False Covenant (A Widdershins Adventure) (35 page)

One of the rooms farthest from the front door, however, was utterly unlike the others. In this chamber alone, the carpet had been pulled up, the bulk of the furniture removed, the window covered by a sturdy square of wood. Several straw-stuffed mannequins stood along one wall, and heavy bags of sand hung at random intervals from the ceiling. Through it all, currently clad only in a pair of heavy hose, Evrard d'Arras twisted and spun, lashing out with rapier and dagger (the former of which was rather less ornate than the one he'd so recently lost). Straw flew and sand poured in torrents, yet so precise were his strikes that the bags barely swung or twisted as they opened to his blades. Sweat poured from Evrard's face, but he found that the growing knot of frustration—and, if he'd been more honest with himself, confusion—in his belly refused to loosen.

Finally, cursing in disgust, he stalked across the room and grabbed up a pair of towels—the first for his face, the second to ensure that no particles of sand clung to the steel.

“Jacques!” Evrard hadn't brought any of his family's servants with him to Davillon, but the Golden Sable included a few valets and maids as part of their amenities. “Jacques, some wine!”

He'd completed cleaning the weapons and replaced them on the wooden rack, present beside the door for just that purpose, before it occurred to him that his shout had not been answered.

“Jacques?”

Another pause, another failure to respond. Evrard frowned thoughtfully. He'd never been particularly fond of the valet with whom he'd been provided, but neither had the man ever failed in his assigned tasks before today. The fellow
probably
just hadn't heard him—but then again, despite the size of the suite, it'd be the first time, were that the case.

Casual and unhurried, Evrard finished toweling off, retrieved the frilled tunic he'd left hanging on the edge of the rack and pulled it over his head, and once more lifted the rapier from its niche. Blade held before him, relaxed but ready, Evrard proceeded into the hall.

His footsteps, utterly silent on that veritable lawn of carpeting, had carried him past the bedroom, the bathing chamber, the dressing room, and several closets when he found himself in one corner of the sitting room. To his left was a mahogany table on which he kept a great many of his items for going out: rings, buckles, his hat, and several pistols. Beyond was a hallway leading farther back into the apartment, boasting doors to either side, culminating in a large window.

Leaning against the wall beside that window was a chair that someone had dragged from the dining room. And seated casually in that chair, her ankles crossed before her…

“Hello, Evrard,” Widdershins said.

She couldn't help but smirk, even through her simmering anger, when the aristocrat jumped—however faintly—at the sound of her voice. She saw his entire body twitch, subtly but vaguely in the direction of the table.

“No point,” she told him. “I unloaded them.”

He froze, glanced at the flintlocks, and nodded. “Of course you did.” He flexed his wrist, just enough to tilt the rapier in his fist. “I can be down that hallway in seconds.”

“Yep. And I can be out that window in less. At which point, I haven't wasted anything but time and breath, and you never find out why I'm here.”

“I suppose you expect me to believe that it's
not
to kill me?”

“Kind of a stupid way to go about it if I were, yes? Announcing myself and putting you on your guard?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Honestly, I don't understand you at all, Widdershins.”

“That,” she hissed through clenched teeth, “is an understatement.”

They both waited, letting their glares conduct the duel that their bodies were avoiding.

“How did you find me?” Evrard finally asked.

Widdershins scoffed. “You're a visiting blue blood who spends more on a month's rent than the Flippant Witch pulls in over a good couple of
years
. How did I find you? I
asked
.”

“Ah. And Jacques?”

“Tied up in the kitchen. Unless you're talking about a
different
stuck-up servant, in which case I have no idea.”

“Ah,” he said again, then gestured with his chin. “And my sword? Are you planning to return that?”

“This?” Widdershins's hand dropped to her waist. “This isn't your sword.”

“No? It looks an awful lot like—”

“Your sword,” she explained patiently, “had a ruby in the pommel. This one doesn't. Ergo…”

“I see.” A scowl, and then more silence. Finally, “Why are you here?”

“I—Did you
really
set out to destroy my life, and to kill me, over a
theft
?” she demanded.

It was clearly not what she'd been about to say. “It wasn't just ‘a theft,’ damn it! You broke into my family's ancestral home! You took heirlooms that had been with us for generations!”

“And which you hadn't touched, or even
looked
at, in over a decade,” she pointed out.

“Utterly immaterial. This was about family honor!”

“Oh, I see.” She couldn't possibly have masked the scorn in her voice, even if she'd bothered to try. “So threatening to take away my
dead best friend's
tavern, kidnapping an innocent girl…These are about honor, are they?”

Evrard's face flushed, but he couldn't
quite
meet Widdershins's eyes. “Why,” he growled again, “are you here?”

“I need your help.”

Evrard burst into a belly laugh, doubling himself over—it was probably more luck than anything else that he didn't stab himself in the forehead with his rapier—and even Widdershins couldn't quite keep the grin off her face. “Yeah,” she said when his fit had finally subsided. “I know.”

“All right,” he said, wiping away tears of near hysteria with the back of his hand. “I'm listening.”

So he did, and Widdershins spoke. She didn't keep much from him—only some of the details of Olgun and their relationship—and over the course of her narration, the last of the humor faded from his face.

“There are some,” he said carefully, “who would call me crazy for even
considering
that you might be telling me the truth.”

