False Covenant

“No, really,” the bishop said. “Who are we-?”

“And he was going to let me go,” Robin reminded her.

“That doesn't excuse-”

“No, it doesn't. Shins, I'm not suggesting that he's suddenly our best friend or anything. But I spoke to him. I listened to him. I don't pretend to understand his code of honor, but I know he has one. Under the right circumstances, I think he can be trusted.”

“Under the right circumstances, so can the average trapdoor spider!” Widdershins snapped. “What does that-?”

“How many people told you about him, did you say? Said that he's one of the greatest duelists alive today? Not just in Davillon, but in all Galice? If you're looking for someone good enough to make a difference, while keeping the group small, you know you won't find anyone better suited.”

“Ugh!” Widdershins threw up her hands and began to pace, just a couple of steps in each direction, before her friend's chair. “Robin, I don't think you know what you're asking.”

“Is anyone going to fill the rest of us in?” Sicard asked, his tone starting to grow petulant. Renard leaned over and began whispering in his ear.

“I know this is more important than anyone's personal grudges,” Robin continued relentlessly.

“Yes, but-”

“It's more important than your pride, Shins.”

“This isn't about pride! This-”

“It was important enough that you sent someone else to save me.”

Widdershins stumbled to a halt, nearly tripping over her own feet.

Was that what this was really about? Was Robin testing her, to see if she'd do as much as she'd demanded of others, put the needs of the moment above her own feelings? Was the girl maybe even punishing her, if only a little?

And…After all that had happened, didn't she have the right to want to know?

“All right.” The words were bile on her tongue, actually burned the back of her throat, but still she coughed them up. “All right, Robin. I'll try to convince him. But if he kills me, you're the first one I'm haunting.”

Robin smiled, if only faintly.

“Start planning,” Widdershins told the others. “I'll be back soon.” One last, brief glance-lingering, perhaps, on Julien's troubled brow-and she was gone.

That this particular suite of rooms was nicer than the average house in Davillon would have come as no surprise to any visitor. Quality (read: ostentation) was the hallmark of the Golden Sable mansion block, located at the fanciest end of Rising Bend, scarcely more than a bowshot away from the estates of Duchess Beatrice Luchene herself. What might have surprised such a hypothetical visitor was the size of the suite; it was substantially larger than those same average houses. A combination sitting and dining room opened up into numerous hallways, which in turn led to almost a dozen additional chambers. The carpeting was thick and plush enough to have silenced the hoofbeats of a mule (and yes, said mule could potentially have fit through the door, while carrying saddlebags stuffed with unnecessary luxuries). Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their glass and crystal adornments glinting like stars in the light of their many candles, and the overall stench of the city was cloaked by pomanders hanging near the numerous doorways.

One of the rooms farthest from the front door, however, was utterly unlike the others. In this chamber alone, the carpet had been pulled up, the bulk of the furniture removed, the window covered by a sturdy square of wood. Several straw-stuffed mannequins stood along one wall, and heavy bags of sand hung at random intervals from the ceiling. Through it all, currently clad only in a pair of heavy hose, Evrard d'Arras twisted and spun, lashing out with rapier and dagger (the former of which was rather less ornate than the one he'd so recently lost). Straw flew and sand poured in torrents, yet so precise were his strikes that the bags barely swung or twisted as they opened to his blades. Sweat poured from Evrard's face, but he found that the growing knot of frustration-and, if he'd been more honest with himself, confusion-in his belly refused to loosen.

Finally, cursing in disgust, he stalked across the room and grabbed up a pair of towels-the first for his face, the second to ensure that no particles of sand clung to the steel.

“Jacques!” Evrard hadn't brought any of his family's servants with him to Davillon, but the Golden Sable included a few valets and maids as part of their amenities. “Jacques, some wine!”

He'd completed cleaning the weapons and replaced them on the wooden rack, present beside the door for just that purpose, before it occurred to him that his shout had not been answered.

“Jacques?”

Another pause, another failure to respond. Evrard frowned thoughtfully. He'd never been particularly fond of the valet with whom he'd been provided, but neither had the man ever failed in his assigned tasks before today. The fellow probably just hadn't heard him-but then again, despite the size of the suite, it'd be the first time, were that the case.

Casual and unhurried, Evrard finished toweling off, retrieved the frilled tunic he'd left hanging on the edge of the rack and pulled it over his head, and once more lifted the rapier from its niche. Blade held before him, relaxed but ready, Evrard proceeded into the hall.

His footsteps, utterly silent on that veritable lawn of carpeting, had carried him past the bedroom, the bathing chamber, the dressing room, and several closets when he found himself in one corner of the sitting room. To his left was a mahogany table on which he kept a great many of his items for going out: rings, buckles, his hat, and several pistols. Beyond was a hallway leading farther back into the apartment, boasting doors to either side, culminating in a large window.

Leaning against the wall beside that window was a chair that someone had dragged from the dining room. And seated casually in that chair, her ankles crossed before her…

“Hello, Evrard,” Widdershins said.

She couldn't help but smirk, even through her simmering anger, when the aristocrat jumped-however faintly- at the sound of her voice. She saw his entire body twitch, subtly but vaguely in the direction of the table.

“No point,” she told him. “I unloaded them.”

He froze, glanced at the flintlocks, and nodded. “Of course you did.” He flexed his wrist, just enough to tilt the rapier in his fist. “I can be down that hallway in seconds.”

“Yep. And I can be out that window in less. At which point, I haven't wasted anything but time and breath, and you never find out why I'm here.”

“I suppose you expect me to believe that it's not to kill me?”

“Kind of a stupid way to go about it if I were, yes? Announcing myself and putting you on your guard?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Honestly, I don't understand you at all, Widdershins.”

“That,” she hissed through clenched teeth, “is an understatement.”

They both waited, letting their glares conduct the duel that their bodies were avoiding.

“How did you find me?” Evrard finally asked.

Widdershins scoffed. “You're a visiting blue blood who spends more on a month's rent than the Flippant Witch pulls in over a good couple of years. How did I find you? I asked.”

“Ah. And Jacques?”

“Tied up in the kitchen. Unless you're talking about a different stuck-up servant, in which case I have no idea.”

“Ah,” he said again, then gestured with his chin. “And my sword? Are you planning to return that?”

“This?” Widdershins's hand dropped to her waist. “This isn't your sword.”

“No? It looks an awful lot like-”

“Your sword,” she explained patiently, “had a ruby in the pommel. This one doesn't. Ergo…”

“I see.” A scowl, and then more silence. Finally, “Why are you here?”

“I-Did you really set out to destroy my life, and to kill me, over a theft?” she demanded.

It was clearly not what she'd been about to say. “It wasn't just ‘a theft,’ damn it! You broke into my family's