by Marmell, Ari
Widdershins was off at a limping sprint, standing at the door before the Apostle had taken a single step. With desperate speed she hauled it open, sliding it into its stone moorings, and came face to startled face with the guard Claude had left outside.
For a heartbeat they stared, she having utterly forgotten he was there, he having heard nothing of the conflict within, thanks to the heavy walls and door. And then he was yanking his flintlock from his belt, bringing it up and around with expert speed, finger already tightening on the trigger…
Widdershins hissed Olgun's name, and the deity reached out to caress the weapon—not to stop it, not to blow it to splinters, but to ignite it early. The flint slammed down without the trigger's urging; black powder flashed and sparked. The thug's eyes had only begun to widen as the lead ball hurtled harmlessly past Widdershins's shoulder—and sank, with a dull tearing sound and a horrified grunt, into the chest of the man charging up behind her.
The soldier stared in growing horror, Widdershins in shock, Claude down at his chest in bewildered disbelief.
“I don't understand,” the Apostle whispered, tears forming in his eyes. “Cevora…”
And then he fell, first to his knees, then facedown in the putrid carpet.
Widdershins stepped forward, kneed the remaining guard in the groin as he stood stunned, and cracked him over the head with the pommel of the rapier for good measure.
“Nice shot, Olgun!” she crowed, laughing through her pain. She felt the god within beaming with pride.
“Don't let it go to your head, though,” she added. “I don't want to still be hearing about this a month from now.”
She swore she could feel him stick his tongue out at her.
Widdershins wanted nothing more than to leave. She hurt all over, she'd begun to feel slightly faint from exertion (and probably blood loss), and she knew it was only a matter of time before the thieves regained their courage and came hunting for whatever had invaded their home. But she'd come here for a reason, and that purpose remained undone.
Leaning over the unconscious thug, she carefully removed the powder horn at his waist and made her way back into the reeking chamber of horrors that had lately been a shrine.
It wasn't dead. The inhuman form had survived a three-story plunge back at the tenement, waded through a barrage of bolts and bullets, refused to be slain by the curse of a god not its own. But it lay, grunting and twitching, struggling to regain the strength that had been ripped from it. Some hideous viscous sludge of a color that Widdershins had never before seen—she could describe it only as some hideous combination of blue and death—oozed across the floor where the demon had puked it up, slowly bubbling and eating away at the carpet.
Moving as rapidly as her aching body would allow, keeping half an eye on the demon at all times, Widdershins skittered about the room, packing the horn with all the black powder carried by every one of Claude's thugs. Then and only then did she lean down beside the demon.
“Go back to hell,” she whispered.
Widdershins shoved the horn unceremoniously into the beast's upturned mouth, as far down its throat as it would go, and fled the room. She paused once in the doorway, just long enough to yank one of the torches from the wall and hurl at the writhing, choking form, before slamming the door.
The thunderous blast made her ears ring even through the normally soundproof portal. Carefully she cracked it open once more, peered into the chapel just to be certain, and smiled.
And twenty-six souls, hovering in the ether around Adrienne Satti for two long years, drifted away to their long-sought rest.
“Now,” she told Olgun exhaustedly, “would be a good time to go home.”
Even as she spoke, she realized that she knew exactly where “home,” from now on, had to be.
It was the very last respect she could pay.
SEVERAL DAYS FROM NOW:
“Well,” the girl began hesitantly, voice husky with suppressed grief, with tears long since cried, “I guess that's the end of it.” Robin looked around her, gripping the haft of the broom as though she sought to prevent the tool, and all it represented, from disappearing.
The common room looked good, better than it had in months. The employees, and Robin in particular, had done a marvelous job of cleaning up. The floor was free of dust and debris, and scrubbed so that all but the most stubborn stains had given up in despair. For the first time in years, the twin scents of alcohol and sawdust were stronger than the lingering aura of stale sweat. The tables, too, were cleaned and polished to within an inch of their lives…. All the tables but one. That one was gone, Widdershins having fed it piece by piece into the blazing hearth.
