Lost Covenant: A Widdershins Adventure (15 page)

“I'm just wondering, Olgun. Is there a
reason
the gods put more souls than brains in the world? Is it supposed to be funny? Or was there just a shortage?”

Cyrille continued to beam at her as she approached, right up to the point she grabbed him by the collar and yanked him away from the window so fast she was surprised the wind didn't whistle between his teeth.

“Are you
crazy?
” she hissed at him. “Or just dumb? I suppose ‘both’ is an option. You
are
a blue blood.”

“I…Widdershins, I looked! There's nobody in the room, and they weren't going to
hear
me over—”

“It has a door, this room?”

“Well, yes, of course it—”

“Then someone could have walked
into
it while you were standing there waving like a monkey in an anthill, yes?”

Cyrille looked as though someone had just eaten his kitten. “I'm sorry, Shins. I didn't think.”

He looked so miserable, she couldn't even bring herself to scold any further. (The fact that she'd done more than her share of equally foolish things in her time, and Olgun was currently parading images of every single one of them past her in a cavalcade of humiliation, might also have had something to do with it.) “Look, just…learn from it. Don't do it again, all right?”

“I will. I mean, I won't. I mean—”

“Good.” Widdershins took a single running step and dove through the open window, rolling to a stop beside the door that the room did indeed have. A quick peep underneath revealed nothing at all, and pressing her ear to the wood merely gave her a clearer perspective on the grinding.

A quick glance around told her nothing about the chamber, save that it wasn't used much. A few old tools and a chair lying in one corner, coated in dust, made up the entirety of its contents. Idly she waved Cyrille to follow her, but her attentions remained focused on that door.

“Olgun?”

Doubt, but a willingness to give it a shot. She felt the whole side of her face begin to tingle, focused on her ear, which she again pressed to the door.

For a moment, the millstone was painful, almost deafening, but it swiftly faded back to normal levels. It reverberated in her head, however, a peculiar blurring effect, as though the
echoes
of the grinding were now louder than the sound that birthed them.

Still Olgun's power flowed, the god almost seeming to juggle sounds, drawing some nearer and hurling some away, until finally,
finally
what might just have been a voice leaked through.

Unfortunately, that proved to be the limit of the god's ability. She could tell that there
were
voices, but could understand only the occasional word.

Something about a schedule? Not a voice she knew, or at least not one she could identify under the circumstances, but definitely worried.

A second voice, also a stranger, too low for her to pick up anything at all.

When the third man spoke, however, she recognized the phrase “damn girl” readily enough, had no doubt to whom the speaker referred. Perhaps more importantly, she recognized the voice itself.

Ivon Maline's wasn't a voice one would soon forget. She'd felt the need to take an extra bath to scrub it off of her the last time.

And
that
meant…

“We found it!” The soft hiss was intended for Olgun alone. In her excitement, however, Widdershins had been loud enough that Cyrille, currently hauling himself awkwardly through the tiny window, might have heard if not for the constant rumble.

Ivon and Josce, collaborating. Solid evidence, finally, of House Carnot's involvement with the Thousand Crows. She even had a witness with her that Calanthe Delacroix and the Aubier authorities couldn't readily dismiss.

Except, as Olgun pointed out, they still
hadn't
witnessed anything. They only assumed one of the two unknown voices had been Josce's; only assumed he'd come here when he'd disappeared from their sight.

Widdershins grumbled something about horses and figs, then grumbled a second time at the clumsy
fwump
of Cyrille sliding from the window to the floor behind her. She stood, examined the hinges of the door—old and slightly corroded metal, as she'd anticipated—and then reached for the ubiquitous tools she kept in various pouches and pockets on her belt. A few dabs of oil, a pause to let the stuff soak in, a few dabs more, and that should do it.

She checked to make certain Olgun was ready, decided there was very little point in making certain Cyrille was ready, and then laid a hand on the latch. Slowly, carefully, every nerve prickling, she eased the door open a couple of inches.

What she saw, after allowing her vision to adjust to the dimness beyond, was—the inside of a mill. An open chamber, shelves for storage, a screen to sift the grain and a basin to catch it. She couldn't see the millwheel itself, though its presence resounded everywhere, nor could she see any sign of the three speakers.

Open it farther for a better look? If Ivon and the others were
anywhere within sight of the door, any wider could well draw their attention, no matter how silent, but if she couldn't see the bulk of the room…

Ah.

Shins stepped to one side, pressing her face against the narrow crack between the door and the wall to which it was hinged. Not much of a vantage, but it proved enough.

There they were, closer to the doorway than the young woman was entirely comfortable with. Ivon she couldn't see at all, but that was fine. She didn't have to. Her clearest view was of a man she didn't recognize, a pinched-faced, mouse-haired fellow who wore the clothes of a merchant but the sycophantic simper of a lifelong errand boy.

The third had his back to her, stood so she could only glimpse him through the aperture, but that was sufficient. She'd seen the balding head and brocaded tunic recently enough to identify them now.

“Cyrille!” Then, just a bit louder, “Cyrille! C’mere!”

He crept up behind her, idly rubbing an elbow; probably banged it on the way in. “What?” he whispered.

Shins moved away from the door. “Tell me if you recognize anyone.”

Cyrille nodded, leaned in, placed one palm on the wall to steady himself—and the other on the door.

Simple habit, reflex. He caught himself almost immediately, yanked his hand back, but that brief moment of contact was enough. The door drifted open a few inches farther, and what few snippets and blurs of conversation Widdershins could hear ceased completely.

