by Marmell, Ari
To Genevieve, it was more than her tavern. More so than the house in which she'd grown up, more so than the small cluster of rooms in which she slept, the Flippant Witch was home.
Which was why, when she stepped into the darkened taproom and spotted a trio of men sitting around the nearest table, her initial reaction was one of anger, rather than fear.
“Who the hell are you?” she demanded angrily, one hand darting to the steel stiletto tucked in her bodice. “How did you get in here?”
All three stood, largely concealed by the ambient shadow, and the biggest stepped toward her. Despite herself, Genevieve retreated until her back struck the wall. She thought briefly of making a run for freedom, but she knew the intruder could easily catch her before she managed to open the door.
“What—what do you want?” she asked, voice shaking. “I don't have much money here. We—we haven't opened for business. If—”
“Shut up.” His voice was as deep and unfriendly as she'd expected. “We don't want your money. And,” he added as Genevieve gasped and went deathly pale, “we don't particularly want to hurt you.” He stepped nearer still, pressing the frightened proprietor tightly against the wall. She was near enough, now, to strike with her small weapon, but she knew better than to try. “All we want,” he continued, “is for you to help us out with something. After that, we'll leave you alone.”
“What do you want?” she asked again, staring up at this mountain in man's clothing.
“Just to find someone we hear is a frequent visitor to your lovely tavern. And it is a lovely tavern, by the way. Do you know a young woman who goes by the name Widdershins?”
Hours later, the sun setting at her back, Widdershins wandered the crowded boulevard, whistling a jaunty tune. She wore a tunic of verdant green and earth-brown breeches topped by a green-trimmed black vest, a combination that made her look vaguely like an ambulatory shrubbery. Her chestnut hair hung in a loose tail, her rapier swung freely at her side (the intricate silver basket now reattached), and her coin purse overflowed with the smallest portion of the baron's liberated gold. All in all, the last couple of days had been magnificent, and she was determined to share her good cheer.
And, Olgun aside, the thief possessed only one close friend in Davillon with whom she might share it.
Widdershins had gone directly home after her escape from the Doumerge Estates, detouring just long enough to retrieve her pack from the filthy alley. The following day—or what remained of it after a well-earned slumber—she'd spent in circumspect travel to several bolt-holes scattered throughout the city, secreting a portion of her gains in each.
Now she fully intended to enjoy a moderate allotment of her newfound wealth. And so, ignoring the aggravated glares of passersby who would now have the melody she was whistling stuck in their heads, she sauntered across the market, up the shallow stairs, and through the front door of the Flippant Witch.
A cheerful fire crackled in the imposing stone hearth. Lanterns hung at irregular intervals, lighting a common room that was crammed near capacity with thirsty market-goers and city-dwellers. The noise level was not much below that of the baron's party two nights past, but it was friendlier, somehow less abrasive.
Several regulars called or waved gaily as she entered, and she happily waved back, teeth bared in a wide grin—a grin that grew even wider as Robin sidled up to her with a shy smile of her own. The slender serving girl—a few years younger than Widdershins herself, with short-cropped black hair and drab wardrobe—was often mistaken for a boy at first glance. It was an effect she cultivated deliberately, due to some truly unpleasant experiences about which she rarely spoke.
The Flippant Witch, Widdershins noted, attracted more than its share of hard-luck cases.
“The usual, Shins?” Robin asked softly.
“Not tonight, kiddo,” Widdershins laughed, ruffling Robin's hair. “Scyllian red, oldest you've got. I want to celebrate.”
“Obviously,” the girl gasped, shaking her head. “Shins, I can't serve anything that expensive without Genevieve's permission, you know that.”
“Fine with me. Where is she, anyway? I wanted to talk to her tonight. I—”
They were interrupted by a raucous call from a nearby table whose inhabitants rather loudly demanded to know where their ales were.
