Covenant's End (19 page)

“And more importantly, ‘Commandant,' I know exactly
what
you are.”

Fast,
so
fast! Even with Olgun's magics infusing her vision, she scarcely registered that his hand was in motion before it was already aiming a bash-bang pistol at her chest.

Well, at least he didn't waste our time with the “I don't know what you're talking about” routine…

The partners, one mortal and one otherwise, made no attempt to execute their usual trick for facing a flintlock, not without knowing
precisely what the possessing spirit could do. If it was able to ward off Olgun's own power, however briefly, she'd simply be killing herself by forcing the weapon to discharge.

Instead, a second's heartbeat before the
bang
, she leapt.

No. She
soared
.

She was sure it must appear impressive, even melodramatic. Her body rising up and back, higher than any human could jump; arms outspread, legs tucked up under her, well above the path of the hurtling ball.

But then, the posture wasn't
meant
to be melodramatic; that was merely a fringe benefit.

Aiming at the rough lumber that was the nearest wall, Widdershins kicked. And not only with her own strength.

The air around her all but crackled with Olgun's magics, slipping her through a narrow gap in the laws of physics. Many a time before, she had taken a step on nothing, her god's power catching and boosting her. Now that power coursed through her legs, propelling her from the building at impossible speed—but also at an impossible
angle
. Without the slightest concern for minor details such as inertia, Shins's kick transformed her leap up and back into a forward dive.

Caught completely by surprise, even the fae-ridden guardsman couldn't react. Widdershins plowed into him, a human ballista bolt, slamming him to the hard ground. A quick handspring from his chest, even as he fell, and she was on her feet behind him.

Her heel rose and fell like a headsman's axe, intended to put him good and out, but the unnatural creature wasn't so easily felled, not even by a blow that should have left him too battered to stand. As though his own heels were hinged to the earth, his entire body sprung upward and straightened; a narrow tendril of shadow trailed from his back, propelling him off the ground.

Archibeque spun, rapier whipping free of its scabbard, and Shins drew as well. No pause, no threats. Steel screamed against steel, a
chorus of death thwarted and frustrated as each parried the other, only to have every riposte parried in turn.

Back and forth along the street, occasionally swapping places as one flipped or wall-kicked over the other. She thrust at the man's arm, trying to catch his strike on flesh rather than blade, hopefully rendering the limb useless. It should have worked; he'd need a second elbow to bend out of the path of her rapier, and he had yet to display any of the inhuman flexibility that Lisette had revealed days before.

The commandant's arm broke from within as muscles flexed where they shouldn't, bending at a near right angle between elbow and wrist. The second her blade had passed by and withdrawn, the limb snapped itself back together, the audible crunch of bone fitting back into bone somehow worse than the crack of the break itself.

“Ow!” Shins backed up a pace, initiating the first pause the duel had seen. “Doesn't that
hurt
?!”

Archibeque grinned so widely the corners of his mouth began to bleed. “Of course it does. But not
me
.”

Shadows lashed from his fingertips, dancing before her like drunken serpents, and abruptly the entire world went black.

For all of half a second, before Olgun's magic surged once more and cleared the unnatural veil from her sight.

The possessed guardsman had already committed—even overcommitted—to his lunge before he realized that his “victim” wasn't remotely as blind or helpless as she was supposed to be. Had Shins wanted him dead, she could easily have run him through as she sidestepped.

But killing Archibeque was never the plan.

Widdershins's fist, protected by Olgun to keep it from breaking, met the man's jaw at the apex of his lunge. Even
that
didn't put him out, but it wasn't a blow he—or the creature riding him—could just shrug off, either.

“See,” Shins told him, circling around his sprawled form to stand
by his head, “I know that you guys are only kind of here, in Davillon. And I figured you were spending more than a bit of your concentration keeping this poor fellow compliant, yes?

“I bet your jaw hurts, so feel free not to answer. Oh, and sorry about that, Commandant. If you're in there.”

Carefully, watchfully, she knelt beside him, reached into a pouch at her belt, and shoved a handful of dried and powdered leaves in his face. Startled, he inhaled. His entire body spasmed, choking, thrashing, but only briefly. The drug worked fast, and he started to go limp almost immediately.

“I'm thinking you can't drive an unconscious body,” she said. “So either you get to leave—if you even can—and poof on out of here, because you're not even supposed to be
in
Davillon, and you won't have Archibeque as an anchor. Or you get to come along with me. I'm good either—”

“You! Stay right where…Commandant? Commandant Archibeque's down!”

Shins whimpered something unintelligible. The patrol—and it looked, silhouetted against the light at the end of the street, to be about six of them—must have been near enough to hear the gunshot. The thing behind Archibeque's face began to laugh before unconsciousness finally claimed him.

Slowly standing to face the charging squad of guardsmen, Shins made the only commentary on the situation she possibly could.

“Figs.”

“My friends…” Ancel Sicard, Bishop of Davillon, used those words a lot these days.
My friends.
And for the most part, he meant it. He cared, truly, for the city he'd been assigned to shepherd.

