False Covenant

Widdershins was trying to return that look confidently without crossing the line into “challenging,” and was having a tough time of it. No other priests or worshippers in Davillon-in the world, so far as she knew-had the same connection with their deities as Widdershins had with Olgun. But she knew that many priests had some abilities that bordered on the mystical, including a surprising degree of insight. As such, she was never sure exactly what Igraine, or the other guild priests, actually knew, sensed, or suspected about her and Olgun. It made her nervous; it made Olgun nervous; and they, in turn, fretted enough to make each other even more nervous.

“I think,” the Shrouded Lord said slowly, “that Monsieur Beaupre has begun to get some inkling of how displeased we are with his actions, and could use some time to ruminate on that.” He slowly faced Simon, who had grown pale enough that even a professional undertaker might have mistaken him for a client. “Couldn't you?”

“Ah…yes, my lord.”

“Good. Go. We will discuss your punishment another time. Do be prepared to explain what you've learned from this, hmm? It may have some bearing on the severity of your penance.”

Simon rose, bowed-no mean feat, given that he was trembling at the time-and made for the door, edging around the room so as not to get too near the Shrouded Lord in the process.

“Well,” Widdershins said, standing up as the door clicked shut behind the fleeing Squirrel, “I guess I should be on my way, too. Taskmaster, thank you for-”

“Sit. Down.”

“Wow.” Widdershins sat. “Did the three of you practice that? Because, I mean, that was pretty much perfectly coordinated. I-”

“You should probably stop talking now,” Remy warned her.

“Now?” she said. “Probably a while ago, I'd think.”

Despite what appeared to be his best efforts to thwart them, the corners of the taskmaster's mouth curled upward in a faint smile.

“We were planning,” the Shrouded Lord said, leaning back against the wall and crossing his arms so that the hanging fabrics draped in layers over his chest, “to call you in anyway, Widdershins. So it's just as well the taskmaster summoned you.”

Widdershins bristled at the word “summoned,” but she managed (possibly with Olgun's help) to avoid blurting out something really stupid.

“We would, in fact, appreciate your assistance,” the guildmaster continued. “We-”

“My lord?” They all turned to the priestess, who was perhaps the only Finder in the city who would dare to interrupt him. (Or the only one who would dare and could reasonably expect to suffer no serious consequences.)

It was impossible, beneath the Shrouded Lord's hood, to see even a hint of facial features, but Widdershins was absolutely certain she could sense a raised eyebrow. “Yes?” he asked Igraine. It was long, drawn out; more of a yyyeeeeesssss?

“I wish to protest this, again. I don't believe she can be trusted.”

“Hey!” Widdershins snapped. “Standing right here, you know!”

Igraine ignored her. “I'd be far more comfortable if-”

It was, this time, the Shrouded Lord who interrupted her. “Yes, so you were making clear before Monsieur Beaupre's outburst distracted us. And as I believe I was making clear, I understand your concerns, but I do not share them.”

“My lord, my counsel is one of the reasons-”

“That'll do, Igraine.”

The priestess nodded, then directed her sharp, scarcely blinking gaze at the young woman in question.

A young woman who, frankly, had lost her patience some time ago.

“What is it,” she demanded of the room at large, “with me and the powerful women in this guild? First Lisette, now you? What'd I do to ruffle your holy feathers?”

Remy coughed into his hand, presumably since laughing outright wouldn't have been politic.

Even Igraine smiled shallowly at the comment. “I've nothing against you personally, Widdershins.”

“Then what-?”

“I do not understand precisely what happened here last year. I don't know why you had such an unholy creature pursuing you. And I have yet to determine what it is, but there's something wrong about you. An…aura, if you will. A power that I find distasteful, and possibly contrary to the will of the Shrouded God.”

Well, Widdershins groused mentally, I guess that answers my question about how much of Olgun she can sense.

“I distrust what I don't understand,” the priestess continued, “and I dislike what I don't trust. So unless you'd care to explain…?”

“I,” Widdershins announced firmly, “have no idea what you're talking about.”

“Of course you don't.”

“Are you quite through?” asked the Shrouded Lord.

“I am,” Widdershins told him. “I can't speak for Her Eminence.”

“That's a term of address for an archbishop,” Igraine corrected her with a sniff. “Not a priestess.”

“Oh, I'm sorry. Her Insignificance, then.”

The taskmaster's coughing fit grew worse.

“Let me rephrase,” the Shrouded Lord said. “You two are quite through.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“All right.”

“Laremy,” the guildmaster continued, “you may wish to have that cough looked at.”

“Uh, yes, my lord.”

“Good. Now-”

“Uh…Excuse me? Um, my lord?”

The Shrouded Lord's shoulders deflated. “Yes, Widdershins?”

“Um…” She was chewing on the ends of her hair-and when exactly had that become a habit?! — her face suddenly serious. “What about Lisette? Any…uh, any news?”

Lisette Suvagne-Laremy's predecessor as taskmaster-had been Widdershins's avowed enemy ever since the younger thief had stolen the ancestral treasures from the d'Arras family tower, a job that Suvagne herself had been planning for months. The former taskmaster had made multiple attempts at destroying Widdershins, until she'd finally gone a step too far and been removed from her post for disobeying the Shrouded Lord's direct orders. She'd utterly vanished not long afterward, even from the far-reaching attentions of the Finders' Guild.

“No,” he said simply. “Nothing.”

“Oh.”

“As I was saying,” he continued, a touch of impatience creeping into his rasping voice, “we have a bit of a conundrum on our hands, and we-that is, some of us-felt that you would be an appropriate choice to help us out.”

“I would? What'd I do this time?”

“Nothing. Other than come dangerously near to annoying your boss.”

“Maybe I'll be quiet and let you finish,” Widdershins murmured.

“Maybe, but I have my doubts.”

Silence, then-perhaps deliberately to prove the Shrouded Lord wrong.

Eventually, he continued, “While I do not share my priestess's distrust of you, she's not wrong in her facts. You were heavily involved in a number of mysterious and even supernatural events last year. The demon that pursued you through our halls; the death of its summoner; even the murder of Archbishop William de Laurent, as well as several of your friends.”

Widdershins looked to the floor; six months later, the wounds remained fresh.

“To say nothing of whatever power it is that Igraine senses around you. We've all heard tell of your