“Gotta go,” Robin apologized, sounding not at all contrite. “Genevieve's working the bar tonight. I'm sure she'd love to talk to you.” With another smile, the girl slipped through the crowded tables, assuring the impatient patrons that she'd be right with them, and could they just give her one more moment….
Still smiling, Widdershins amiably shoved through the intervening space, working her way toward the heavy oaken bar. Other than the fact that it was missing the compulsory large mirror—that would've been far too expensive, especially given the all-too-real danger of it being shattered by flying tableware during some of the Witch's wilder nights—it perfectly fit the popular image of the “typical tavern.” On the left rose several hefty kegs of ale and beer; on the right, rack upon rack of bottled spirits. Between them stood the door to the storeroom. The kitchen was located away from the bar itself, along the left wall. The succulent aroma of roasting venison wafted forth, a benediction from various culinary gods.
And standing in the midst of it all, her face a mask of worry, stood Genevieve Marguilles, owner, proprietor, and one of Widdershins's very few friends.
“Genevieve!” the thief called happily, bellying up to the bar. “I've got to tell you about the other night! You won't believe…”
Her voice petered out, the last trickle of a drought-dried stream, and the grin fell from her lips at the look on her friend's face.
“Genevieve? What's wrong?”
Even as the golden-haired innkeep drew breath to speak, a hulking form rose from the nearest table, an impending avalanche looming ever nearer. Clutching tightly at her rapier, Widdershins turned about, and the last of her good cheer drained away.
In a voice that perfectly matched a body far taller and far broader of shoulder than any human should be, the colossus spoke. “Hello, dear Widdershins. If you think you can spare us a span from your hectic schedule, the Finders' Guild would really like a word with you.”
SIX YEARS AGO:
In the hustle and bustle of the bazaar, nobody would even have noticed the girl as she passed between the rough-brick walls of the various shops, or the flimsy wooden panels of the far more temporary and far more numerous vendors. She looked like any other market-goer, if perhaps younger than most. Her hair was tied back out of her face, without any regard for the fashion of the day. Her tunic and gown, although faded by age and use from their former canary yellow and light lavender, were clean and well cared for. A heavy satchel hung at her side, and she all but skipped through the throng—just another low-class shopper, or perhaps the servant of a House fallen on hard times.
In point of fact, Adrienne Satti was neither. She had no regular home, be it house or House. Her face was clean because she'd scrubbed it so in a public fountain the night before, and her garments were clean because they'd been someone else's garments until that morning when they “walked” off a clothesline.
Adrienne moved through the market, and slowly her satchel started to accumulate various goods, a smattering of pastries, and the occasional coin purse lifted from an oblivious passerby.
All of which made it a decent day, but not a good one. She eyed the shops as she passed them by, hoping to see a till, or perhaps a heavier purse, left unattended at just the right moment.
For long hours, until her feet ached and her face gleamed with sweat even in the day's modest warmth, she prowled the shops, watching for an opportunity that never arose. A great many members and servants of the aristocracy were out today—Adrienne recognized more than a few House crests—but there never seemed to be enough separation between their eyes and their purses to be worth the risk.
And then, just as she thought about calling it
a day and trying to find a halfway clean flop with the money she had, she saw them entering a leatherworker's shop. The elder fellow boasted a dignified, regal demeanor, exuding that pride which came only with fantastic wealth. Other than a thin tract of gray that ran across the back of his head, he was bald as a snake's belly. His features were sharp, hawkish, especially the beak he called a nose. His tunic was wine purple and ruffled, his half cape of midnight blue, his trousers a rich red. It looked as though a bruise had thrown up on him, but then most of the aristocracy, in Adrienne's experience, dressed as though they'd been painted in watercolors by a blind artist.
His servant was rather less remarkable: hair, tunic, hose, boots, belt, cloak all dull, muted browns and grays. He wore a goatee and a thin mustache, and his hair dangled in a single tail. At his left hung a suede pouch, most probably his employer's funds for the day's purchases; at his right, an old-fashioned cut-and-thrust sword, broader than a modern rapier. Over his left shoulder, he carried a gape-mouthed blunderbuss—not the most accurate of weapons, but brutal enough to shred any man unlucky enough to be on the business end when it discharged.