The city had not, if one were to judge by the clergyman's mien or carriage, showed him the same care in return.

His frame, thin and bent, bore precious little resemblance to the robust barrel of a man who'd assumed the office. The last tiny flecks of pepper had faded from what had formerly been a salt-and-pepper beard, leaving only a snow-white expanse. The same was technically true of the hair atop his head, but it hardly mattered, since most of it was gone, now, leaving only a rough, age-spotted scalp.

But his voice still boomed, when he wished it to, as though the Pact truly spoke through him, and he still wore his determination as a second set of vestments.

As he prepared to wrap up this afternoon's mass, he couldn't help but sneer internally, just a bit, at the vast array of bright hues on display, or at the aroma of uncountable colognes and perfumes. It seemed his audience strove to outshine the stained glass, out-sweeten the ceremonial incense. The aristocracy were Davillon's life, and he well understood the need to maintain appearances, but the knowledge that the most powerful people in his congregation were there for reasons that had little to do with faith left a bad taste in his mouth.

And they
were
powerful, today especially. Beatrice Luchene, the Duchess Davillon, Voice of Vercoule, and the nearest thing the city's Houses had to a true ruler, had put in an appearance. The rich reds and purples of her finest gown, the intricately coiffed ropes of gray
and black that were her hair, probably drew more eyes to the front row of pews than his sermon had drawn to the dais.

Good thing, too, that she was so impossible to miss. Her presence was precisely what Sicard had been awaiting, why he personally led the afternoon mass for the first time in weeks.

“My friends,” he said again, “you do not need me to tell you that Davillon has seen some truly hard times over the past two years. And I assure you, you've no need to remind me that no small part of those troubles were, in part, the fault of our Mother Church.”

More, I fear, than you will ever actually know.

“But today, the Houses, the Church, and the people of this city stand together, in the face of tribulations that, it would appear, are not all entirely of a natural sort. I know you have heard much but confirmed little. I know that fear rides among you on a saddle of whisper and hooves of rumor. And I have been unable to reassure you as well as I would like.”

He stepped forward, to the very edge of the platform. “I make you no promises, but tonight
may
be the night that changes!” Gasps and hushed murmurs filled the chamber at that, just as he'd intended. He had
everyone's
attention now.

Attention that would also be directed toward anyone he now addressed.

“I see that we have a great many of Davillon's lords and ladies among us tonight. I invite all of you to come join me at the conclusion of this service, so that we may speak, and I may suggest to you a new plan that might see our city rid of its various tribulations!”

The murmurs were no longer hushed. A cresting wave of sound crashed through the cathedral as congregants wondered amongst themselves. Many gazed at Sicard in unabashed adoration, hopeful for the first time in months. A few others, however—a selection of the matrons and patrons of the noble Houses, specifically—could not entirely disguise their angry glares.

Sicard had trapped them, wholly and utterly. To leave now, to refuse his invitation, would antagonize the common folk. It would appear that the house of whomever declined was uninterested in a possible solution to Davillon's woes.

Some more enthusiastically than others, the highest of the high rose from their seats, leaning over to whisper instructions to assistants or bodyguards.

“I realize, in these troubled times,” the bishop announced, “that some of you might be nervous, considering the impropriety of bringing personal servants or armsmen to accompany you. So please, let me assure you, I have gathered a sizable squad of Church soldiers, who will be present to ensure that no threat can reach you from within or without! Not,” he added, “that I envision any sort of danger appearing within our own ranks.”

Glares turned to outright snarls. Had Sicard openly commanded them not to bring anyone, they might have had room to object. By casting it as a matter of propriety and trust in the Church, he had again made the eyes of the common folk his own enforcers. And surely they understood, as well, that his comment about “threats from within” meant that no political infighting or such misbehavior would be tolerated, either.

Sicard smiled beatifically over his flock, but he couldn't quite suppress a nervous twitch at one corner of his lips. If this
didn't
work—and it could go wrong in so very many ways—he might well have just made himself more than one enemy among the aristocracy.

Then again, if the situation is as dire as has been described, it's entirely possible that failure on our part will render
any
such political rivalries a moot point.

With a wave toward one of his under-priests to lead his “guests” to their gathering, Sicard descended the dais and vanished into the rear hallways as rapidly as propriety would permit.

“I trust I need not point out,” the duchess intoned in a voice that even career soldiers found intimidating, “that this is not your office.”

From his position at the head of the massive room, beneath a graven image of the Eternal Eye, symbol of all 147 gods of the Hallowed Pact, the bishop dipped his head. “No, Your Grace, I am quite well aware. My own chambers, roomy as they may be, seemed insufficient to host a group this size. I decided that the private chapel was more appropriate.”

Intended for familial rites or other exclusive religious gatherings, the smaller sanctuary bore only scant resemblance to the greater one from which they'd come. A small podium stood beneath the Eternal Eye, as did a table holding all the ceremonial basics: a few holy texts, a bronze censer, some incense and candles, and so forth. An array of pews, rather more comfortably cushioned than those in the main hall, faced the podium in tidy rows. No stained glass here; just a pair of oil-burning chandeliers, only one of which was currently alight.

