False Covenant

ceased.

But only for an instant. The laughter resumed once more, this time from the opposite side of the street. Shadows shifted in the lantern light, and the figure seemed to reappear on a building behind the terrified couple without having bothered to cross the intervening space. Osanne swayed on her feet, nearly fainting, while Aubert's hose were suddenly warm and wet.

They ran, then, screaming and crying, both dagger and dignity left on the cobblestones of what should have been a safe and quiet street. The dark figure did not pursue; but the laughter followed them, in their dreams, for months to come.

CHAPTER THREE

Robin allowed herself a deep, heartfelt sigh and slouched briefly against the back wall, where in a more traditional (and wealthier) establishment than the Flippant Witch, a large mirror might have hung. It wasn't a posture particularly welcoming to customers-but then, as there were precious few of those today, and all of them were regulars, it didn't seem particularly inappropriate, either.

The teen and the tavern were quite similar in many respects; both friendly enough, but fairly drab and unremarkable on the surface. She was a slender slip of a girl, lightly dusted with freckles as if by a stingy confectioner, wearing her hair chopped short and sporting nondescript tunic and hose. She was accustomed to being mistaken for a boy at any distance-encouraged it, in fact, when she was traveling the streets of Davillon- though at her age, that was becoming less and less likely with each passing season.

Until about six months ago, Robin had been a serving girl at the Flippant Witch tavern; it hadn't been an easy life, or a rich one, but she'd been happy enough. Now, despite her age, she was one of its managers, carrying enough responsibility to bruise those tiny shoulders of hers. If she hadn't cared so much-about both the tavern's current owner, and the lingering memories of its former-she might have gone to find some other employment by now.

Assuming there was any to be found, these days.

Frowning, chewing on the corner of her lip, she looked once more over the common room. There wasn't much to the Flippant Witch: a squat, hunkering building that, other than that selfsame common room, contained only a kitchen, a storeroom, and a few small, private parlors. Sawdust, firewood, and a melange of alcohols wafted on the air, laced just around the edges with stale sweat. The scents had soaked into the rafters, the wooden tables, even the small stone altar of Banin. (Neither Robin nor the tavern's owner actually worshipped Banin; they kept the icon out of respect for an absent friend.)

Unfortunately, said scents were finally starting to fade. A chamber that, this time last year, would have been crammed to capacity by multiple dozens of patrons now housed only a fraction of that number. Casks and bottles stood almost full, or even unopened; in the kitchen, cuts of meat hung uncooked, loaves of bread slowly went stale. It was quiet enough in the common room to hear the passersby outside. On occasion, the servers didn't even have to deliver a customer's order to the bar or the kitchen, as Robin and the cook could listen to them clearly enough all the way from the table.

The Flippant Witch wasn't dying, necessarily, but she was most assuredly sick. And Robin hadn't the slightest idea of how to fix it. With a second sigh far too large to have been contained in such a small form, she drifted out from behind the bar and went to go see if she could help at the tables.

“Kinda quiet in here, isn't it, Robs?” The words, though slightly slurred, remained entirely comprehensible. No surprise, really; since the speaker spent more or less every waking hour in his cups, he'd certainly learned how to function by now.

Robin offered a small smile to the man seated at the corner table. Rough, unshaven, dressed in clothes that were more wrinkled than a bathing grandmother-and as much a fixture of the Flippant Witch as the furniture.

“Reading my mind again, are you, Monsieur Recharl?” she asked lightly, and then had to force herself not to laugh at his confused blinking.

No, he hadn't been reading her mind. It was the same question he'd asked every day for the past two months. So, since it always satisfied him, she offered the same answer.

“It's the same everywhere in Davillon, monsieur. Things are bad all over; you know, with the Church and all.”

“Right,” he said. His blinking continued. “That thing with, uh, with the bishop…”

“Archbishop,” Robin corrected gently. “William de Laurent. Yeah.”

Indeed, ever since the murder of the archbishop last year, many of the Church clergy had made their displeasure with Davillon clear in no uncertain terms. Merchants were “encouraged” to do their trading elsewhere; major liturgical events were held in alternate cities; and priests at pulpits across Galice sermonized on the evils of the nation's newly crowned “most depraved and violent” city.

It wasn't very “Churchly,” but it was certainly very human.

And the result, in a short two seasons, was an economic downturn of a size Davillon hadn't seen in generations. Several priests had been beaten and robbed in retaliation, souring the city's reputation with the Church even further, and Robin was a little surprised that their newly appointed bishop-what was his name? Sicard, right? — hadn't been lynched or assassinated within weeks of his arrival.

Robin chatted with the tavern's most loyal customer for a few moments, bemoaning the state of Davillon and the pettiness of Churchmen who really ought to know better, reminiscing about how much better everything used to be, and in general making Robin sound older than she was and Recharl as though he had a better memory than he did. Then, finally, she was able to politely slip away, ostensibly to get him a refill.

“Gerard?” she asked the red-bearded figure currently hefting a tray of dirty mugs across the common room. “Could you see about getting Monsieur Recharl another-”

“It's not the Church, you know,” he said softly.

It was Robin's turn to blink in confusion. “What?”

“Come on, Robin. I mean, yes, the economy's hurting us, a lot, but it's not the only-”

“Don't! I don't want to hear it.”

Gerard frowned, set his tray down on the nearest empty table, and placed a hand on Robin's shoulder. She just as swiftly shrugged it off.

“Robin, we all love Shins. You know that, just like we all know that this place wouldn't be here at all if it wasn't for her.”

“Yeah, you sound real grateful, Gerard.”

“Don't be that way. I'm just saying, she's not as good at this as-”

“She's trying!” Robin tensed, glanced around at the bleary stares aimed her way, and then lowered her voice. “She's doing the best she can for us! It's killing her that the Witch is doing so poorly!”

“I know that!” Gerard repeated. “I'm just saying, something needs to change! She needs to hire on someone who knows how to run a place like this, or-I don't know, take lessons or something. But she can't just keep on doing what she's been-”

“We've got a customer,” Robin interrupted, overtly relieved at the sound of the front door. “I've got to go. We'll discuss this later.” Much, much later.

She spun away from Gerard's glower and plastered a smile once more across her face. “Good afternoon!” she chirped. “Welcome to the Flippant Witch, how can we…”

This, she couldn't help but observe, was not exactly your standard tavern-goer.

The newcomer was a tall man, young, probably about as much older than Widdershins as Widdershins was older than Robin. His onyx-black hair was tied back in an ornate braid, revealing the sharp, narrow features of a well-bred aristocrat. He wore a heavy traveler's coat and one of the brand-new tricorne hats (currently gaining in popularity in Galician high society, but not yet common in Davillon itself), but what snagged Robin's attention was the blade at his side: a long rapier with a brass bell guard, and what looked to be an honest-to-the-gods ruby in the pommel!