking our streets from murdering any more children!”

  Although it was Robin who was standing beside the thief as he shouted, it was Evrard who physically recoiled. “What? She…Why?!” Apparently, it never even occurred to him to doubt Renard's story-presumably because it was so very unlikely that there would be no point to concocting such a ludicrous tale. “What's her involvement with that…thing?”

  Renard blinked, perhaps at the implication that Evrard himself knew more about Iruoch than he should, but merely shrugged. “None at all, other than the desire to stop it.”

  And Robin could only laugh through her tears at the expression on the gobsmacked aristocrat's face. “I told you you didn't know anything!” she crowed.

  “All right,” Evrard said, clearly struggling to recover. “So what now?”

  Renard apparently caught something-a flicker of an eyelid, a shifting of Evrard's weight-that Robin herself had missed. “Now, you don't even think it. Even if you could reach the table before the four of us shot you down, you'd die before you could fire off more than one of those pistols that await you so tantalizingly beyond reach.”

  Evrard offered a faint grin in exchange. “But you're going to shoot me anyway, are you not?”

  “Well,” Renard admitted, “that's not entirely impossible, but-”

  Robin had never, in her life, seen anyone move so fast (although it must be pointed out that she'd never witnessed one of Widdershins's supernatural feats). Literally between one of Renard's words and the next, Evrard was whirling, the air around him whining in pain as the hem of his coat and the tip of his blade both sliced their way through it. Wobbling in an awkward arc, the ruby-hilted rapier spun through the intervening space and plunged through the small gaggle of thieves gathered by the front door. It wasn't much of an attack-rapiers not, by and large, being designed for use at a distance-but the sheer speed and ferocity of the throw sent Renard and his two companions cringing away from the flashing steel. For the barest instant, the four gun barrels aimed at Evrard had been reduced to one.

  That one, the musket held by the woman covering him from behind, discharged with a
deafening clap, but Evrard was already sprinting. The ball flew harmlessly through empty space, vanishing finally into the wood of the far wall.

  A fusillade of three more shots came rapidly after the first, as Renard and the others recovered, but hitting a moving target with a flintlock weapon was tricky at the best of times; when it was moving as swiftly and unexpectedly as Evrard, well, far better marksmen than these three Finders could have been excused for missing the mark.

  Renard was already forward, the others close on his heels, steel sliding from the sheath at his waist. They needed to close the distance fast, before Evrard could take advantage of the pistols that lay, loaded and waiting, on the table.

  Except that Evrard wasn't going for the pistols. Without slowing down or breaking stride, he leapt, using the table as a stepping stone to the row of windows beyond. Old wooden shutters disintegrated beneath his shoulder, and the aristocrat was tumbling out into the dusty road, leaving only astonished faces and angry mutters behind him.

  Renard smiled gently as he returned to Robin's side, sheathing his blade and bending to retrieve both the pistol he'd dropped in his haste, and the weapon the aristocrat had hurled his way. “Ready to go home?” he asked.

  She gave him a single nod. “You didn't chase him.”

  It wasn't precisely a question, but Renard decided to accept it as one. “The gunfire probably already drew more attention than we want. A bunch of us chasing a lone man down the street? Even assuming he didn't pick us off one by one, it would certainly have gone ill for all of us. You're safe; that's the important bit.”

  “Important to some.”

  Renard didn't think he was supposed to have heard it, wasn't sure if Robin had even realized she'd spoken aloud. He frowned, glanced about himself to make certain that none of the other Finders were within earshot, and leaned in as though examining the girl's chafed wrist.

  “Everything I said to that popinjay was true, Robin. The only reason Widdershins didn't come herself-”

  “I know.” Robin managed a brief and feeble smirk at the sound of Renard calling anyone “popinjay,” given that the man dressed as though he were paying court to the daughter of a rainbow, but otherwise her demeanor, and her haunted expression, changed not a whit. “I know why she couldn't be here.”

  She didn't add the But still aloud, but Renard heard it all the same.

  And in a veritable bolt of inspiration, Renard completely understood.

  “You love her.”

  Robin's face became stone-no, not even stone, but ice. All of it, that is, save for the two burning splotches of red in her cheeks.

  “Shut up. You shut the hell up!”

  Renard glanced over his shoulder, raised a hand to signal the puzzled Finders to remain where they were, that this was no difficulty he couldn't handle on his own.

  “You don't know what you're talking about! You don't know anything!” She'd lowered her voice, but what the rant lacked in volume, Robin was more than making up for in sheer vehemence. “Don't you ever say that again, you bastard! Me? Widdershins?! That's not…I mean, that wouldn't be even remotely…She's not…”

  The dapper Finder had never really been all that close with Robin. She'd never been anything to him but Widdershins's friend, and the girl who helped Widdershins oversee the Flippant Witch. Nevertheless, he reached out and took her gently by the shoulders.

  For an instant, Robin stiffened, as though she would run, or even strike at him-and then the ice cracked. Her arms wrapped around his chest, the tears she'd been battling earlier soaked his doublet.

  “You can't tell her!” Robin sobbed. “Please, Renard, you can't!”

  “Shh. Hush. I won't say a word, I promise.”

  He twisted his neck around until it ached, struggling to meet the gaze of his companions without relinquishing the embrace. When he was certain he had their attention, he deliberately tilted his head toward the chair to which she'd been chained and carefully mouthed the words “It's all too much.”

