Covenant's End (2 page)

Again. They'd done it
again
. It had been Embruchel this time; who knew which of them would slip the leash tomorrow?

She needed them, reveled in the power they granted, but this wouldn't do. They would kill, spread terror, everything she'd promised them and more, but not this much, not
yet
! Not everyone, everything, was quite in place.

“Gods damn it,” she growled again, far more softly. “You bastards are
immortal
. Why the hell do you find it so hard to
wait
?!”

With a sigh, Lisette rose and began casting around the opulent chamber for her clothes. She needed to compose herself, grab something to eat.

And then to try, yet
again
, to explain the importance of “patience” to creatures of pure and unchecked whim.

Ah, well. It'd be worth all the aggravation when Davillon—
all
of Davillon—was hers.

Lisette was not the only one in Davillon to wake in that moment.

Some distance across the city, in his dwelling chambers within the Basilica of the Sacred Choir, his Eminence Ancel Sicard, Bishop of Davillon, also sat upright out of a horrid dream. Groaning, he ran a few fingers through his pillow-matted beard before laying his head in his hands.

Confusing, unclear; a sequence of images, dark, disturbing, bloody. More a sensation than a sight, a cold and sick certainty that something was wrong, very wrong, in his city.

Not that he needed the dreams to tell him that. The Houses were squabbling, the Guard were dithering, and the rumors making the rounds were as horrid as they'd been last year, when the creature Iruoch had stalked the streets. Plus, Igraine was telling him of ever greater troubles in the criminal underworld as well…. It was no wonder his dreams were unsettling.

Except Sicard had been a priest long enough to know that sometimes the dreams of the clergy were no dreams at all. And if these were omens, signs, then something truly, impossibly,
inhumanly
awful was at hand.

It had been nothing shy of a miracle that Davillon came out of the last year so relatively unscathed. It seemed almost ungrateful to pray for another one so soon, but that was what his city required: another miracle.

Or maybe
, he pondered, as the image of a chestnut-haired and darkly clad young woman floated to the surface of his sleep-addled memories,
just the return of a prior one
.

Unbelievable that he'd ever entertain that hope. She was rude, insolent, exasperating, unpredictable, and just talking to her was like trying to scoop up a squirming armful of puppies and eels. He'd shed no tears when he learned she'd left.

Still…
if she's coming back, I do rather hope it's soon
.

The days were oddly chilly, given that the calendar insisted mid-spring wasn't terribly far off. Not ludicrously so, not wrapped in snow as if winter had utterly missed its cue to depart, stage north. Just chilly. The breeze carried a subtle bite, the sort offered when the neighbor's dog was tired of your crap but hadn't
yet
reached the point of going for your throat. The rain, less frequent, fell in fat, cold drops when it came, liquid spiders scurrying down inside collars and boots.

The woodland creatures were confused, popping out of winter burrows one day and hunkering back down the next. Grasses grew, foliage sprouted, only to be uprooted or torn from branches by the wind and the rain. Along this particular length of highway, one of southern Galice's major thoroughfares, the road was more muck than dirt, and the leaves that had tried to grow on nearby trees lay scattered willy-nilly like a bunch of bleeding, groaning bandits.

A metaphor that would have made no sense whatsoever, had the road and surrounding woods not also been strewn with a bunch of bleeding, groaning bandits.

One solitary figure strode casually away from the human detritus, her boots crunching lightly in the cold muck. A dark hood, matching the rest of her traveling leathers, kept chestnut hair from roiling and coiling around her head in the breeze. For a time, other than those gusts and her own footsteps, the only sound to be heard was the faint jingling of the ratty pouch she weighed and juggled in one hand.

“I don't know, Olgun,” she lamented to, apparently, nobody in particular. “This is barely more than the
last
group had on them. We really need to get ourselves accosted by a better class of highwayman.
What?” She cocked her head to one side, listening to a response nobody else could hear. “Oh, come on! I didn't hurt any of them that badly!”

Another pause. “Well, yeah,” she admitted, “that probably hurt pretty bad. But he has another one that should still work just fine.”

Widdershins—formerly Adrienne Satti, former tavern-keeper, former ex-thief, and soon-to-be-former exile from Davillon—continued along the path she hadn't, until recently, been sure she would ever tread again.

The way home.