The serving girl still didn't know, really, what had happened. Part of her wanted to push, to demand an explanation, but she'd never do that to her friend. Shins would tell her the entire story if and when she was ready, and not a moment before.
“It looks good, Robin,” Widdershins said softly from behind her. The girl felt a comforting hand close over her shoulder. “She'd have been proud of what you've done with the place.”
With a piteous wail, Robin dropped the broom and fell against the newcomer's chest, sobbing miserably. Widdershins clasped her arms around the girl and let the spell subside.
Even once it had, she kept a worried eye on Robin, watching for a relapse of the near madness that had gripped her the night Genevieve died. She'd suffered no similar attacks since, but Widdershins walked on eggshells around her, terrified that she might set off another episode.
But it was more than the memory of her lost friend that had Robin so distraught. As the sobbing wound down, Widdershins distinctly heard a muffled, “What am I going to do?” from the tousled black mop of hair against her breast.
“What else would you do, Robin? You'll pull yourself together, organize the others when they get here, and get this place ready to reopen. You've got no idea the amount of business we've lost already.”
Robin jerked back from her friend's embrace as though she'd been shoved, her red-rimmed eyes wide. “Shins,” Robin began, trying to keep her voice steady, “there's not going to be any reopening. You know what Gen's father thought of this place! He'll probably just close it down, or maybe sell it, and in either case—”
“Robin, what makes you think Monsieur Marguilles has any say over what happens?”
The girl blinked, and despite her grief, Widdershins laughed at the befuddled look.
“Genevieve's will explicitly grants ownership of the Flippant Witch to someone else.”
“But Gen didn't have a will!” Robin exclaimed. “She kept putting it off.”
Widdershins smiled sadly. “You're forgetting the kinds of people I work with, Robin. By the time Marguilles gets here to take possession of ‘his' tavern, I'll have a will so perfect that Genevieve herself wouldn't have recognized it as a fake.”
“Is…is that right?” The girl sounded doubtful. “I mean, would Gen have approved?”
“More than she'd have approved of her father selling her home to some stranger, I think.”
Robin felt herself starting to smile as well, for the first time in almost a week. “And this new owner would happen to be…?”
Widdershins casually buffed her nails on her vest. “Of course,” she finally admitted, “I don't know the first thing about running a tavern, so that's pretty much going to be your job. It means, I'm afraid, that I have to insist on paying you more, but I'm sure you'll understooof!!”
Trying her hardest to gulp in some much-needed air, Widdershins gently disentangled herself from the world's most aggressive hug. “I take it you're happy with the decision,” the thief croaked.
“You could say that,” Robin replied.
“Is that why you tried to crush me to death just now?”
Startlingly, the girl's smile grew wider. “I thought it might be best to get you out of the way before you changed your mind.”
For a long moment, Widdershins just stared at her, an
d then nearly collapsed with laughter.
“Which reminds me,” Widdershins remarked afterward, tousling Robin's hair fondly. “I have a thing or three I've been putting off, myself. Now that the bar's taken care of…” And you, too, she added silently, “I really ought to get to them. You get this place ready to open by tomorrow night or it's coming out of your pay, you hear me?”
Even from outside, Widdershins could faintly hear the young girl whistling as she once more swept the already pristine floor of the common room.
Standing in the midst of a filthy bedroom, heaps of clothes and assorted bric-a-brac hiding the old, termite-eaten floor, Henri Roubet desperately shoved the pieces of several outfits into a satchel already bulging at the seams.
He wasn't entirely certain how it had all gone wrong, but he knew that it couldn't possibly have gone any worse. The Apostle was dead, his men were dead, and Widdershins had not only seen his face but heard his name! He'd flinched even then, when Jean Luc introduced him, but he'd figured it didn't matter. She was going to be dead, and he was going to be rich.
