by Marmell, Ari
Carville had been a part of the operation at the Ducarte estate; had, in fact, been one of the Guardsmen dressed as servants, and had been right in the middle of the group on whom Widdershins had dropped the banner. His hair and complexion were both darker than Paschal's—the former by quite a great deal, the latter only slightly—but otherwise they looked identical enough, especially as both wore the black and silver of the Guard.
“So in other words,” Paschal said as Carville finished up his non-report, “you're bored as a blue blood without a mirror.”
The other snorted, nodding. It wasn't a crack either would have made had Bouniard been present, but as soldiers of the same rank—even if Paschal technically had seniority by a year or so—they could justify a certain breach of decorum.
“All right, Constable,” Paschal said. “You know the drill. Whistle if you need anything.” And with that he was off, continuing to walk the rounds of the wall so that he might check in with the other nighttime posts under his command. Carville saluted a second time, held the pose until Paschal was gone, and then resumed slouching against the monolithic blocks of the city wall, trying not to wince as the cold drizzle occasionally dribbled off his hat and down the back of his neck.
When the figure first appeared, some cold and soggy minutes later, he wasn't even certain he was really seeing it. It looked, initially, to be nothing more than a denser spot amidst the drops, perhaps whipped up by an errant gust of wind. Only as it neared did it resolve itself into a human form, disturbingly long of limb and even more disturbing in how it moved. Shoulders shifted in an exaggerated gait; legs skimmed, rather than stepped, across the surface of the muddy road. It was less a walk than a ballet; less a ballet than a macabre glide. The traveler's forward movement seemed independent of those peculiar steps.
Even as it—he?—drew closer, Carville could make out few details, save for a ragged coat and a wide-brimmed hat that sagged sadly in the rain.
That and, peculiarly, the scent of peppermint, wafting clearly on the wet breeze.
“Who…” Carville stopped, clearing his throat even as he dropped one hand to the butt of his rapier. Gods, but the fellow's bizarre pace must have unnerved him more than he'd realized. “Who goes there?” he tried again, his voice steadier.
The figure halted, oh so briefly, and then twisted toward Carville. He stood several yards nearer, without having taken a single intervening step. The Guardsman could swear, absolutely swear, that somewhere in the distance he could now hear the faint giggling of children.
“Just a lonely traveler, sir.” The voice…It must be the weather and the wind, doing something strange, something awful, to that voice. “A traveler, come to seek his fortune.” It sounded very much as though there were two throats—one a grown man, one a young child—speaking in perfect unison. In some syllables Carville heard both, in some only one or the other, but never was there the slightest lack of clarity in the words.
“You, ah…You've business in Davillon, then?”
“Oh, yes, yes, indeed! Lots and lots and lots and lots of…business.” And the figure giggled, then—or was it once again those faint voices from so far away? Carville wasn't sure, seemed to be having some difficulty focusing on his duties.
“I…You'll have to wait until morning, I'm afraid. And you really ought to go around to the main gate…”
“Oh, but I so hate waiting!” The figure actually stamped a foot, sending a small deluge of mud and water spraying across Carville's boots.
(Boots? My boots? Gods, when did he get that close?! I should…I…)
“I don't think I want to wait!” The stranger was singing now. “I don't think I want to wait, I don't think I need a gate!”
One more step, just one, and he loomed over Carville, less than an arm's-length distant. And the Guardsman, finally, could see beneath the flopping brim.
“Oh, gods. Oh, gods, I know you!”
“Everybody knows me.” The grin beneath the hat grew wide, an ugly slash of gleaming white in the heavily shadowed face. “Or at least, they will.”
A lunge, faster than a blink, and the traveler's lips latched onto Carville's own, grabbing with what felt like a thousand tiny hooks. And Carville—dwindled.
Skin shriveled against muscles that in turn flattened against bone. Eyes crumpled into little balls, yellowing and crinkling into age-old parchment. Hair and fingernails grew brittle, then fell from their perch, no longer held fast to drying flesh.
The stranger leaned back, allowing the now-desiccated lump of leather that had been Constable Carville to fall, with a dull plop, to the mud. And in the distance, the chorus of children that did not—could not—exist, sighed aloud in joyful satisfaction.
Gliding over the already-forgotten body, the traveler reached the walls of Davillon. Slowly, he extended his hands, hands possessed of inhumanly, impossibly long digits that twitched and flexed like the legs of some horrid spider. Narrow fingertips pressed against the stone and then—his body held rigidly straight, never touching the wall save with those gruesome, scuttling fingers—the newcomer began to climb.
Davillon had called to him, however unknowingly. And he was so looking forward to answering.
“…Ulvanorre, who stands upon the highest structures and the highest peaks; Demas, who watches over us, who interposes himself between his people and harm; and, Vercoule, who among all the gods, has chosen this, Davillon, as his favored city. To all these, and more, we offer our gratitude, and our devotion, and our most humble prayers.”
A ripple of sighs and similar exhalations washed through the assembly; a sign of piety from some, yes, but of relieved impatience from more than a few others. The bishop had not, in fact, named in his litany all 147 gods of the Hallowed Pact—had included barely a quarter of them, actually—but it certainly felt to some of the congregants as though the recitation had gone on interminably.