But what attracted Adrienne's attention was not the aristocrat's fruit-hued outfit, nor even the weighty purse toted by his well-armed porter. No, it was the noble's own weapon: a magnificent rapier, swinging from his left hip. The basket was convoluted, ornate, yet excellent protection against an enemy's thrust. The young pickpocket had seen fancy weapons, and more than her share of functional ones, but rarely had she seen the two combined with such a perfect elegance. Even allowing for the meager percentages offered by the average street-level fence, that rapier could fetch enough coin to keep Adrienne in comfort for months!
Leaning against a cart across the street (and ignoring the irritated glower of the vendor), Adrienne removed a shoe and rubbed at her sore feet, surreptitiously watching the shop. Within, the peacock and his servant engaged in an animated discussion with the proprietor, who lifted a long strip of leather from the rack behind him, holding it up for inspection. The elder aristocrat nodded once and removed his own belt, laying it carefully upon a small wooden bench beside him.
Adrienne froze, slack-jawed. Why didn't the man just hand the rapier to the nearest thief?!
Not that she was about to complain; gift horses, mouths, and all that. With nervous alacrity, Adrienne darted inside, keeping to the racks of uncut hides, invisible among the shadows and folds of leather. She could hear the conversation now: talk of the pedigree of the animal from which the leather was cut, negotiations over price. The thief crept nearer still, scarcely daring to breathe. She saw, glinting dully on the ring finger of the aristocrat's right hand, a signet of some sort. Diminutive as it was, the carving was of such exquisite quality that she could clearly identify the crest it bore: the head of a lion wearing a domino mask, the sort held on a small baton and so frequently exhibited at the aristocracy's masquerade balls.
And then her hand brushed against the smooth-worn surface of the man's discarded belt. Her fingers closed tightly, the edge of the leather biting slightly into her skin. Carefully, she drew it back, silently, silently…
Loud as a church bell at vespers, the basket of the rapier rang against the edge of the bench.
All conversation ceased, and three pairs of startled eyes swiveled toward Adrienne. With a muttered curse, she was out the door, thin legs pumping, the belt—along with the traitorous rapier—dangling from her right fist, streaming behind her like a pennant as she tore through the market.
A roar of outrage shook the air behind her, pursuing her across the square on demonic wings; she heard it clearly, even above the rumble of the crowd. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw the nobleman's servant burst from the shop, his employer and the proprietor following behind. In a smooth, practiced motion, the man slung the blunderbuss off his shoulder, bringing it up, muzzle gaping wide, a ravenous beast.
And the rapier, perhaps determined that it not be sullied by a petty street-thief, twisted as it swung, jutting suddenly between her ankles.
With a terrible clamor, Adrienne fell, crying out as though she'd already been shot. A small fruit vendor's cart loomed before her as she tumbled, all but begging her to hit it. She obliged, plowing into it headfirst, knocking it clear over and landing in a fruit-covered heap amidst the splintered wreckage. Hands and knees stung where rough cobblestones and splintered wood had peeled away layers of skin, and a shallow gash across her forehead had already bled enough to gum her left eye shut.
It was, by and large, neither the most graceful nor the most successful escape she'd ever attempted.
Painfully, feeling that her entire body had become a single enormous bruise, Adrienne began to climb unsteadily to her feet, only to freeze once more, half-crouched, at the sight confronting her.
Everyone between her and the leather-goods shop had cleared to one side or the other, opening a corridor for her pursuers. The servant stood in the center of the street, blunderbuss aimed in stone-steady hands. Adrienne found herself unable to swallow, to blink, even to breathe as she saw the tiny fuse shrinking down to nothing. It sparked, sparked once more, then vanished as it burned down to the weapon's reservoir. Even from this distance, Adrienne heard the muffled whumph of the black powder igniting.
