False Covenant

probably less than ten minutes, but she herself would have sworn included two or three changes of season, and possibly a birthday. Finally, however, the door swung open and Igraine reappeared. She had abandoned her cassock of office for men's trousers, a heavy coat, and a pearl-hued tunic that perfectly offset her dusky skin. She carried no sword, but the pair of flintlocks and the small truncheon that she wore openly on her belt, to say nothing of the small dagger hilt protruding from her right boot, were evidence enough that she didn't care to be disturbed.

“You sure you're ready?” Widdershins asked flatly. “You don't need to stop by and pick up a blunderbuss, or a battleaxe? Maybe a cannon?”

“As soon as you're through being foolish,” Igraine said, “we can be on our way.”

“Nah, let's be on our way now. We don't actually have that much time.”

The priestess blinked, opened and closed her mouth twice, and then began walking.

As they finally approached the exit, Widdershins saw immediately that someone was present up ahead- someone other than the sentry on duty. She couldn't help but grin, despite every effort she made at sculpting her face into an expression more serious.

“Heading out for a walk, Renard?”

The foppish thief grinned and smoothed his mustache between thumb and forefinger. “I thought this would be a good night to show off the new ensemble.” He twirled, displaying hose and half cloak of deep indigo, tunic of forest green.

“You look like a peacock,” Widdershins told him.

“Well, but is it a handsome peacock?” Then, after waiting for Widdershins to oblige him with a chuckle, he bowed his head. “Priestess.”

“Lambert. I suppose it's you who the Shrouded Lord has asked to accompany us?” Her voice sounded oddly atonal as she asked.

Renard bowed more deeply. “I am to be of service in any way that I can. And of course, other Finders shall be made available if we should require them.”

“Very well.” She sounded, if anything, resigned; Widdershins wondered briefly if the priestess didn't have something personal against Renard. Then again, it wouldn't surprise her. On the one hand, Renard did rub many people the wrong way; and on the other, Igraine-at least in Widdershins's own experience-developed personal objections to many people on a fairly regular basis. “So, what,” Igraine continued, “is our first step?”

She directed the question at Renard, who looked to Widdershins, who shrugged. “Well, if we're supposed to bring the Guard in on this…” Renard raised an eyebrow at that, but chose not to interrupt. “…then I should probably speak to my friend alone. It'll be, uh, easier to convince him.”

“You are not,” Igraine protested, “about to tell us to simply wait here!” She didn't add After you let me go through all the trouble of changing, but Widdershins heard it anyway.

She was tempted to say yes, just to watch the reaction, but, “Nah. I don't think Ju-Major Bouniard would be all that reassured if I asked him to accompany me back here. Why don't I get you settled in at the Flippant Witch, make sure there's a private room ready for us to talk, and then you can relax there while I fetch our own personal officer? Igraine, you can fill Renard in on any of the necessary details while you're waiting.”

Neither Igraine nor Renard looked thrilled at the notion of just sitting around, but since neither of them had any better suggestions, either, they both reluctantly acquiesced.

Widdershins was already moving ahead, striding through the darkening streets as though the city couldn't possibly throw anything unexpected at her. (And who knew, after all she'd been through, or claimed to have been through, maybe it couldn't.) Renard followed a few paces behind, and barely glanced over as Igraine appeared behind him.

“I'm not convinced this is a good idea,” she said.

“Why not? I've been to the Flippant Witch. It's nothing to crow about, but it's not a bad little-”

The priestess sighed. “That is not what I meant, and you know it. Aren't you at all concerned that she'll figure it out?”

Renard's voice dropped to something barely above a whisper. “That I'm the current and oh-so-enigmatic Shrouded Lord? Were you planning to tell her?”

“Certainly not!”

“So what's the worry?” he asked with a shrug. “She and I have been friends for years, and it's never been an issue.”

“So, of course, you'll give her every additional opportunity to catch you in some slip?”

“She's my friend,” he said again. “And these are events of more than a little importance to the Guild. I think my participation is justified.”

“And I,” Igraine said, with as much fire in her voice as she dared allow, “am not certain that your judgment is entirely sound where Widdershins is concerned.”

“I don't know what you mean.” Enough ice dripped from each word to chill an entire punchbowl.

“Lambert…” And more quietly, “My lord, you must know that the priesthood is growing concerned about your obvious attachment to-”

“Don't call me that in public, no matter how quietly.”

“All right, but-”

“And this conversation is concluded.”

Renard quickened his pace to walk beside Widdershins, making sarcastic comments about this sight or that as they progressed. Igraine, for her part, fell back a few steps with a shake of her head and a second, worried sigh.

Narrow lanes grew broad, and rough buildings grew slightly less rough, as the trio made their way from the squalid Ragway quarter into the more widely used, if not necessarily more opulent, Market District. The scents of the various food vendors, though closed for the evening, permeated the air, soaking into the mud, the bricks, and the clothes of even those pedestrians who passed through only briefly. It was a route that Widdershins knew like the inside of her own eyelids-better, actually, and it was a stupid expression, anyway, since she couldn't really have described the inside of her eyelids even on a bet-and despite the severity of their overall situation, she found herself scarcely paying attention along the way.

Broad lanes narrowed once more, here at the very edge of the market. Widdershins rounded a shadowy corner to come face-to-face with the shallow steps and rough wooden door of the Flippant Witch-and the sudden weight in her gut suggested that the world now had her absolute attention.

The plan had been to leave Renard and Igraine here while she went to fetch the Guard.

The fact that the Guard was already here, as evidenced by three men and women in the black-and-silver tabards, sporting the fleur-de-lis, could not possibly be an indication of anything good.

Renard, Igraine, and even Olgun called for her to stop, to observe, to think, but she was deaf to them all. She was sprinting before she was even consciously aware of her intention to move, physically shoving through the assembled Guardsmen before they'd entirely registered her presence. (She never felt the tingle in the air as Olgun reached out to hide her approach for an extra few seconds, for if he had not-had the constables seen this woman charging them from the darkness-one might well have drawn a blade or a pistol and struck before anyone knew what was happening.)

Arms reached out as she burst into the common room, grabbing her from behind and holding her in place. Widdershins lashed out blindly, screaming something-she thought, later, that her words had been panicked questions as to what was happening, but she was never sure-and things might still have gotten ugly had not two voices called out together for the constables to let her go.

The first was Gerard, the red-bearded fellow who'd been with the Witch since long before it had fallen into Widdershins's possession. The second was a Guardsman with pale mustache and goatee; a sliver of Widdershins's mind recognized him as a companion of Julien's, though she couldn't for the life of her remember-or, frankly, care about-his name.