Well, so be it. He was still good at his job, bum hand notwithstanding, and the Apostle had paid him more than enough over the years. He could start over in some other city without difficulty, live for quite some time before he even had to worry about finding a new position. In fact, much as he'd have enjoyed the riches promised him, this might even prove the better option. In another city, the weight of his past and the suspicion of the Guard wouldn't be hanging over his shoulder. He just needed to—
He froze, satchel falling from limp fingers at the feel of the cold metal mouth kissing his skull. Nobody could have snuck up on him here! Just dropping a damn pair of trousers made the floorboards in this pesthole squeak! And yet there the man was, visible just out of the corner of Roubet's eye, flintlock pressed to the back of his head.
“Why?” the former Guardsman asked softly.
“Because Widdershins isn't a murderer,” Renard Lambert said to him. “And Genevieve would never have wanted someone like you to turn her into one.”
Henri Roubet closed his eyes tightly as the hammer fell.
Renard glared for a few moments at the corpse of Henri Roubet, then casually stuck the flintlock back in his belt. He tugged briefly on the fingers of his glove, blew on them to clear them of any excess powder, and turned toward the door.
Widdershins would be angry when she heard; she doubtless still believed that she actually wanted to find Roubet and kill him herself. Well, let her believe it. Renard knew better. And he knew that someday she'd understand, maybe even thank him.
Genevieve certainly would, looking down from wherever she might be.
He grinned suddenly, even as his hand touched the latch. It wasn't like him to be so spiritual. That's what he paid the guild priests for.
One last glance behind, taking in the cluttered room that reeked of unwashed clothes (and, with a growing insistency, spilled blood), and Renard sighed. Damn, but that girl was awfully hard to watch out for. As it was, the Finders would be expecting some sort of punishment—quite a lot of punishment—for her part in the recent massacre. He'd have to make sure he and the priests were on the same page, explain that her actions had prevented the rise of a power that might have threatened the guild, even the Shrouded God himself. Most of them wouldn't believe it, but at least it would quell the uproar. Still, maybe he should ask her to consider lying low for a few weeks…As though there was a chance in hell she'd agree.
And there was so much else to do, as well: rebuilding the guild's membership, appointing a new taskmaster, figuring out what to do with Lisette now that she'd proved herself utterly untrustworthy…. Perhaps she'd make a good public example, show the others the dangers of working against their leader, but that might just entice her followers and allies to further conspiracy…. Gods, but the work never ended! Sometimes, Renard wondered if it had even been worth taking the damn position in the first place.
Renard Lambert, Shrouded Lord of the Finders' Guild, disappeared into Davillon, grumbling over the inconveniences of love and duty.
With a low groan of exhaustion, Major Julien Bouniard of the Davillon City Guard tore his gaze from the mounds of paper littering his desk like so many bird droppings, and clasped two fingers to the bridge of his nose. It was late, long past the end of his shift. The candles and lanterns guttered, the low background hum faded as the day shift trickled out to go home, the night shift out to their assigned patrols.
Julien knew that he could have, should have, given up and gone home, taken a fresh crack at this in the morning. It had been going on for days, now, form on top of form, briefing on top of briefing. But he'd ordered his men to get this whole mess done and over with as rapidly as possible, and Julien Bouniard wouldn't ask anything of them that he wasn't willing to do himself. So, with a frustrated shake of his head, he determined to return to work for at least another hour, opening his tired eyes—
And nearly leaped out of his skin through his own mouth when he saw that the thin wooden chair across from his desk was no longer vacant.
“That was an interesting yelp,” the Guardsman's visitor said dryly, prodding at one ear with a finger. “I think you've just deafened every dog within two city blocks.”
Julien glared, one hand clenched at the tabard covering his chest, the other on the butt of his flintlock. “Gods above, Widdershins! If you're trying to kill me, pull steel and have done with!” A few deep breaths seemed to calm him; at the very least, he stopped clutching at his breast as though he was having heart palpitations. “I'm not as young as I used to be,” he told her more steadily.
