False Covenant

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, Olgun'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.

Then, of course, there was his rapier. The leather on the hilt was worn far too thin for a weapon of such fine quality. Either he didn't bother to maintain the blade-which she didn't believe for an instant-or it saw a lot of use.

For a moment or two he simply stood, as though basking in her obvious examination. And then, “I assume, based on your conversation, that I have the honor to address the woman known as Widdershins?”

“Uh…You do. And you are?”

“Evrard. I thought we just covered that. A bit dim, are we?”

Widdershins scowled. (So did Robin, but Shins was too distracted to notice.) “I meant who else are you? What's your family name? Or title?”

“And why would you assume I have a title?”