It would be inaccurate to say that the cathedral was “packed,” precisely, but it was certainly far more crowded than at any other time in the past two seasons. More of the pews were occupied than empty. The multihued light of the stained glass gleamed across more than a hundred faces, and the vast chamber sweltered, as though the height of summer had already arrived, due to the warmth of so many assembled bodies.
Standing atop a raised dais before the throng, clad in purest white, Ancel Sicard lowered his hands, which had slowly risen in supplication and emphasis as he listed those deities most important to the city that now fell under his purview. “My friends,” he said, his voice a little softer than it had been, “I know that these have been trying times. I know that many of you are frightened of the affliction that has so recently beset Davillon.” His stare flitted across the assembly, seeming to settle on each and every individual, one by one. “Fear is only natural, in light of what we must face. Only human.
“But consider, my children. It has been nine nights and ten days, now, since this phantom, this demon, this fiend, descended upon our streets. In that time, how many of our brothers and sisters in Davillon have been attacked? Perhaps fifteen, sixteen? True, that is fifteen or sixteen more than there should be, but in a city so huge as this one? And of those, how many have been slain, or even crippled? None, my friends. Surely, a supernatural, unholy entity such as the one we are clearly facing should—nay, must—be capable of spreading carnage far more widely, and far more severely, than we have seen. Can this truly mean anything, anything, other than—despite the foibles of mere mortals that have caused the unfortunate rift between our father city and our Mother Church—that the gods of the Hallowed Pact still watch over us all? That they protect us, no matter our sins and our mistakes? Dare we, then, continue to avert our faces from our sacred guardians? No! We must renew our faith, renew our veneration, lest we—all of us, laymen and clergy alike—anger them sufficiently that they withdraw their protecting hand.”
Quite a few grumbles and murmurs of disagreement and discontent sounded in the audience—Davillon's bitterness at t
he clergy's efforts to isolate and punish the city for the death of William de Laurent, having built up over six months, was hardly about to vanish in a week and a half—but said sounds were vastly outnumbered by the nods and sighs of agreement. There could be no doubt at all that the people of the city were afraid, or that the hopeful words of Sicard and Davillon's other priests offered a respite, if only temporary, from that fear. Since the unnatural attacks had begun, attendance at masses and other services across the city had increased several times over, and if the congregations didn't rival their previous sizes, they were far closer than they'd been in ages.
Among those in the audience who were far from convinced was a young noblewoman in an emerald gown, her natural hair hidden beneath a piled and coifed wig of golden blonde. As Sicard continued his sermon—his tirade?—she could only tap her foot and absently wish that she had a lock of hair loose enough to chew on.
“What do you think?” Madeleine Valois (for that's who she was at the moment) asked in a voice so far under her breath that even those seated to either side couldn't hear her.
But then, she hadn't been speaking to them.
Olgun replied with the emotional offspring of a shrug and a scoff.
“Yeah, that's kind of what I thought, too,” she agreed. “I guess we shouldn't…” She shook her head, making the top-heavy wig wave and bobble. “I wish William were here.”
She smiled sadly at Olgun's sorrowful agreement. And then, her decision made, there was nothing left to do but wait courteously for the sermon to end, so that she might depart with the rest of the crowd.
As the congregation slowly dispersed, Sicard smiled and nodded beatifically from the dais, blessing all who had come and all who now ventured forth into the world. All the while, he scanned the crowd, attempting to match sight to the peculiar, not quite natural presence he had detected, something that didn't quite match up with any of the five senses normally available to mortals. It was a quiver in the air, something there and yet…not. Something wrong, or at least abnormal, and now was not the time for abnormalities. Not with so much at stake.
So where…? Ah.
Maintaining his smile and scarcely moving his jaw, precisely as though he murmured prayers over the heads of the departing, the bishop called out for the man behind him.
Brother Ferrand appeared from his inconspicuous post, where he'd waited throughout the mass to provide anything Sicard might have required. “Yes, Your Eminence?”
“Do you see that young woman there? No, to the left. Green gown, blonde wig? Sort of in the center of the crowd by the far door?”
Finally, after several moments of this—and only shortly before the woman in question would have been through the door and out of sight—the monk bobbed his tonsured head. “Yes, I see her. What of her?”
“Do you know who she is?” the bishop asked.
“I can't say that I do, Your Eminence. Is she important?”
“I'm…not entirely certain. There's something about her. A presence, an aura…I'm not sure how to describe it. It's not quite what I feel in the presence of omens or other blessings of the gods, nor”—and here he lowered his voice so that Ferrand could only just hear, and certainly nobody else could—“does it feel at all similar to other magics with which I'm familiar.”
“You think her a witch, then?”
“I don't know what I think, Ferrand—except that I think the timing on this is suspect, and that I need to know what it is I don't know. You understand me?”
“I do. I'll learn who she is, Your Eminence, and all I can about her.”
“You do that, Brother Ferrand. Discreetly, of course—but do be certain to learn everything.”
The bishop returned his full attentions, then, to the retreating backs of his congregants, while his assistant slipped from the back of the dais and vanished into the streets of Davillon.