You have no idea, she thought with a touch of bitterness. What she said was, “Really? I am. I gave up aging a few years back. Nothing to be gained from it, really.”
“Indeed. Did you have any particular reason for coming here, in gross disregard of all logic and common sense? Or were you just hoping to startle me into an early grave?”
“Tempting as that may be,” she said, “no, that's not why I came.” She frowned. “Actually, Julien…” The guard's eyebrows rose. Any time she called him by his first name, he felt the irresistible urge to count his money. And perhaps his teeth.
“Yes?” he prompted.
She sighed. “I wanted to find out if you're still determined to pin de Laurent's and Al—um, Delacroix's deaths on me.”
Bouniard frowned. “If I am, you took an awful risk in coming here to ask me.”
Widdershins laughed aloud. “Julien, you've not even the vaguest comprehension of the sorts of places I've been recently. No disrespect to your abilities, or those of your men, but this place holds no real fear for me anymore.”
“What makes you think,” Bouniard asked slowly, his voice deliberately noncommittal, “that we have any reason to suspect—”
“Bouniard, please don't waste my time. We both know you've suspected me since I escaped your stupid prison. We both know that you were looking for me within moments after finding out that William—that is, the archbishop—was dead.” The Guardsman filed that little slip of the tongue away for future study, but chose not to interrupt. “And we also know,” she continued, suddenly angry, “that you've found, or at least should have found, if you're doing your job, enough evidence in Delacroix's house to implicate the real killer! So kindly stop stonewalling me so we can both get on with our respective evenings!”
All gods damn the woman, how did she know about these things?! Yes, the Guard had searched Delacroix Manor—gingerly, reluctantly, forced into it by the murders therein. They'd found evidence indeed, and to spare: a hidden shrine, devoted to a worship of Cevora far older and more primal than his modern, Pact-approved incarnation. And they'd found a number of disturbing writings, as well as ritual workings whose purpose Julien couldn't comprehend, but which the Guard priests told him had been banned since the earliest days of the Church.
Was there enough to convict anyone for the murders of Alexandre Delacroix and William de Laure
nt? No, not really; but there was certainly enough to draw a number of conclusions.
All of which was a moot point. None of this was public information, not when it involved a family as powerful as Delacroix was—or, well, had been.
“I can neither confirm nor deny anything you might have heard, Widdershins,” Bouniard said stiffly. “I can, however,” he continued hastily as she drew breath for another tirade, “assure you that we've no longer any reason to assume it was you. You're free and clear. Of this, anyway.”
The young woman all but deflated in her chair. “Thank you,” she said softly. Then, “How's Maurice?”
“Maurice? Oh, the monk.” Julien shook his head. “Heartbroken. Still, I think some small good may have come of this. Last I heard before he left, he was talking about petitioning his superiors to transfer orders. Planning to become a priest, I understand, follow in de Laurent's footsteps.” The Guardsman shrugged. “I think the Church could do worse.”
Widdershins smiled faintly. “That they could,” she agreed. “Well, I must be off.” She paused yet again. “Unless you're planning to arrest me for breaking gaol?” she asked, only half teasing.
Bouniard's mouth twisted in an odd moue, trying to smile and frown at once. “I should,” he admitted. “But…just maybe I was a bit, ah, overzealous in arresting you in the first place.”
Widdershins's eyes widened, and it was her turn to clutch at her chest melodramatically.
“Don't push it,” he warned. “I'm suddenly wondering where you're off to in such a hurry.”
“Nothing sinister, Bouniard—not that I'd tell you if it was. My tavern's reopening tomorrow night. I want to make sure it's ready.”
“Your tavern?”
Widdershins's face fell. “Genevieve left it to me.”
Bouniard nodded. “I'm sorry,” he told her, and Widdershins was startled to realize that he meant it. “I know you were close.”