Intended to seat as many as a hundred, if need be, the chapel was more than roomy enough for the dozen or so guests now occupying it.

Well, a dozen or so guests, plus Sicard. And his allies, though they had yet to make their entrance. And a small contingent of Church soldiers.

Anyone unfamiliar with the traditional garb might well have laughed at those guards, in their brightly colored pantaloons and puff-sleeved tunics, their mirror-polished breastplates and overly elaborate helms, the old-fashioned halberds too large even to effectively swing in the smaller rooms or narrower halls of the Basilica.

Anyone who had seen them in action—either with those bladed pikes or with the pistols and dueling swords they also carried—would absolutely
not
have laughed.

That they had very carefully positioned themselves so that some
were always beside the exits, others always within a few running paces of the gathered aristocrats, made them even less funny.

“So, out with it!” This from Charles Doumerge, the Baron d'Orreille, a limp-postured and limper-haired dishrag of a nobleman, who, it was commonly accepted, must have had a weasel, or some form of large rodent, in his ancestry. “Now that you've blackmailed us all into coming here, you could at least be prompt.”

“Blackmail?” Sicard asked innocently. “I merely made a request of you all, as the civic leaders of our fair city.”

“Laying it on a bit thick, Your Eminence,” Beatrice Luchene warned, not without a touch of humor.

“Ah. Apologies, Your Grace. If you'll permit me just one more moment's unpleasant business…. Guards?”

Backs and halberds snapped to attention, and most of the nobles couldn't help but flinch.

The bishop glanced down at a small scrap of paper, mumbling to himself, then nodded. “Him,” he said, pointing to one of the guests, who had now gone far more than fashionably pale. “Him. Her. Her. And…” His finger ended its ragged course aimed directly at Doumerge. “Him.”

“Now just a minute—!” the baron began.

“Would you kindly escort these five madames and monsieurs to my office? And keep them there until I instruct otherwise?”

Multiple voices shouted protests, Doumerge's only one among them. Even several of the House worthies who had not been named decried this bizarre treatment of their own.

“We can hardly discuss how to deal with conspiracy,” Sicard boomed, cutting everyone off short, “with conspirators actually
present
, can we?”

Everyone but the select five went silent, and amidst those five, protests and expressions had gone wan indeed. Surely, when Sicard had singled out everyone present who represented a House that had
refused to put armsmen on the streets, they must have known he was on to them. Nonetheless, they were unprepared for the direct accusation—no, not even accusation,
announcement
, for it contained no trace of doubt.

A bit more shouting and other chaos ensued, but when all was said and done, the gathering was smaller by five participants, and the Church soldiers' intimidating reputation remained fully intact.

“The gentlefolk I've just had removed,” Sicard told those who remained, “represent only a portion of a larger plot. Quite a few of the smaller Houses are engaged in all manner of illicit activities. It's important that you—”

“I cannot help but notice,” observed one Baron Merchand, a slightly rotund but imposingly tall fellow who always seemed quite jovial—until his temper flared, “that our five absent colleagues all represent Houses whose priests claim to be able to protect their people, and the citizens of Davillon, from unnatural threats that the Church cannot. If, as I suspect, you are about to name the
other
such houses as collaborators in this conspiracy of yours, Your Eminence, I should warn you that you may find the rest of us a dubious audience.”

“Do you truly believe, Monsieur, that I would concoct a charge against any of the city's nobles, in the midst of the present crises, purely to remove political rivals?”

Merchand's heavy-lidded expression was more than answer enough.

The bishop sighed, wandered over to the icon of the Eternal Eye, kissed his fingertips, and then lightly brushed them against the holy symbol. “We thought you might feel that way,” he admitted. “Which is why I will not be the one telling you of this.”

He waved broadly at one of the doorways. The nearest soldier responded to the obvious signal, hauling open the door and admitting three newcomers, only one of whom was garbed quite as nicely as the attending aristocrats.

“Igraine Vernadoe,” Sicard announced, “is a priestess in good standing with the Mother Church. Monsieur Lambert is…a concerned citizen with certain useful contacts. And I believe many of you already know Evrard d'Arras.”

The first two inclined their heads in respectful greeting; the third swept his hat from his head and offered a full bow from the waist.

The trio quickly delved into a basic (and heavily edited) summary of Lisette's schemes. Unfortunately, even with Evrard doing most of the talking, his fellow aristocrats weren't buying a word of it.

They didn't trust the source; the d'Arras scion could have political ambitions, the priestess answered to Sicard, and they knew absolutely nothing about Renard.

They didn't believe anyone could have the power or influence to do what they claimed Lisette had done, certainly not without them becoming aware of it. It was too far-fetched, too crazy.

And they scoffed overtly at tales of the Gloaming Court or monsters on the roads beyond Davillon. Many still refused to believe that anything supernatural had happened during last year's so-called Iruoch affair, and even those who did dismissed the possibility of such a thing happening
again
. It went against all odds.