False Covenant (A Widdershins Adventure) (12 page)

“There she is!”

Squirrel followed his friend's pointing finger just in time to see Widdershins, apparently having burst through the door at something of a run, haul herself up short. She took a quick but steady look around, as though searching for something, and then headed off down the Market District's main avenue at a much slower pace. Swiftly she blended in with the crowd, occasionally vanishing completely into pockets of shadow between the glowing lantern posts. (This despite the fact that she wasn't currently dressed in her “business-related” blacks and grays.) Clearly, she didn't care to be detected.

Just as clearly, she was expecting any potential discovery to come from in front of her. She wasn't nearly as well concealed from anyone following behind, especially not anyone who knew most of the same tricks.

“All right, boys,” Simon said through a tight little grin. “Let's see what our girl's got going on tonight, shall we?”

And they, like Widdershins before them, moved out into the street and vanished into the crowd, pursuing a quarry utterly unaware of their presence.

So furious was Widdershins's burning anger, her determination, and yes—though she'd never have admitted to it—her fear, that it took several moments of intense emotional “shouting” before Olgun was able even to attract her attention.

“What? No!” She cast an ugly glance at the nearest passerby, who was currently staring at her, and then continued in a much lower tone of voice. “No, I do
not
think this is a dumb idea. In fact, I think this is the best idea anyone has ever had in the history of anyone ever having ideas!”

That response, if nothing else, was apparently enough to cause dizziness, because she'd pushed through the rapidly thinning crowd—most people were hurrying home, if they were out at all this late in the evening—and had covered another two blocks or so before…

“Well, I don't care if
you
think it's a bad idea! You're not the one who's about to lose your best friend's life's work, are you? What would you even
know
about—”

Widdershins actually moaned aloud and stumbled, barely catching herself before careening into the worn and discolored wood that was the nearest wall. She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt something from Olgun that powerful, that overwhelming. She actually found her gut clenching with a shame that very much reminded her of those times she'd bitterly disappointed Alexandre.

“You…Olgun, I'm so sorry. I know what you've lost. I had no right to say that to you. Forgive me?”

Acceptance, grudging for an instant, then growing stronger—but still tinged with more than a little anger, and more than a
lot
of worry.

“But you won't lose
me
, not over this. No, I don't know who he is, but you and me? We can handle anything, yes?”

She was moving again, struggling to catch up before she lost Evrard completely, and though she could sense Olgun's grumbling, she could sense, too, that he wasn't about to argue any further.

The street steadily evolved from mud with the occasional cobblestone to well cobbled with the occasional pothole—and even those began to fade as Evrard's path drew him, and Widdershins, ever nearer Davillon's richer districts. Any doubt the thief might have had regarding her adversary's nobility (in birth and blood, if not in demeanor) was swiftly washing away.

So who
was
this guy? And why did he harbor such hatred for her?

Evening had taken her leave of the city some minutes earlier, leaving night to assume its rightful place. The roads weren't empty, not entirely, but pedestrians were sparse, and Guardsmen ever more common. Widdershins found herself with no crowds in which to hide; forced to resort ever more often to shadows, doorways, and alleyways any time Evrard thought to look around, her pace slowed and her quarry began to pull ahead. She realized, with a weight in her stomach as though she'd swallowed a whole goose—and not one braised and roasted, either, but feathered and honking—that she was on the verge of losing him entirely.

She peered briefly toward the rooftops, wondering if the “thieves' highway” might not be a wiser option, but quickly dismissed the idea. She didn't know this part of town well enough, didn't know if she'd find herself stranded before a gap too wide to cross. No, best to keep to the roads, maybe even to sacrifice stealth for speed and just hope that the irritating aristocrat wouldn't happen to check behind him at any point where Widdershins couldn't—

The rest of the thought was lost in yet another surge of emotion from Olgun, but this was not anger, nor was it directed at Widdershins specifically. It was, as best she could determine once she had a moment to gather her scattered wits, an intense puzzlement, tinged with, just perhaps, a tiny sprinkling of fear.

“What? Olgun,
what
?”

An urging, then, as though he was trying to guide her way.

“No! Olgun, Evrard's going
that
way. I'm not…
No!
I don't care
what
might be down that way, I'm not letting—”

She felt a surge in the air around her, as well as within her own mind, and recognized the sensation of Olgun's power. The voices of the few other pedestrians in sight resounded in her ears, each word burning itself into her thoughts. She could hear footsteps as clearly as drumbeats, her own heart as though it had crawled up into her skull (perhaps in search of a better view).

Just as swiftly as it began, it faded. No, not faded,
narrowed
. Sounds fell away as though she were moving past them, until she heard only what was occurring several streets off to her right.

Gasps. Running. And the occasional scream, not quite loud enough to carry itself normally to her ears.

“It's nothing to do with us,” she insisted, struggling to spot Evrard's flapping coat in the darkness ahead. “I wouldn't even know about it without your stupid jumbo god ears, so—”

She felt, as though it were her own, Olgun's desperate curiosity, his need to know what bizarre power he'd sensed moving through the city.

“I don't care. I've got to learn what Evrard—”

He drew from her thoughts a distinct memory of the Shrouded Lord's directive, to learn precisely what was haunting Davillon.

“
I don't care!
”

Her hearing focused even further, until she could make out little but the ever-increasing shrieks of terror.

“I don't—oh,
figs
!” And with a last, vicious glance toward Evrard's retreating back—though it might just as easily have been directed at Olgun—she was sprinting toward the sounds of fright that nobody else on the street nearby could possibly have heard.

