False Covenant

“Igraine, enough! Widdershins, you will speak to your priestess with more respect. Is that clear?”

Widdershins bit her tongue just before saying In this room? Nothing's clear! “Yes, my lord.”

“Good. I agree that this scenario sounds improbable-but if it is true, and if others make the connection, it could indeed spell a great deal of trouble for us.” The Shrouded Lord reached behind him and yanked on one of several ropes. Widdershins didn't hear any bells chime, but a moment later the door slid open and Remy Privott entered the chamber.

“You sent for me, my lord?”

“Yes, Taskmaster. I want to know what Aubin and Raviel were working on the day they were murdered.”

“Hmm. I think Golvar was on shift that day. If they were on Finder business of any sort, he'd be the one to ask.” Then, after a long and pregnant pause, “So, uh, I imagine you want me to go ask him.”

“Your imagination is impressive indeed.”

Remy offered a shallow smile.

“While you're at it,” the hooded figure continued, “put out the word that I want Simon Beaupre brought to me as soon as he can be found. Our little Squirrel is apparently keeping some very poor company.”

“Right. I'm on it.” With that, Remy was gone as abruptly as he'd appeared.

“So,” the Shrouded Lord said, his wide grin evident in his voice despite being hidden behind layers of smoke and fabric. “Is there anything else you ladies would care to discuss while we wait? Perhaps you'd care to tell me what it was you were doing before you arrived at my door?”

Widdershins and Igraine traded glances, and shook their heads as one.

The following minutes passed in brittle silence.

It was over an hour later, just as the combination of acrid smoke and awkward quiet was about to drive Widdershins from the chamber, when a heavy tapping on the door finally heralded the taskmaster's return. Remy seemed clearly bemused-no, more than bemused, positively befuddled, very nearly stunned-as he entered. His entire bald pate, from his eyebrows to the nape of his neck, was furrowed in contemplation.

“My lord,” he began, “perhaps we ought to consider some, ah, adjustments to our process of reports and assignments.”

The Shrouded Lord blinked languidly through the holes in his mask and looked a question first at Igraine, then at Widdershins, both of whom just shrugged. “I take it,” he said, “that you've learned something?”

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, you could say that.”

“And are we to learn it, too? Or are you merely bragging?”

“Oh! Sorry. Well…It didn't take me long to track down Golvar. He was in the map room on the second level, talking-well, it doesn't matter. Point is, I found him, and we had ourselves a little chat.

“So, seems that some weeks ago, a guy approaches Golvar and asks to hire on some of our boys. This guy's doing all the stereotypical ‘you can't know who I am’ horseshit: hooded cloak, baggy clothes, whispering voice, the works. Real amateur hour, right?

“But he's offering a hefty bag full of five- and ten-mark coins, and he's got all the right answers to Golvar's usual questions. He wants to hire six or eight Finders, and they've got to come in pairs who are accustomed to working together.”

“And,” Widdershins piped up, “if I guessed that one of those pairs happened to consist of Aubin and Raviel…?”

“Heh. You wouldn't be wrong.”

“So, what,” the Shrouded Lord asked, “was the job?”

“Well,” Remy answered, “the guy wouldn't say exactly. But he'd satisfied Golvar that this wasn't some trick of the Guard, and that it wouldn't be targeting anyone on our ‘don't touch’ list. So when all he'd explain was that he needed these guys for some long-term con game, Golvar didn't press any further.” Then, as though feeling the need to defend his fellow Finder, “He wasn't breaking any rules…”

The partially obscured guildmaster waved a hand in dismissal. “Go on.”

“Anyway, so Golvar gathers the boys and offers them the assignment, and of course, they all take it. Long- term job with that kind of up-front? Who wouldn't? But Golvar, even though he doesn't much care what the actual job is, he decides he really wants to know who the boys are working for. So he has one of his people-not someone involved in the job-follow Monsieur Hooded-and-Oh-So-Mysterious, until he's able to identify him.”

“And?” Widdershins finally asked after a sufficiently dramatic (and obviously expectant) pause.

“And,” Remy told them, “turns out the guy's name is Ferrand. Brother Ferrand.”

Igraine choked on an errant wisp of the room's thick smoke, and even the Shrouded Lord recoiled. “‘Brother’? As in…”

“As in, my lord. Brother Ferrand is the personal assistant to His Eminence, our city's very own Bishop Sicard.”

“Aha!” Widdershins straightened, practically bouncing in place. “I knew there was a reason I didn't like the guy! He-uh…Yeah.” Staring sheepishly at her shoes-and very much away from the astonished expressions surrounding her-she returned to slouching against the wall.

Again a great many moments came and went, lived and died, trooping mutely past as everyone present wrestled and debated with their own thoughts. (Or, in Widdershins's case, with her own thoughts and those of her incorporeal patron.)

“Just to be clear,” the Shrouded Lord said eventually, “Golvar hired out six Finders for a confidence job to a member of the clergy, and this didn't seem unusual enough for him to think it worth reporting? Isn't this precisely the sort of thing you're supposed to stay on top of, Taskmaster? What sort of discipline are you enforcing, exactly?”

Remy's entire head went so red, Widdershins was convinced it was turning into some sort of root vegetable. When he spoke, the words were sharp and jagged, having had to drag themselves out from between his teeth. “My lord, nobody has violated any of the rules. I had no reason to think that Golvar was keeping anything from me. And Golvar maintains that he was planning to report all this, but saw no reason why he should consider it urgent.”

“And,” the Shrouded Lord added, “I imagine he was looking for some way to turn his knowledge of Church involvement to his advantage. And perhaps the deaths of Raviel and Aubin also made him somewhat reluctant to come forward?”

“Even if that's true, my lord, he came clean willingly enough when I confronted him with it. Like I said, maybe we ought to reconsider some of our policies-but none of them were broken here. Bent a little, maybe, but-”

“Fine, fine. You're right; there was no reason for Golvar to believe the job was anything of particular import. We're only just now theorizing about its possible connections with this ‘Iruoch,’ ourselves. But he should have come forward with it as soon as he learned that two of the men involved were among the dead. Please make it clear to him, Taskmaster, that any such lapse in the future will be met with severe repercussions.”

Remy bowed, albeit stiffly.

“And draw up whatever modifications you feel we should make to our procedures. We'll discuss them next week, and implement those with which I agree.”

“Understood, my lord.” A second bow, rather less rigid and reluctant than the first, and Remy-clearly having recognized the dismissal for what it was-once more retreated from the chamber.

“I assume,” the voice said from within the smoke and hood, “that I needn't point out to either of you that the timing of this ‘con job’ coincides neatly with the start of the initial, nonlethal attacks on Davillon's citizens?”

“I'd noticed that,” Widdershins said flatly.

Igraine was chewing on her left thumbnail. “It doesn't prove anything,” she muttered obstinately. Then, with a sigh, “But I admit, it's certainly suspicious. If nothing else, we should look into it enough to ensure that we do not, in fact, receive any of the blame for what happened next.”

Widdershins smiled sweetly. “I bet that hurt you to say. You look like you just swallowed a monkey.”

“Widdershins…”

“A poisonous monkey.”