Covenant's End (20 page)

It was this environment that Shins casually walked into, the bruised and unconscious commandant of the Guard slung over her shoulder like a sack of bearded, possessed, and mildly drooling potatoes.

The sudden rumble of shock and anger from the assembly only grew louder still when she dumped the guardsman in a heap on the floor at Sicard's feet.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” she forced out between heaving breaths. “But in my defense, he's
really
heavy!”

“What in the gods' names have you done to him?!” demanded one of the nobles, a stooped old man whose name and House Widdershins didn't know.

“Jumped up and down on him, punched him in the face, and shoved herbs down his throat. Why, what did you
think
I'd done to him?”

In the stunned silence that followed, Shins turned to face the bishop. “We were…interrupted,” she said softly. “Six of his guardsmen. They thought…well, you can imagine.”

Sicard's face went paler than his ecclesiastical robe. “You didn't—!”

“Nobody's dead, Sicard. But I had to…” Her shoulders slumped. “I did my best, I really did. But I don't think a few of them are going to be able to work in the Guard anymore. You'll make sure…?”

“The Church will see that they and their families don't go wanting, yes. I know you did all you could.”

“Yeah. Be nice if it was enough one of these days.”

“Widdershins…
they
made this necessary. Suvagne and her unholy allies are responsible for this. Not you.”

“Great. Maybe they can come help clean the blood off
their
sword. This man,” she said more loudly, turning from the bishop before he
could speak again, “is not who you think he is. Or rather, he is who you think he is, but he's
also
not who you think he is.”

Dead silence. Narrowed glares.

“Well, how would
you
have phrased it?” she whispered to Olgun, before speaking aloud again. “Commandant Archibeque hasn't been in control of his own actions for some time. He's been possessed, by a creature of the Gloaming Court.”

“Your Eminence…” Duchess Luchene rose from her seat, carrying what appeared to be all two or three hundred yards of fancy gown and train with her. “I've no idea what you think you're doing, but I believe I've had just about enough—”

“Your Grace,” Shins interrupted, “with every last ounce of due respect, I think you need to lose some of that mountain of hair. Your brain's suffocating.”

The gasps from before her were insufficient to drown out the slap of several hands against several foreheads behind her.

“Am I the only one,” she continued while the noblewoman's outrage was still more rage but less out, “who remembers what happened to this city last year? Iruoch wasn't exactly
likeable
, but I thought he was pretty boiling well
memorable
.”

“Mademoiselle,” Luchene intoned, quite clearly using the term as a synonym for
lowborn ill-mannered little bitch
, “this is my city. The duchy of Davillon has been my family's to oversee since before there
was
a city by that name. Don't you
dare
insinuate that I might simply forget something as awful as the events of last year!

“But the notion that it was truly some supernatural creature, despite what many of the witnesses believe they saw—”

“I lost someone I cared about very deeply to Iruoch. I watched him die. Through the magics we used to try to kill that creature, I
felt
him die. And less than a week ago, I was tortured almost to death by one of Iruoch's lovely cousins. Not so much of a family resemblance, really, but they share certain hobbies.

“So don't
you
dare tell me these things aren't real!”

“As it happens,” Sicard cut in before Shins could talk herself out of a potential ally (or into a potential noose), “we have both a means of proving to you that these creatures have come to Davillon and a weapon against them. Faith and divinity are anathema to the entities of the Gloaming Court.”

“Commandant Archibeque,” Luchene said stiffly, “appears to be lying in a sanctuary of the Hallowed Pact without bursting into flame.”

“Because, as with anything to do with faith,” the bishop explained, “a symbol is only as powerful as the belief behind it.” So saying, he knelt at Archibeque's side, drawing an amulet from around his neck. Gleaming in the light of the lone chandelier, it was a smaller version of the Eternal Eye on the wall—only this one was pure silver.

He cast a single glance at Shins, one she interpreted as
You better be right about this
, and then pressed the icon to the commandant's chest. His head bowed, his lips began shaping themselves around muttered prayers.

“I think,” Baron Merchand began, “that we've all had just about enough of—”

Archibeque screamed. Or rather, something inside him did.

This was no human voice, for all that it issued from a human throat. No, not it,
them
. Two separate voices, coiling and sliding around one another. One was high, piercing, enough to make everyone in the room clasp hands over ears; the other deep enough to feel through the floor.

An awful stench, some foul combination of peppermint, rotting oranges, and bile, seared nostrils and lungs. Dull black sludge welled up from within the commandant's mouth, bubbling and oozing before it began to drip down the side of his face—and then trailed away into a wisp of smoky shadow.

“I'll need rather more time,” Sicard said, breathing heavily, “as
well as the assistance of other priests, to drive the intruding spirit from him. But I trust you've seen enough?”

When nobody claimed otherwise—although that could just as easily have been because they still stared in fascinated horror at the sprawled guardsmen as because they agreed with him—he continued, “I've taken the liberty of summoning the most senior of your House priests. I had messengers waiting; they departed the moment mass adjourned. They can confirm for you that what you've just seen was no trickery.

“I also require them because my under-priests and I aren't sufficient to make up a formal quorum, but we'll discuss that later.”