Her senses swiftly faded back to normal levels—there were, she knew, limits to how much power Olgun could exercise on her behalf—but it wasn't long before she no longer needed them. The screams, now clearly incorporating no small degree of pain as well as terror, drew near enough for her to hear on her own. Had she been any farther away, even Olgun wouldn't have detected whatever it was that had attracted his attention; had any of the patrols been nearer, rather than concentrated on the main thoroughfares, they could have dealt with this and Widdershins wouldn't have had to abandon her own pursuit.

“We're gonna talk about this later, Olgun,” she snipped at him. Then, once she'd narrowed down her destination to a nearby side street, and realized, further, that there was indeed a building overlooking said street (a glassware shop, if she wasn't mistaken), she swiftly began to climb. Better to approach the trouble, whatever it might be, from an unexpected angle, yes?

In point of fact, the “side street” wasn't much wider than most alleyways she knew. The rear of multiple establishments bordered it on both sides; in fact, had the entire street been this way, rather than just these few blocks, it actually
would
have been an alleyway.

But it was the alley's—that is, the street's—inhabitants, rather than its design, that snagged her attention as she peered out over the edge of the sloping roof, hands itching as they pressed up against the rough, wooden shingles. Two young men—either well-dressed servants of some noble, or rather cheaply dressed aristocrats themselves—crouched, huddled against the shop next door to Widdershins's own perch. One clutched at a red-smeared arm and stomach, and, though there didn't appear to be enough blood to suggest that either wound was especially dangerous, they were pretty clearly
painful
. The other fellow was holding his friend's shoulders, as though that would provide any protection against their attacker. An attacker clad all in swathes of black fabric; he looked, to Widdershins, like the Shrouded Lord's disreputable second cousin.

But from her raised vantage, Widdershins could also see something that the two victims on the ground most assuredly could not: A
second
dark figure, garbed identically to the first, clinging to the shadow-cloaked wall just beneath the eaves of a building some ways down the street.

“So, Olgun. These guys what you sensed?”

Apparently, the god wasn't sure—she detected more than a touch of doubt.

“Well,” she continued as the silhouette on the street produced a narrow blade, laughing as he (it?) made threatening jabs at the two sniveling travelers, “guess we should do something, yes? Care to lend a hand?”

She felt the tingling in the air once again, this time concentrated around her legs and feet. Grinning manically, Widdershins backed away from the edge of the roof, drew her rapier, and charged.

It was, every step of it, impossible—but impossible was a specialty of this particular partnership. With almost inhuman speed, Widdershins cleared the entire length of the roof and leapt, sailing majestically across the gap. She twisted as she flew, the envy of any acrobat, flipping over so that her feet landed against the wall of the opposite shop. She tucked and pushed, propelling herself once more across the street, this time angled and hurtling directly at the dark-clad figure who appeared utterly frozen in shock.

He began to move, and Widdershins had the barest instant to note that he was far faster than he should have been; not that much slower, in fact, than she herself at that moment. But it wasn't fast enough. Her rapier punched through muscle and flesh even as she collided with the target, knocking him, winded and screaming, to the earth. Had she wanted him dead, he'd have been dead. As it was, it would be some time before his perforated shoulder would work properly.

Widdershins rolled backward and came once more to her feet, rapier held before her en garde, but it wasn't necessary. Not only was her target rolling on the street, clutching his wound and screaming in a very human voice, but his presumed partner—the other mysterious silhouette—had plummeted from his perch on the wall. He, too, was doubled over and groaning in pain, though Widdershins could only guess why. Had her appearance so startled him that he lost his grip, causing him to injure himself in the fall?

Well, whatever the case, it was time to learn more about these…Guys? Bandits? Monsters? Whatever. Widdershins, taking only a moment to make vaguely reassuring “There, there, it's all right” noises to the two weeping gentlemen, reached down and yanked away the hood that covered her fallen opponent's face.

“Hey! I
know
you!”

And she did, at that. Not all that well; she wasn't even certain what his name was. Ricard? Rupert? Something with an
R
and two syllables, she thought. But that wasn't the point. The point was
where
she knew him from.

Monsieur R-and-Two-Syllables was a member of the Finders' Guild!

But hadn't the Shrouded Lord made it pretty clear that the Guild
wasn't
involved in these events? And why would anyone mistake Ricard-or-Whatever for some sort of phantom? Widdershins may not have been all that close to him, but she knew full well that the fellow wasn't a warlock of any sort!

“Olgun? What the hopping horses is going on?”

There really shouldn't have been an emotional equivalent to Olgun chewing the inside of his cheek in nervous confusion. Nevertheless, that was precisely the impression Widdershins received.

“Fat lot of good
you
are, then. So are these guys magic?”

Faint and confused, but the answer was a definite
yes
.

“And are they what you sensed before?”

No puzzlement at all, this time.
Absolutely not.

“Then what—?”

“Oh, my, oh, my! Blood and pain and beautiful songs! They've gone and started the celebration without us, and we shall be greatly put out if there's no more cake to be had!”

The worst wasn't the hideous two-toned voice, that of a grown man and a child speaking in unison, though that alone was enough to make every hair on her arms and neck stand firmly at attention. Nor was it even the figure itself, which scuttled headfirst down a nearby wall using only its impossibly long fingertips, the rest of its body held straight as a board, its coat and hat refusing to fall despite gravity's insistent tug.