“What?” she asked. Semi-violent imagery and an overwhelmed sensation ran through her mind; such was the “speech” of her unseen companion, a god foreign to Galice and who boasted, in all the world, precisely one adherent. “Well, how the happy, hopping horses am
I
supposed to know what's ‘normal' here? We've only ever been on this road once before, and that was in summertime. Maybe this
is
the normal number of bandits along here. Or maybe, I don't know, maybe it's bandit season. That'd explain why we haven't seen many other travelers, yes? If the locals know when to stay off the highway.”

With a frisson of both bemused and amused reluctance, Olgun pointed out the logistical paradox regarding the notion of a “bandit season” in which travelers remained home.

“Oh. That's a good…well, maybe it's
dumb
bandit season!”

Widdershins chose to interpret Olgun's subsequent silence as meaning she'd won that particular exchange. Olgun chose to let her. They were both happier that way.

Still and all, as the day aged and the road unwound beneath her feet, Shins had to acknowledge that something was definitely off. This was a major thoroughfare; even allowing for the unseasonable cold, even if the threat of banditry was higher than usual, such a total dearth of travelers was odd. They should be
fewer
, but they should not have been
absent
.

It was…off. And after the previous, oh, bulk of her entire life, the young woman had developed a healthy distrust of “off.” Nothing about her posture visibly changed, but her steps grew softer and more deliberate, her attentions more focused on the world around her.

As she was so heavily alert for danger, however, it took a subtle nudge from her divine companion before she noticed the changing aroma in the air. The lingering breath of northerly climes and the first faint perfumes of buds and blooms gradually gave way to wood smoke spiced with roasting meats.

She was still a couple days from Davillon, so what…?

“Ah.”

A small cluster of buildings made itself visible as she crested a shallow rise. Nothing even remotely impressive, just a squat structure of wood with a couple of smoke-belching stone chimneys, and a few even squatter structures scattered around it.

Now that she saw it, Shins remembered it from her way out, last year, though only barely. At the time, she hadn't been in much of a mental state to notice anything at all, even had the place not been so forgettable. A simple trading post, taking advantage of the traffic Davillon normally received, distinguished only by its indistinctiveness.

Except…“Shouldn't it be empty? I'm almost positive that a road without travelers doesn't provide many customers. There could even be a proverb about it. Like the one about not licking a gift horse's mouth, or however that goes.”

Olgun could only provide one of his “emotional shrugs.”

It wasn't as though the trading post was packed to overflowing, but it clearly did a reasonable amount of business. Several horses—none of them having been licked, presumably—were tied at a post outside the main structure. A small gathering of people here, an isolated pair there, stood around talking, smoking, generally enjoying the evening's lack of rain. Shins received her share of curious glances,
if only as a young woman (apparently) traveling alone, but otherwise nobody seemed inclined to acknowledge her arrival.

Not until she stepped up onto the rickety porch at the front of the central building. “Excuse me,
mademoiselle
?”

The man who'd addressed her was teetering on the precipice of old age, ready to fall at any moment, and clad in the sort of heavy, colorful fabrics that said “I'm a merchant who wants you to believe I can afford better than I actually can.”

Shins's hand didn't drift to her rapier, but she suddenly became much more aware of precisely where it was. “Yes?”

“I'm just…if you've come this far traveling alone, does that mean the roads have grown safer again?”

She wasn't sure what “safer” meant, what she was supposed to compare to, but, “No, I don't think so.”

“Still rife with highwaymen, then?”

Now she
did
allow her fingers to close on the hilt of her weapon. “Fewer now than before.”

“Ah.” The merchant's patronizing smile said, as clearly as any message from Olgun, that he didn't believe a word of it. “Well, thank you for your time.”

A nod, and Shins pushed through the door, where the scent of cooked foods—as well as substantial amounts of travelers' sweat—dove into her nostrils like they were seeking shelter.

“How do you like that?” she asked, voice pitched so softly that nobody else could possibly overhear. “A girl could start to feel a bit mistrusted.”

Olgun snorted, or made whatever the abstract empathic equivalent of a snort might be.

Square room. Square tables. Even squareish chairs. All creaking with years of use, all having absorbed so many odors in their time that they were probably made up of smells as much as wood.

It looked almost nothing like the common room of the Flippant Witch, but Shins still felt a pang of homesickness deep in her gut.

Soon.

It wasn't a tavern, precisely. The large common room was connected, via a wide doorway, to something of a general store. Drinks and food were made available here, yes, but as an adjunct to the shop rather than its own separate business.

About half the chairs were occupied, and about half the occupiers paused their drinking, chewing, or conversation—sometimes two or all three at once—to briefly examine the newcomer. Again her youth and sex drew a few second looks, but most of the patrons turned back to their own affairs readily enough.