By the time she'd returned to the Flippant Witch, the afternoon had concluded its metamorphosis into early evening, and Madeleine Valois had completed her metamorphosis back into Widdershins. (Although the former was brazen enough to make such a transformation in public view of everyone, the latter had required a modicum of privacy in the back of an abandoned leather goods shop.) She wasn't decked out for robbing anyone—she wore a workable peasant's tunic, dark hose, and worn boots, rather than her “stealing leathers”—but the gown and the wig were most assuredly gone, with no trace that they'd ever existed. As always, the only item on her of any apparent value was the basket-hilt rapier that hung at her waist, originally stolen from, and then gifted to her by, the late and very much lamented Alexandre Delacroix.
Widdershins blew through the front door of the tavern, absently returning the occasional wave or shouted greeting from regulars who recognized her. As twilight hadn't fallen, and many workmen and vendors remained at their jobs so long as light remained in the sky, the place wasn't as crowded as it would become in a few more hours. Not that any evening's attendance qualified as “crowded” these days, but Widdershins had enough presence of mind to hope that business would pick up a little bit when the sun went down.
Her nose barely wrinkling against the aroma that had become as familiar to her as her own, Widdershins examined the servers and guests until…
“Hey, Robin!”
The slender girl looked up from mopping a glistening spill beside the bar. Widdershins frowned for a second at the startled-deer expression, then decided that Robin was probably just worried, as she had been so much recently, about the tavern's financial woes. “So I just attended one of His Emminencialness's sermons,” she began, taking the mop from Robin's hands and getting to work on the spill herself (more from a desire to have something to do than any real need to be helpful). “I'd been hoping—”
“Shins…”
Whether Widdershins didn't hear or just didn't listen, she bulled ahead as though Robin hadn't spoken. “—that he might be worth approaching as an ally. Might be like William was, you know? Churchmen are supposed to know all about this supernatural stuff, yes? Maybe—”
“Shins?”
“—even tell him about Olgun, at the least ask if he has any idea what the bugaboo wandering Davillon's streets might be. Stupid Guild assignment. Oh, I'm their big monster expert just because—”
“Shins!”
“—a demon tried to kill me once. Well, all right, twice. But I don't like him. He's so—I don't know. Harsh. Arrogant. Everything I expected a high Churchman to be before I met William. So now I don't have anyone who knows about this stuff I can go to, and—”
“Gods damn it, Widdershins!”
Not only the mop but a great many mugs of various alcoholic libations froze as more than a dozen eyes turned in shock toward the young girl, who was actually panting, her face red, her shoulders heaving. After a moment, however, said eyes—and the heads in which they resided—all returned to their prior endeavors; all save Widdershins's own.
“Holy hopping hens, Robin! You don't have to shout at me, you know. What could—?”
“Shins,” Robin said again; this time it came out in a hiss. “Look, you—you don't need to do this. I've got this.” She lashed out, yanking the mop away almost hard enough to send Widdershins stumbling.
“What's gotten into—”
“Why don't,” Robin continued, this time trampling over Widdershins's words rather than the other way around, “you go out. We've got this handled, and the crowd's not all that big, and I know you've had a lot on your mind, so you go and have yourself a nice, relaxing evening somewhere, all right?”
“Are you trying to get rid of me, Robin? What—?” And finally, finally Widdershins—who could have kicked herself up and down the entire length of the common room, and retained enough embarrassed frustration left to give herself a good pinch—came up for air through the thick, swirling depths of her own preoccupation and picked up on what should have been obvious from the start. “I,” she grumbled, “am such a moron.”
At any other time, Ol
gun's surge of agreement might have been offensive.
Widdershins's hand dropped to the hilt of her sword, and she instantly began trying to examine all four corners of the room at once. “Robin? What's going on?”
“He came looking for you again, Shins.” Robin studiously examined her feet, or perhaps the soaking strands of the mop. “I didn't want to worry you any more than you already are; I just wanted you to get—”
“Who? Who came looking for me?” For an instant, the hassles of the past few days and the meeting with the Shrouded Lord clouded her memory of earlier events, and then…“That Evrard guy? Him?”
“Indeed, ‘that Evrard guy,’ at your service, mademoiselle.”
Robin eeped—that was the only way to describe it, really, as an “eep”—and even Widdershins practically jumped out of her boots. He was simply there, offering them a sardonic but graceful bow. But that would have meant he'd been in the tavern this whole time, and she'd missed him! She couldn't have just missed him, could she?
She didn't need Olgun's gentle reminder of just how distracted she'd been to point out that, well, yes, she could have.
“Sure, now you tell me!” she groused at him. Then, standing tall, keeping one hand on her rapier, and ostentatiously not returning Evrard's bow, she methodically examined the stranger who'd apparently been seeking her for some days.
He was pretty enough to look at, she decided. His eyes were deep and twinkling above sharply chiseled features; and he wore his long coat (and, presumably, his tricorne hat, though at the moment it was in his hand) with what could only be described as a graceful panache. But his smile, though friendly, felt false, and even through the coat, Widdershins could see the tension in his shoulders.