False Covenant

Gods damn it all, how did she keep doing that?!

Evrard d'Arras stalked furiously along the avenue, though his determined pace was somewhat unsteadied by the ache that radiated from his privates, as well as the bloody handkerchief he pressed on occasion to his reddened nose and split upper lip. Although he was obviously wounded (if only mildly), and dressed in the finest fabrics, he hesitated not an instant before turning his steps toward Davillon's less-reputable quarters. The pockets of illumination through which he moved grew more sporadic as functional street lamps became ever more rare, and the eaves protruding from the buildings grew worn and filthy, but Evrard would have welcomed it, had he noticed it at all. A part of him hoped that he might be confronted by some ragged robber, or perhaps even the same fiendish creature he'd briefly faced a few nights previously. He'd have given much for the opportunity to legitimately run someone through right about then.

An opportunity he was supposed to have had before now.

As it happened, nobody disturbed him; in fact, of the few people he did encounter on the streets at such an hour, most of them very consciously moved to clear his path. He couldn't help but notice the garb on the pedestrians was beginning to run to extremes: The majority of them were either dressed in tattered outfits that were little more than rags, obviously too poor to have anywhere else to go no matter how dangerous the darkness got; or else were wrapped in blatant finery, the servants of men and women so rich that they could afford to send their lackeys out on errands regardless of the perceived hazards.

The contemplation of all this bought Evrard perhaps a minute and a half of distraction before his mind returned to his objective and his cheeks once more began to burn.

He'd underestimated her. Aggravating as it was to admit it to himself, and despite the many warnings from his informant not to do precisely that, he'd underestimated the tenacity, the skill, and the patience of the wretched little thief. Everything he'd done, everything he'd threatened to do, even the various slurs and insults he'd hurled across her face like a leather gauntlet-words that, though he'd never have admitted it, made him feel soiled and dishonored for speaking to a lady, no matter how lowborn-and still she'd refused to act as she was supposed to.

The first time, well, she'd had her friend to restrain her. So be it, that sort of thing was to be expected. But tonight? The arrival of the bloody Guard at precisely the right moment to prevent him from pushing the matter, lest he draw unwanted attention? Had she arranged that? And if so, by every member of the Hallowed Pact, how?

Well, so be it. Evrard had planned to be patient about this, meticulous, to turn the screws ever so slowly tighter until the woman called Widdershins-no matter how much self-control she might have-could react in the only human way left to her. But no more. Her stubbornness, the growing discord in Davillon itself, and (had Evrard been honest enough with himself to admit it) the burning shame and humiliation of her various assaults on his person had all combined to convince him that it was time to jump straight to his final ploy.

She already believed the worst of him, so she'd readily believe that he would do everything he threatened. And if even the threat was enough to besmirch his own personal honor, well, it was worth it if it enabled him to restore his family's.

The night had grown aged, or rather the morning had already been birthed and was struggling to take its first steps, when Evrard marched up the handful of stairs and hurled open the front door. Before the wood had even finished rebounding from the stone, he had his rapier in his right hand, a small flintlock pistol in the left. The thunderclap of the shot, followed instantly by the crack of the ball embedding itself in the stone and mortar of the hearth, was more than sufficient to draw every eye in the sparsely populated tavern. Various mugs and tankards thumped down across a smattering of tables, a few of them sloshing their contents over the scarred wood.

“I assume,” he announced, his tone calm but carrying, “that nobody here cares to be hurt.” A flick of his wrist beneath his coat and the pistol he'd just discharged was replaced by a second, loaded and ready to fire. “Good. I don't care to hurt anyone. So let's keep this friendly, and we can all leave satisfied.”

“What…?” The voice was small, clearly frightened. “What do you want?”

Evrard smiled as the girl appeared from around the bar, impressed despite himself that she had the courage to face him, rather than cowering in hiding. “Robin, was it?” he asked, not unkindly.

Her short brown hair bobbed in a single, shallow nod.

“Good. What I want, child, is for you to come with me.” Then, as the blood drained from her face, “I've no intention of hurting you-just so long as you make no trouble for me. I simply require the honor of your company for a few hours, nothing more.”

A red-bearded server began to advance from the back of the room, his hands clutching the base of a broom as a makeshift cudgel, and several of the customers rose to their feet, fists clenched.

“Admirable,” Evrard said. “You have worthy friends, Robin. Believe me when I tell you that I'd truly hate for you to lose any of them.” His expression changed not a whit, his friendly smile never faltered, but both the rapier and the flintlock rose by a fraction of an inch….

“Guys, stop!” Her steps were awkward, her knees locked, but Robin emerged and made her way reluctantly toward a fate that she imagined would probably be far worse than Evrard actually intended. “Don't get yourself killed over this. Please.”

“You're a wise young woman,” Evrard assured her under his breath. “I truly don't intend to harm you, if it can at all be avoided.”

“Doesn't matter.”

The aristocrat couldn't help but blink at that. “No? And why would that be?”

“Because either way, Widdershins will kill you for this.”

“Ah. That, dear Robin, is entirely the point.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

She'd begrudged every wasted minute, every unnecessary step from the Lamarr estate to the hidden, but somewhat less than secret, headquarters of the Finders' Guild. As light and sporadic as the traffic might be, she resented every pedestrian on the road, the extra fractions of seconds it required to sprint around them.

So distracted was she that, even though she'd spent the entire run with her skirts gathered in one fist (as otherwise she might well have tripped on them), it took Olgun to remind her, as the pawnbroker's hove into view, that she was dressed and disguised as Madeleine Valois. And while more than a few of the Finders knew that Widdershins had an aristocratic guise that she used to case the homes of the rich and powerful, not many of them knew the precise details of that disguise, or by what name she went.

Grumbling further about the delay, Widdershins ducked into a small walkway that ran behind several of the nearby shops. Stepping over a pile of refuse that looked (and smelled) as though it might, at some point last week, have been a head of cabbage and a few other vegetables, she carelessly stripped off the gown, revealing portions of the sleek black leather that was her “working uniform.” The rest she acquired from the small sack that had also hung hidden beneath her skirts, so that in less than a minute, she was more or less Widdershins again. The wig and the gown were crumpled sloppily into the sack-she didn't expect to wear that precise outfit again, lest it bring to mind anyone's memories of Madeleine speaking to Squirrel at the party-while a barrel of rainwater from a few days previous was sufficient to remove the bulk of her makeup. (She realized that a few smears and smudges surely remained, but while these might draw a few sidelong looks or even some mild mockery, they weren't enough to identify who she'd been just moments before).

Finally, she removed a main gauche dagger, with a silver wire grip and a ring protruding from the hilt for extra protection, and strapped it to her waist. It was something she'd picked up on a job about two years ago and hadn't gotten around to selling. She'd never expected to use it, really, but she hadn't yet purchased a replacement rapier. She knew she should, knew that she might well regret not having a sword at her side, but she hadn't been able to bring herself to do so. It would have meant a final acknowledgment that she'd lost Alexandre's blade, and that was one admission that she couldn't quite face.

Although there wouldn't have been room to hide a full-sized rapier in her disguise anyway.

The bag itself she stuffed behind said rain barrel, hiding it with a few slats of wood from what had previously been either a second barrel or a large box. It wouldn't stand up to any sort of meticulous search during daylight