The duchess, and her portable house made of dress, returned to her seat, beckoning the others to follow. “Perhaps you had better tell us your story and your theories again. I'm sure that Mademoiselle…?”

The cue was an obvious one. “Widdershins. My name is Widdershins.”

“Ah.”

Ah? What does she mean “Ah”? This is not a good “Ah.” I don't like it.

“Your, um, Your Grace, about before…”

“If what you said is true, you've been through a great deal. I'm willing to dismiss it as heat of the moment.”

Oh, are you? You're
so
kind…

“As I was saying,” Luchene continued, “I'm sure Mademoiselle Widdershins can add all manner of fascinating details to what the others have already told us.”

Oh, you have no idea…

Widdershins took a deep breath and launched into the nightmare that the past week had become.

To say the aristocrats appeared skeptical when her recitation wound to a close would have been rather an understatement. Narrowed
glares, furtive whispers, and furrowed brows all suggested a rather distinct lack of credulity. At the same time, they hadn't dismissed her outright. Partly because she had the backing of the bishop and Evrard d'Arras, of course, and partly due to what they'd seen moments before. Still, Widdershins found herself more nervous than if they'd simply declared her crazy, a liar, or a crazy liar.

“I'm not liking this, Olgun…”

The duchess raised one imperious hand, and the muttered conversations ceased as though neatly beheaded. “You understand why we might have some difficulty with this tale?” she asked.

Shins nodded. “I only believe me because I was there to see me go through it.”

A faint quirk of the lips was the nearest thing to a smile Luchene appeared willing to part with. “I think,” she said—and though she hadn't turned, everyone present knew she was addressing the lot of them, not the thief alone—“that many of us have heard some of the whispers and rumors. Gossip among the servants and the guards, both, about the mysterious Widdershins and her unusual skills.”

And while several of the nobles looked nothing but puzzled, a good half of them nodded in agreement.

If she had stumbled out of bed and, two-thirds asleep, planted herself on a chamber pot sculpted entirely of snow, Widdershins might have been as shocked, as chilled, as she was now. She actually fought with her own body, her own nerves and instincts, to keep from fleeing the room. Olgun assisted as much as he could, but the bulk of his willpower was devoted toward keeping
himself
from the edge of panic.

It…made sense, though, as much as she hated the idea. People were bound to notice, especially once she'd gotten caught up in (or hurled herself into) city-wide incidents such as the Apostle's schemes or the Iruoch affair. It had just never so much as crossed her mind that said rumors would make their way any higher than the street.

Of course, it's not like I haven't robbed most of the people sitting here, at one time or another…

“Well,” she told Olgun, voice shaking until it almost crumbled, “that explains her earlier ‘Ah.'”

Her divine companion did not appear to take much solace in that.

“I'm…flattered?” she squeaked out, some ten or eleven years later.

“Don't be flattered. Show me.”

“I…what?!”

“Show us,” Luchene commanded. “Let us see that these vaunted abilities aren't just some trick. That you know what you speak of, where the supernatural is concerned.”

“You want me to put on a performance for you? Do I get to keep my clothes on?”

“Widdershins!” Sicard, Igraine, Evrard, and Renard barked in unison.

“Someday, Your Grace, I'm going to ask you to order them to tell me when they find the time to practice that.” Widdershins sighed melodramatically. “Fine. Sica—uh, Your Eminence?”

“Hmm?” Sicard asked in response.

Shins moved to stand beside him beneath the Eternal Eye, at the center of everyone's attention. “You have soldiers standing guard elsewhere in the Basilica than just this room, yes?”

“Indeed.”

“Would you please send someone to tell them that what they're about to hear is a demonstration, and there's no need to come running? And
especially
no need to come shooting or stabbing?”

The bishop's suspicious glower was not the only one to fall upon her, then, but he waved one of the guards to go deliver the message. The few minutes it took him to make the rounds and return were spent largely in silence, with everyone smiling awkwardly at everyone else.

Well,
almost
in silence. Shins did take the opportunity to fill Olgun in on what she had in mind.

The moment the soldier returned, the door shutting behind him with a dull click, Shins said, “All right.” She twisted, pointed a finger toward one of the other soldiers, a man stationed near the rear of the sanctuary—and who, she'd made a point to note, was wearing his flintlock in such a way that a misfire would strike the carpet, as opposed to his foot or perhaps a neighbor. “Him!”

Olgun's power flowed, a single spark sizzled, and the weapon fired.

Those in the assembly who hadn't already begun to turn that way when Widdershins pointed certainly did so now, jumping in their seats or at their posts. Guards and more than a few of the aristocrats reached for weapons, while the lone soldier whose gun Olgun had triggered could only gawk, at it and at them, in almost puppy-like confusion.

As the burnt sulfur scent wafted through the room, Luchene turned back around in her seat. “All right, Widdershins, that's a…”

More whispers and mutters, then, as everyone intently studied the spot next to Sicard where Shins had stood an instant before.

“Up here!”

Crouched atop the chandelier, Shins gave them all a jaunty wave.

“Assuming it's not too much trouble, Your Eminence,” she continued, “if you would just pass my compliments on to the architect and craftsmen? I don't think this chain—” and here she flicked said chain, a great brass monstrosity that held the fixture in place, “—even noticed my weight.”