“Claude, stop!” A fraction of a second before the weapon discharged, the old aristocrat appeared beside his servant and slapped the barrel upward.
A crack of thunder reverberated across the massive courtyard, eliciting shrieks from the watching throng. The ugly lead pellets passed several feet above their intended target and slammed with a loud crunch into the nearest wall, where they sent a puff of powder and several slivers of stone raining into the street.
Adrienne stared, shocked to the depths of her soul, at the nobleman she had just robbed—the nobleman who had just saved her life from his own man. For a brief instant, their gazes met, hers frightened, bewildered, unaccountably grateful; his own unreadable.
And then she was gone into the nearest alley, aches and pains forgotten, leaving the chaos and confusion far behind.
NOW:
It was not a pleasant place, this chamber. The walls, all five of them, were a dull ebon stone, set with equally dark mortar. The floor and ceiling, both black marble, were smooth and unbroken. The room possessed only a single door, and that substantial portal—constructed of a heavy, darkened wood—led to a small antechamber. An ingenious system of gears and pulleys prevented the outer door of that tiny vestibule from opening unless the inner door was firmly shut, and vice versa. Thus protected, and completely windowless, the shadowy inner chamber had never been exposed to the searing touch of day.
Really, really black, basically.
Standing within this room, lit only by a pair of torches that hung opposite the door, a visitor could truly believe he stood on the brink of eternity, staring into the primordial darkness that skulked beyond the borders of creation.
Between those flickering brands lurked the room's only other feature. Embossed into the otherwise blank wall were the head and torso of what, in the impotent lighting, might be mistaken for a man. The shoulders and arms were human in every particular, if perhaps too heavily muscled. The head was the proper shape, topped by an unruly mop of hair that billowed behind, carved into the wall with exquisite detail.
All of which was designed eventually to direct the viewer's attention to the figure's face.
The entity's features were hideous, terrifying as the fading memoríes of a recent nightmare, and equally as bewildering. Oh, this was not the mask of some horrific monster; no fangs, no fur, no scales. No, the face was human, beautiful even. It was also utterly devoid of mortal emotion. Surely this was the bust of some madman, a being incapable of experiencing, or even understanding, the urges, desires, hates, and fears that should have been his birthright. It was the face of pure need, pure hunger, an evil that sprung not from some cause, nor any great malevolence, but pure predatory instinct. Beast it was, wolf or serpent or li
on, scarcely concealed behind a mask of man.
Before the great idol waited two figures. The first was Roubet, his eyes wide with a pungent blend of fear and greed. They darted between the graven image and the other man, a man clad in robes of midnight blue that almost, but not quite, blended with the surrounding darkness. This was a man who had paid Roubet well, since before he was forced from the Guard; a man he would address by no name or title other than “Apostle.”
Henri Roubet refused to admit, even to himself, that he knew the Apostle's other name, for fear of how that knowledge would be rewarded.
“You're certain they're coming?” the Apostle asked, glancing irritably at the fane's outer door.
The soldier and spy neither sighed aloud nor rolled his eyes, though he was tempted to do both at this third or fourth repetition of the question. “I'm certain, Holiness. They'll be here. I imagine they just need—”
A dull gong reverberated through the black walls, and the room began to rumble with the sound of grinding gears.
“—a bit more time,” Roubet concluded as the inner door slid aside.
There were six of them, of varying heights, varying demeanors. This one wore heavy leathers, stained dark and well creased; that one dressed in the bright and jarring plumage of the Davillon aristocracy, down to the razor-sharp rapier at his side; and a third was garbed entirely in black, nigh invisible against the ebon backdrop of the chamber.
They did, however, share a profession in common. And they were all quite good at it.
“Has Roubet explained why you're here?” the Apostle demanded without preamble.
“I'm willing to take a stab at it,” the leather-clad man replied. His voice was deep, gravelly, thanks to the jagged scar that ran across his neck. “I'm guessing you want someone killed.”