  He was relieved when the Finders nodded and looked away, making themselves look busy while the girl recovered. Let them believe the lie; it was better for everyone.

  “Come on, Robin,” he said kindly as her shaking finally began to subside. “Let's get you home.” He took her wet sniffle as agreement, and slowly began to disentangle himself from her grasp.

  “Renard?”

  “Yes, my dear?”

  She hiccupped once. “How did you know?” she whispered. “How did you know how I feel about…?”

  He had no reason to answer truthfully. In fact, so far as Renard was concerned, honestly was rarely, if ever, a virtue. Yet somehow, the notion of lying, or even refusing to answer, just felt wrong.

  Smiling sadly, he brushed a tear from her face with a single gloved knuckle. “It takes one to know one, kid.”

  Robin's eyes widened, and then-thank the gods! — so did her own smile. “Your secret's safe with me,” she assured him.

  “I know it is, Robin.”

  The thief's hand on the serving girl's shoulder, they led the small, ragged group from the warehouse, toward home.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The shape-for indeed, a shape is what it was, not a person, not even a creature-appeared from the top of the opening doorway, revealed slowly as though extruding from the ceiling itself. The deathly gaunt limbs; the impossible, elongated fingers; the twitching flesh around the mouth; and of course that hat, and that coat, whose flops and folds refused to conform to either the movements beneath them or the pull of gravity itself. Iruoch descended into the church hall, entered the bishop's chambers with a single, careless stride, and nobody moved to stop him.

  Nobody but one.

  Had she been a bit more calm, a bit less enraged, and indeed a bit less frightened, Widdershins might have noticed that Iruoch was not moving quite as he had in their first meeting. His steps were ever so slightly less certain; his arms and shoulders spasming with a faint and sporadic twitch. His jaw clenched tight, and he squinted as though he peered directly into the noonday sun. Widdershins might have noticed, and might have wondered.

  But she didn't. She noticed nothing, nothing at all, save Iruoch himself. She saw the creature appear in the doorway, and swore there were bloodstains remaining on his hands, his lips. She heard the distant laughter of that ghostly chorus, but in her mind reverberated only the terrified cries of murdered children.

  All the frustrated rage and simmering guilt she'd felt since that awful discovery on the upper floor of the Lamarr manor-all of Olgun's own fury, caused by the sheer, diseased wrongness of the faerie's presence in this city of mortals-came together, a spark and tinder, erupting into a spiritual conflagration.

  No communication, no requests, not even at the instinctive level of the rapport the thief and her god had developed these past few years. Today they acted, and they acted as one.

  Iruoch had only just begun his second step into the room when Widdershins appeared above the shoulders of the others. A leap that should have been utterly impossible without a running start carried her over their heads. She tucked into a tight ball as she tumbled, barely enough to keep her from striking either the stone ceiling or the marble table. Broken glass crunched beneath her feet and one knee as she landed in a crouch, yet the shards failed to penetrate even the fabric of her hose, let alone her skin. Although she stared straight ahead, locked on Iruoch, her hands lashed out to each side, snagging the flintlock from the belt of the Church guard, and dragging the rapier from Constable Sorelle's scabbard.

  The others gathered in the chamber hadn't even finished their gasps of astonishment when the pistol ignited with a deafening crack, and not even Iruoch was fast enough to avoid the shot.

  The ball tumbled through the creature's filth-matted coat, through the flesh and bone of the shoulder beyond, and fell with a dull thump to the carpet in the hallway. A cloud of cinnamon-hued dust puffed from the wound and drifted to the floor in a flurry of flakes-flakes that resembled nothing
so much as blood long dried to near powder. The ball, fresh and new when it was fired, was coated in years' worth of corrosion.

  Ghostly children wailed in a chorus of pain, and Iruoch's face was a mask of utter astonishment. His jaw and cheeks flickered as those peculiar muscles-or whatever they were-twitched and flexed beneath the skin.

  “Ow!” He really and truly looked as though his feelings had been hurt as much as his flesh. “That was-”

  Widdershins kicked, and a small shard of broken glass from the carafe arced across the room-again, with impossible, unnatural accuracy-slicing for Iruoch's throat. He raised an arm fast enough to shatter the missile; several strips of shredded coat and skin dangled from wrist to elbow.

  “That was-” he started again.

  The flintlock-which Widdershins had hurled less than a heartbeat after kicking the glass-careened off his forehead, sending him staggering.

  “That was-”

  Widdershins lunged forward with a piercing cry and skewered the creature with Paschal's rapier, literally pinning him to the door.

  “Quit it!” he shrieked at her. His breath was a waft of waste and blood, like the feces of an incontinent vampire. It punched through the miasma of peppermint that surrounded him, making Widdershins gag.

  Gag, but not fall back. Grunting, she twisted the rapier, widening the wound. More dried blood-or whatever the dust in Iruoch's veins might be-sifted out across his boots, and hers.

  “Would you just die?!” She heard the murderous hysteria in her voice, and a part of her welcomed it.

  “Hmm…” Iruoch cocked his head aside and actually tapped one of those horrific fingers against his chin. And then, “Nah!”

  Eight fingers clenched tight, wrapping and rewrapping themselves around Widdershins's wrist until it was encased in two or three layers of flexed digits. She felt his skin searing her own, felt it pierce the fabric and stick fast to her flesh, and she couldn't repress a shudder.