False Covenant

astonishing good luck, enough to know that someone-or something-watches over you.”

“Well, I-”

“So, what do you know of the phantom that's been attacking Davillon's citizens over the past week or so?”

Widdershins's jaw clacked audibly shut. She wasn't sure what she'd been expecting, but that was not it. “Know? Nothing. I mean, I've heard the rumors, same as anyone, but…” She shrugged. “I didn't really think it even involved us.”

Igraine made a sound that, had it been any louder, would have been a scoff. “A figure wandering the streets in the dark, attacking citizens, at a time when everyone-even the Finders' Guild-is struggling to make ends meet? And you didn't think this might concern us?”

“Uh, maybe I didn't think it through?”

“Maybe you didn't.”

“If this is a mortal,” the Shrouded Lord said, “he is acting outside the purview of the guild. If it's supernatural, it will make our own efforts that much more difficult, as patrols increase and travelers decrease. In either case, it's likely to bring suspicion down on our own heads, as the Guard casts about for answers-or, if they get desperate enough, a scapegoat.” He paused, scratching at his chin through the heavy fabric. “Are you certain this couldn't be the same sort of demon that came after you?”

Widdershins shuddered, but shook her head. “I don't see how. All the rumors I've heard said the thing looked more or less human-shaped, and my demon sure wasn't. And I don't think it would've left anyone alive, let alone everyone, you know?”

“Fair enough. Well, you may be no expert in the occult, Widdershins, but you've more experience than most of my people. I would appreciate it if you would see what else you can learn about this thing.”

“What? Me? I-”

“I'm not asking you to devote your every moment to investigating it. Just keep an ear out, see what you can discover. Consider it,” he added, “penance for your own part in the screwup at Rittier's estate, so that Laremy need not assign any additional punishment.”

Widdershins grumbled something that the others pretended not to hear, and nodded curtly.

“Good, you may go.”

“Oh, may I?” Then, realizing that she was probably on the verge of pushing things just a hair too far, Widdershins nodded a second time and made a beeline for the door as fast as courtesy permitted.

Maybe faster.

The hallways of the Finders' Guild didn't provide a great many hiding places. Or rather, those near the outside did, for purposes of defense, but the passages toward the center-such as, for instance, around the office of the taskmaster-were fairly straightforward and unadorned. The torches cast a few pockets of shadow, and some of the doorways provided narrow niches, but it would take a true expert to use such feeble cover for any sort of effective concealment.

Then again, these were thieves, so such expertise wasn't all that hard to come by.

The door opened and Widdershins flounced out, muttering under her breath as she vanished down the long hall. The Shrouded Lord and Igraine Vernadoe emerged a moment later, heading in the other direction. The door closed once more behind them, leaving Laremy Privott alone with whatever thoughts or duties now occupied him.

Lanterns burned. The smoke in the hall grew thick and then faded, puffed away by the random currents making the rounds of the labyrinth. And Simon Beaupre, called Squirrel, emerged from a pocket of shadow not far from the taskmaster's door.

A most interesting conversation, that had been. Time to gather the boys together; if they could learn more about this supernatural creature stalking the streets, that would surely be enough for Squirrel to earn his way back into favor, to avoid whatever unnecessary punishments they were concocting for what was clearly a simple misunderstanding.

And just maybe, if the gods smiled and he played the game just exactly right, he might also learn what peculiar secret the enigmatic Widdershins was hiding from her fellow Finders.

Mind afire with plans and possibilities, Squirrel, too, made his way down the many halls and back out onto the rain-slick streets of Davillon. It shouldn't, he was certain, prove all that difficult an undertaking. After all, this strange assailant had been active for over a week, striking almost nightly, and it hadn't killed a soul. How dangerous could it actually be?

Constable Carville raised a hand in salute as Paschal Sorelle, his arm wrapped in a sling, approached the post. Sorelle himself nodded his reply. “Report?”

Carville straightened up and firmly announced that absolutely nothing of any importance had happened. It was a waste of time, and they both knew it, but procedure was procedure.

It was a cushy assignment they'd been given, a chance to relax after a job well done-and, in Sorelle's case, a chance to recover from his injury-though it would have been far more pleasant without the rain. Tradition and law demanded that several of the Guard stand outside the walls of Davillon every night, watching for invaders, smugglers, or other illicit activity, as well as for messengers or other travelers whose purposes were so urgent that they could not wait for the main gates to reopen at dawn. In theory, it was a solid idea and an important duty. In practice, it amounted to several hours of standing around doing absolutely nothing. In the dark. In times past, there might have been a few late travelers to break the monotony, but with Davillon currently suffering the Church's displeasure, travelers of any sort, nocturnal or otherwise, were rare.

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.