Shins moved to the small counter beside the interior door, presuming that the young girl behind it served as barkeep. “Hi.”

A saucer-wide stare and a breathy “Uh, welcome” responded.

Then and there, Widdershins firmly decided that the girl did
not
remind her of Robin. Mostly because Shins had no intention of allowing her to. Sliding two fingers into one of the many pouches at her belt, she produced a couple of the coins she'd, ah, liberated as compensation for the bandits' attempts to harm her.

“A mug of your best whatever this will pay for.” Two thin
smacks
of metal against wood, and then Shins dug out a second pair. “And a plate of the best whatever
this
will pay for.”
Clinks
rather than
smacks
, as she laid those two atop the others.

Blink. “Oh. Um…” Blink, blink. “Okay. Coming right up.” Blink.

Widdershins wandered away from the counter, scooted a chair out from an empty table with one foot, spun it by the back, and dropped perfectly into it as the seat whirled past her. Studiously and smugly ignoring the bemused glances that brought her, she tilted the chair back, balanced on a single leg, and crossed her ankles on the table's edge.

“What? Oh, I am
not
showing off!” she protested. “I just…want to make it clear to everyone here that I can take care of myself. Can't be too careful, yes?

“No, it is not the same as showing off! The idea isn't to impress people, it's to…differently…impress people. For different…Oh, shut up.”

For the next several minutes, Shins occupied herself by spinning her rapier and scabbard, balanced with one finger on the pommel, tip on the floor, just
daring
Olgun to say something about it. He didn't, but as she'd told him in the past, she could feel him laughing at her.

“If you don't stop that, I'm tying you to the post outside, with the horses.”

The serving girl, or owner's daughter, or whatever she was, finally appeared beside the table with flagon and plate in hand. Here, in the open, her resemblance to Robin was rather lessened. She might have shared a slender build with Shins's friend, but the ruffled skirts and braided hair were about as un-Robin as one could get.

That didn't make the prodigal thief feel any less homesick, though.

“So,” she asked just as the server made to leave, “what's with the crowd? I hardly passed anyone on the way here, and yet…”

“Oh! That is, um…” The girl earnestly studied the floor as she answered, perhaps expecting the flowers of spring to start blooming inside in an effort to escape the weather. “I really don't know if I should be spreading rumors on shift.”

“Well,
I'm
not on shift,” Shins explained patiently. “And it takes at least two people to spread a rumor, yes? So even though
you're
on shift, the rumor's not spreading on shift—or only half on shift, at most—and nobody can accuse you of anything inappropriate.”

Olgun dizzily retreated to a far corner of Shins's mind and quietly threw a fit.

As for the barkeep, after a moment of slack-jawed gawping during which she couldn't find a single word—as they were, most probably, hiding in the corner with Olgun—she finally decided either that Shins's argument was convincing, or (more likely) that it was easier just to go along than try to unknot it.

“It's the monsters,” she admitted in something of a stage whisper.

Shins's rapier stopped spinning. “Sorry, what? Say again slowly, in small words.”

“I know how it sounds,” Not-Robin said, her head bobbing like a cork in boiling water. “But that's what we've heard. The road between here and Davillon—
all
the roads around Davillon—are cursed or haunted with monsters!”

“Look, there's apparently been a lot of banditry lately, yes? I'm sure that's—”

For the first time, the other's face lost all uncertainty, becoming a stiff, confident mask. “We know all about the bandits,” she insisted. “Highway's lousy with them. But some travelers, some merchants, they'll chance it, you know? Robbers can't be everywhere, and some of the caravans are pretty well guarded. Many of them get through, come this far. But almost nobody's come back who tried to continue on to Davillon in the last few weeks, and those who did? Wasn't bandits who had them scared.

“So these days, travelers get this far and then start hearing the stories. Some try to keep on, and we mostly don't see them again. The others? They wait around here for a while, doing what business they can with us and with the other merchants, before risking the long road back to wherever they came from.”

“If there
are
monsters on the roads,” Widdershins said carefully, “why hasn't anyone dispatched any soldiers to deal with them?”

Not-Robin shrugged and headed back to her counter. “Rumor has it most of Galice's standing army's gathered at the Rannanti border,” she said over her shoulder. “As far as soldiers from Davillon?” A second shrug. “Gods know what's going on in that city. Enjoy your meal.”

Shins watched her go, then idly poked at the slabs of roast on her plate with a fork, as though trying to prod them into moving. “You don't even have a
face
,” she groused, “so stop looking at me with that expression.”