False Covenant

any joy was swiftly overwhelmed and drowned beneath a rising tide of despair.

Widdershins didn't even bother to show up.

“So what now?” Evrard asked. He might as well have been discussing plans for dinner, so little did he seem to care anymore. “Did she send you to kill for her, as well?”

“Any killing I do, monsieur, is entirely for me,” Renard retorted. “And you are simply bitter that Widdershins found a way around your snare.”

“By abandoning her friends,” Evrard spat, his every fiber radiating contempt.

Robin actually saw Renard's finger tighten on the trigger, saw his face go hard; she swore she even saw the weapon's hammer tremor with anticipation, though of course that wasn't possible, was it? At the last second, however, the fop relaxed his grip with a loud sigh. He studied the aristocrat standing nigh helpless before him, then Robin's tear-glistening face.

And whether he directed his answer to one, the other, or both, Renard spoke once more.

“You doubt her,” he said softly. “But you've no reason. It took every argument we could muster to persuade her not to come. I've never seen her so worried as she was about you, girl. And had it just been a matter of this idiot's trap, not every god of the Pact could have held her back.”

“Then why?” Robin asked softly, but her question was lost in Evrard's own.

“And I presume I'm supposed to ask, then, what it was that kept her away? Fine. What, pray tell, could that have been? A theft she couldn't pass up? A rendezvous with some lover?”

Again the leather of Renard's gloves creaked, again his weapon almost discharged. “She's a little busy,” he hissed, “working with the Guard and the Church to keep the creature stalking our streets from murdering any more children!”

Although it was Robin who was standing beside the thief as he shouted, it was Evrard who physically recoiled. “What? She…Why?!” Apparently, it never even occurred to him to doubt Renard's story-presumably because it was so very unlikely that there would be no point to concocting such a ludicrous tale. “What's her involvement with that…thing?”

Renard blinked, perhaps at the implication that Evrard himself knew more about Iruoch than he should, but merely shrugged. “None at all, other than the desire to stop it.”

And Robin could only laugh through her tears at the expression on the gobsmacked aristocrat's face. “I told you you didn't know anything!” she crowed.

“All right,” Evrard said, clearly struggling to recover. “So what now?”

Renard apparently caught something-a flicker of an eyelid, a shifting of Evrard's weight-that Robin herself had missed. “Now, you don't even think it. Even if you could reach the table before the four of us shot you down, you'd die before you could fire off more than one of those pistols that await you so tantalizingly beyond reach.”

Evrard offered a faint grin in exchange. “But you're going to shoot me anyway, are you not?”

“Well,” Renard admitted, “that's not entirely impossible, but-”

Robin had never, in her life, seen anyone move so fast (although it must be pointed out that she'd never witnessed one of Widdershins's supernatural feats). Literally between one of Renard's words and the next, Evrard was whirling, the air around him whining in pain as the hem of his coat and the tip of his blade both sliced their way through it. Wobbling in an awkward arc, the ruby-hilted rapier spun through the intervening space and plunged through the small gaggle of thieves gathered by the front door. It wasn't much of an attack-rapiers not, by and large, being designed for use at a distance-but the sheer speed and ferocity of the throw sent Renard and his two companions cringing away from the flashing steel. For the barest instant, the four gun barrels aimed at Evrard had been reduced to one.

That one, the musket held by the woman covering him from behind, discharged with a deafening clap, but Evrard was already sprinting. The ball flew harmlessly through empty space, vanishing finally into the wood of the far wall.

A fusillade of three more shots came rapidly after the first, as Renard and the others recovered, but hitting a moving target with a flintlock weapon was tricky at the best of times; when it was moving as swiftly and unexpectedly as Evrard, well, far better marksmen than these three Finders could have been excused for missing the mark.

Renard was already forward, the others close on his heels, steel sliding from the sheath at his waist. They needed to close the distance fast, before Evrard could take advantage of the pistols that lay, loaded and waiting, on the table.

Except that Evrard wasn't going for the pistols. Without slowing down or breaking stride, he leapt, using the table as a stepping stone to the row of windows beyond. Old wooden shutters disintegrated beneath his shoulder, and the aristocrat was tumbling out into the dusty road, leaving only astonished faces and angry mutters behind him.

Renard smiled gently as he returned to Robin's side, sheathing his blade and bending to retrieve both the pistol he'd dropped in his haste, and the weapon the aristocrat had hurled his way. “Ready to go home?” he asked.

She gave him a single nod. “You didn't chase him.”

It wasn't precisely a question, but Renard decided to accept it as one. “The gunfire probably already drew more attention than we want. A bunch of us chasing a lone man down the street? Even assuming he didn't pick us off one by one, it would certainly have gone ill for all of us. You're safe; that's the important bit.”

“Important to some.”

Renard didn't think he was supposed to have heard it, wasn't sure if Robin had even realized she'd spoken aloud. He frowned, glanced about himself to make certain that none of the other Finders were within earshot, and leaned in as though examining the girl's chafed wrist.

“Everything I said to that popinjay was true, Robin. The only reason Widdershins didn't come herself-”

“I know.” Robin managed a brief and feeble smirk at the sound of Renard calling anyone “popinjay,” given that the man dressed as though he were paying court to the daughter of a rainbow, but otherwise her demeanor, and her haunted expression, changed not a whit. “I know why she couldn't be here.”

She didn't add the But still aloud, but Renard heard it all the same.

And in a veritable bolt of inspiration, Renard completely understood.

“You love her.”

Robin's face became stone-no, not even stone, but ice. All of it, that is, save for the two burning splotches of red in her cheeks.

“Shut up. You shut the hell up!”

Renard glanced over his shoulder, raised a hand to signal the puzzled Finders to remain where they were, that this was no difficulty he couldn't handle on his own.

“You don't know what you're talking about! You don't know anything!” She'd lowered her voice, but what the rant lacked in volume, Robin was more than making up for in sheer vehemence. “Don't you ever say that again, you bastard! Me? Widdershins?! That's not…I mean, that wouldn't be even remotely…She's not…”

The dapper Finder had never really been all that close with Robin. She'd never been anything to him but Widdershins's friend, and the girl who helped Widdershins oversee the Flippant Witch. Nevertheless, he reached out and took her gently by the shoulders.

For an instant, Robin stiffened, as though she would run, or even strike at him-and then the ice cracked. Her arms wrapped around his chest, the tears she'd been battling earlier soaked his doublet.

“You can't tell her!” Robin sobbed. “Please, Renard, you can't!”

“Shh. Hush. I won't say a word, I promise.”

He twisted his neck around until it ached, struggling to meet the gaze of his companions without relinquishing the embrace. When he was certain he had their attention, he deliberately tilted his head toward the chair to which she'd been chained and carefully mouthed the words “It's all too much.”

He was relieved when the Finders nodded and looked away, making themselves look busy while the girl recovered. Let them believe the lie; it was better for everyone.

“Come on, Robin,” he said kindly as her shaking finally began to subside. “Let's get you home.” He took her wet sniffle as agreement, and slowly began to disentangle himself from her grasp.