“There are,” Widdershins agreed. “There are also some who would call me crazy for coming to you with this kind of story if it wasn't entirely true.”

“There is that. But—”

“And if you'll trust me just long enough to come with me, His Eminence, the bishop, should confirm it. Unless you think I've got
him
in my pocket, too.”

“Suppose,” he said slowly, “I'm
not
prepared to trust you even that far?”

Widdershins sighed loudly. “Do you think I want to be here, Evrard? Do you think I want to be talking to you, instead of dropping something heavy on you from a very great height? We
need
you!”

“Why should I help you?” He asked it as an honest question, with no challenge in his tone.

“You're not. You're helping all of Davillon. You're helping a whole bunch of people who'll be slaughtered by this creature if it's not stopped.”

“And why do you think that matters to me, either?”

“Because you care about your family's honor. And because you were about to let Robin go.”

“Damn it…” She knew she had him wavering, could literally see the indecision working its way across his features. “Widdershins, I don't know…I—”

“When this is all over,” she pressed, “assuming we're all still around, I'll challenge you to your stupid duel.”

“Will you, now?”

“I swear it. Time and place of your choosing.”

“And my rapier?” he asked, apparently just to be ornery.

“This isn't your rapier. But if I'm dead, you're welcome to take it.”

“All right…All right.” He somehow seemed to nod with his entire body as the decision was made. “Just let me get properly dressed.”

Widdershins smiled brightly. “Don't forget to untie the valet on your way out.”

“I don't know,” Widdershins hedged, her fingertips trailing across a dusty stretch of old, cracked marble. “This is starting to feel a little disrespectful, don't you think?”

Sicard turned slowly away from his painstaking preparations, accompanied by a melodious popping in his back and cracking in his knees, and sighed. In the tone of a man repeating himself for the umpteenth time, he said, “The creature is most uncomfortable on hallowed ground, so we require just such an advantage. A cramped space, with lots of surfaces to climb, favors him over us, so the church would be inappropriate, even disregarding the danger to innocents. This truly is our best option, Widdershins. I think the families would understand—and I
know
the gods will.”

Widdershins frowned even as she nodded, glancing around once more at the array of tombstones and burial plots stretching away in every direction. They had set up shop at a crossroads of the footpaths that wound between the rows of resting dead, and Julien had stationed members of the Guard at the entrance to dissuade mourners and visitors from entering, but she still didn't feel as though they were even remotely alone.

She knew, also, that she should be upset that—despite his high-sounding justifications—Sicard had chosen the Verdant Hills Cemetery, which serviced workers, craftsmen, and other citizens of moderate means, rather than one of the wealthier, upper-class graveyards with which he'd probably have been more familiar. (He'd told them it was so Iruoch wouldn't have the mausoleums on which to climb, but Widdershins wasn't sure she bought that logic.)
Should
have been upset, except that she could only give thanks, however ashamed she might feel of herself for it, that neither Genevieve's nor Alexandre's graves would be impacted by what was to come.

His Eminence, apparently realizing that no further questions or objections were forthcoming, returned to his efforts, laying out a broad circle of various herbs and incense, fine links of silver chain, small two-faced mirrors, and other esoteric components for his forthcoming mystical endeavors. Widdershins, in turn, tore her gaze off the stretches of thick green grass and sprouting flowers, the meticulously carved stones and raised patches of earth, and studied her motley allies instead.

No Robin; Widdershins had shouted and ordered and eventually threatened to tie the girl up until she swore to remain behind. The thief understood her friend's burning need to help, but really, she could have done little except put herself, and the others, in greater danger. Similarly, no Constable Paschal. Julien had stationed him with the other soldiers at the gate, to ensure that no innocent mourners wandered into danger, but the man's injured arm would have made him a liability in the battle to come. He knew it, of course, which is why he'd swallowed his pride and accepted the “lesser” assignment.

All of which left, in addition to Widdershins herself (and Olgun, of course): the bishop, who would be responsible for the casting and maintaining of the enjoining incantation; Igraine, who would do what she could against Iruoch, but served primarily as Sicard's assistant; Brother Ferrand, who would share (as much as the spell would allow) in Olgun's power; Evrard d'Arras, who stood off on his own, shoulders stiff and chin raised against the mistrustful glares constantly lobbed in his direction; Renard Lambert, resplendent in his usual finery, who had won the coin toss and would be linked to Evrard, in order to share his dueling acumen; and Julien Bouniard, whose own loss of that coin toss had probably rendered him relatively useless in the coming confrontation and had sent him into a furious sulk, though he was doing his damnedest not to show it.

And they were supposed to not only stand against Iruoch, a creature from myth and fairy tale who had already taken everything Widdershins could throw at him—twice—but to destroy him. It would have been laughable, if it wasn't quite so terrifying. Despite her every effort to remain upbeat, Widdershins found herself looking again and again at the various grave plots around her and wondering if her own final resting place would be so neat and tidy.

So preoccupied was she in her grim ruminations that she almost missed it when Renard suddenly pushed away from the tombstone against which he'd been leaning and strode purposefully to Evrard's side. Only Olgun, metaphorically tapping her on the shoulder and pointing, was enough to draw her attention. Worry wrapping her fingers into fists, she sidled closer to listen in.