False Covenant

“I don't understand.”

“Two men clad in strange, flowing black garb-including full face masks-were among the dead. I wasn't present when you made the arrangements, but they certainly sound like what you've described to me.”

Sicard fell back into his own chair with a muffled whump. “But…I don't understand. Who…?”

“That's what the Guard is investigating.” The monk rolled his head back, trying to stretch away some of the tension in his neck. “Rumor going around the Guard is that a young thief by the name of Widdershins was somehow involved in what happened, though few of the stories agree on precisely how.”

“Widdershins? That's an odd…Why do I know that name?”

“Brother Maurice's report,” Ferrand said gently, “of William de Laurent's murder.”

The clench of Sicard's teeth was a crack audible throughout the room.

“Maurice swore,” Ferrand continued, “that this Widdershins was a friend to the archbishop, that she actually thwarted a prior attempt on his life. But he also admits that he knows little else about her, as William dismissed him from the room during the bulk of his conversation with the young woman.”

“Could she be responsible for what's happened, then?”

“I couldn't begin to guess, Your Eminence. But if she's involved in this, and in what happened with the archbishop last year…Well, I find it difficult to write off as coincidence.”

“As do I. Is the Guard currently hunting for her?”

“I wasn't able to learn that, I'm afraid.”

“All right.” Again the bishop's fingers drummed across the desk, this time in a rapid patter much like hail, or the impact of a blunderbuss's lead shot. “If she's responsible for what's happened, then either she's attempting to use our ‘haunting’ for her own schemes, or she's learned what we have in mind and is trying to prevent it. Either way, she cannot be allowed to continue.”

“And if she's not responsible, but involved in some other capacity?” Ferrand asked.

“Either way, we can't afford to have her interfering until we know more.”

Ferrand nodded and stood, recognizing the cue when he heard it. “What would you have me do, Your Eminence?”

“Davillon and our Mother Church are only just starting to mend their disagreements, correct? We should make it clear to the brave and noble Guardsmen that such efforts could only benefit if they were to arrest this Widdershins with all speed-and that said efforts could well suffer should they fail to do so.”

The monk's expression flickered for the barest instant, and Sicard wondered if he was actually preparing to question the propriety of using a Church office to bring such pressures to bear. But instead he finally shrugged, offered a shallow bow, and departed, leaving the bishop alone with thoughts far darker and more brooding than they had been only a few minutes before.

She dreamt of the pain.

It ran deep, burning, searing, itching, aching, no matter how her mind struggled to escape. She dreamt of herself as a child, and it was there. In winding alleys that never ended; on wooded mountainsides; in a cathedral that became the Finders' Guild; in the Flippant Witch, which became a house; while desperately searching for a chamber pot and some privacy in which to use it; when locked in the embrace of a man whose face she couldn't see, and wasn't sure she wanted to know; through it all, the pain remained. Though she never, during or between any of those dreams, fully awakened, she could feel herself tossing and turning, her skin burning with what may or may not have been fever, clammy against the sweat-soaked sheets, trying and failing to find comfort; and the pain remained.

Until, finally, her mind began to quiet, and she felt the balm of Olgun's tranquility, his concern, his protection wash over her. And the pain remained-but finally, it began to lessen.

Consciousness was a sickness, at first, a parasite that she wanted nothing more than to fight off. After a few moments, however, as mind and body adapted to the idea that perhaps waking up wasn't the worst possible fate in all of recorded history, the final fog of dreaming faded.

Widdershins licked lips that were as dry as parchment and opened her eyelids, squinting against the light.

She realized three things in rapid succession. First, that she was not in any room with which she was especially familiar, as the ceiling-apparently rough, cheap stone-wasn't one she knew. She might have thought that she was in a prison cell somewhere, except that most prison cells didn't have mattresses this comfortable, and smelled a lot worse.

Two, that her chest and shoulder hurt a lot. A lot. More than she'd have expected, if Olgun had indeed been working to heal her, though certainly less than any normal person would have felt under the circumstances.

And three, her left hand was aching pretty fiercely in its own right. What could she possibly have done to her…?

Oh.

“Robin?”

“Shins! Oh, my gods, you're awake!” The pain in Widdershins's hand actually grew worse. “Guys, she's awake!”

“Robin, you're crushing my fingers….”

“Oh!” The girl's grip slackened, much to Widdershins's relief, but she refused to relinquish her grip entirely. “I'm sorry.”

“’Sall right. Where…?” She tried to sit up and fell back, biting back a groan, as her shoulder flared anew.

“Stay still, my dear lady. You need your beauty sleep.”

That voice-most certainly not Robin's-was quite enough to spur her into doing the precise opposite. She sat up once more, this time ignoring the tightness and the pain, and examined the room over her young friend's shoulder.

She saw Julien first-and, indeed, upon seeing him, recognized from the walls and the worn carpeting that she must be somewhere within the headquarters of the Guard-but it hadn't been he who spoke. So who…?

There. Seated on the edge of the major's desk as though he owned it, a handsome (if rather short) fellow grinned at her from behind a dark mustache and a pair of bluest eyes. His tunic was colorful enough to make the average flower garden seem positively drab, the buckles of his boots were polished to a mirror sheen, and he wore a purple half cape thrown dramatically over one shoulder. Widdershins saw an ostrich plume sticking out from behind him, and knew from experience it was attached to a foppish, flocked hat.

“Renard?!”

Renard Lambert, one of the few Finders whom Widdershins actually trusted (for all that he often annoyed the stuffing out of her), shot to his feet and bowed so low that his bangs nearly brushed the floor. “At your service, most lovely Widdershins.”

“What in the name of the gods and all their pets are you doing here?”

“Have you noticed,” Renard said with a sniff, “that you always greet me that way? It's never ‘Wonderful to see you, Renard,’ or even just a simple ‘Hello,’ but always ‘What in the name of some silly expression are you doing here?’ It's enough to make a gentleman feel unwanted.”

“And you, too, I'll bet,” she said smugly-which effect was ruined when she couldn't help but laugh at the look her comment brought to his face.

Then, when it became clear that Renard wouldn't offer any additional explanation, she turned back toward the others.

Julien, in response to the unspoken question, could only shrug. “I sent for Robin. I knew you'd want a friend close by-and one who could, ah, keep you company while the chirurgeon worked without, let's say, sacrificing either propriety or modesty.” He blushed faintly, as did Widdershins herself.

“I appreciate you thinking of that,” Widdershins said.

“Uh, you're welcome. But as for this ‘gentleman’…” He cast Renard a narrow grimace. “I've no idea. He said simply that he had ‘sources’ and insisted he was a friend. I'd never have let him stay, but Robin vouched for