Gods, save me from turtle-brained, hoof-fingered blue bloods!
“Go! Get out!”

“Shins, I'm so sorry—”

“Running comes
before
apologizing!
Go!
”

Shins pulled the door shut, searched frantically for any means of
locking or holding it, and ultimately had to settle for grabbing an old spade from the heap of tools and shoving it hard under the door. It wouldn't hold long, especially as the thing opened outward, but it might stay wedged between wood and stone long enough to buy some extra seconds.

Seconds they'd need.

A grunt grabbed her attention, and Widdershins wanted to stamp her foot in exasperation. Cyrille was struggling to haul himself back through the window, but the aperture's small dimensions and the stone of the wall—smoother inside than it had been out—conspired to slow him. He had only just now wormed his way about halfway through, legs kicking as he sought a bit of extra purchase.

Widdershins dashed up behind him, grabbed one of his feet, and shoved. Cyrille popped through the window, a thrashing, yelping cork, and vanished from view. Shins retreated a few steps, called on Olgun as she darted forward, and jumped. She felt the stone whip past her on all sides, felt the rocky earth beyond come up to meet her waiting hands, and was tumbling back to her feet when she heard the wooden door disintegrate behind her.

Without stopping to look behind her, trusting Olgun to warn her if she was about to be shot in the back, she hauled the whimpering aristocrat bodily to his feet and ran, dragging him, stumbling and panting, behind.

He was a big man, the kind of big that just seemed clumsy, no matter how carefully he moved. Broad shoulders and long arms, a thick, bald head on a squat stump of neck. He looked dangerous; he looked strong; he looked mean. He did
not
look graceful or sneaky. Or, for that matter, especially smart.

He was just fine with all of that. In his profession, in his world, deception was more than a way of life. It was the
only
way of life.

Specifically because those who didn't learn to deceive, didn't tend to live.

Laremy “Remy” Privott, taskmaster of the Finders’ Guild, second-in-command over Davillon's thieves beneath the mysterious Shrouded Lord himself, would normally have been inside at this hour, rather than tolerating the frigid humidity that couldn't decide if it wanted to be fog, rain, sleet, or some ungodly spawn of all three. He would have been—
should
have been—deep in the bowels of the complex that was the guild's headquarters, either ensconced in his office or settling into his own personal chambers. Possibly with one of the pretty younger thieves who mistakenly believed that the taskmaster's bed was the shortcut to advancement. There were
always
a few who thought that way; it was a rumor Remy himself encouraged.

Normally. Not tonight.

Tonight, for the first time in a few years, the taskmaster himself was in the field. Wrapped in cheap, tattered clothes that just “happened” to provide perfect camouflage against the night's shadows, accompanied by three of his most trusted Finders, he slipped in
ghostly silence through Davillon's streets. His destination loomed ahead, or rather the fence surrounding his destination did.

Locked, guarded, and watched, obviously. It wouldn't matter, also obviously.

A few loose boards in the fence—boards that
remained
loose, thanks to a few well-placed coins in the hands of the carpenters hired to maintain them—provided Remy and his men with easy access. Within was an entire lot filled with wagons, from tiny carts that were barely more than old-style chariots to multiwheeled contraptions capable of carrying several families, or whole heaps of cargo, in comfort.

Davillon boasted a number of such lots, in which traveling merchants could load, unload, or store their vehicles. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the better the location and security of a given lot, the more it cost to use.

This one was cheap. Very.

It was
also
, of the cheap lots, the nearest to any of the main gates. Thus, it wasn't entirely uncommon for successful but parsimonious traders to use this lot, make a big show of how poor their business had been this season, and then attempt to sneak away with much greater profits than they were believed to have. Security through secrecy.

The Finders had enough eyes on the lot that such “secrets” were anything but.

They struck here only occasionally, only if a score seemed particularly worthwhile. Too often, and people would catch on; they
wanted
vendors and travelers to believe that their hidden treasures were secure. Tonight, however, the Guild had moved against a spice-and-perfume merchant whom they knew had made some ten or twelve times the coin he'd sadly reported to his compatriots. (And, for that matter, to Davillon's tax collectors.)

It should have been simple. Straightforward. In-and-out, easy.

It should also have been over with hours ago.

When the team he'd assigned failed to return, Remy had followed all the procedures that, as taskmaster, he was supposed to follow. He had dispatched runners, each assigned to acquire very specific information.

When they returned, their reports were all negative. No, the Finders hadn't been pinched; the Guard had undertaken no operations in the area, and none of the gaols had seen a sudden influx.

No, none of the other (and far smaller) criminal gangs had interfered. All of those were keeping their heads down, still reeling from the last time the Finders had made an example of one of their number.

No, none of the missing thieves were at any of their favorite drinking holes, hideouts, or homes.

All the runners gave the same answer, all save the one assigned to dash by the target and see if the team, for some reason, remained there.

That
runner had not returned at all.

And it had been then that Laremy, taskmaster and lieutenant to the Shrouded Lord, had decided
not
to follow one particular procedure.

When he chose to head out in person with his own trusted seconds, he
should
have reported it. He should have sought permission from the Shrouded Lord, or at least left detailed word of where he was going.

It was a risk; even if nothing went wrong, he could face some unpleasant discipline if the Shrouded Lord found out. But there was one other detail of the plan for tonight's job, one tiny factor that made Remy bound and determined to solve any problems before his guildmaster learned of them.

The plan had been his.

“All right, gents,” he rumbled, his voice startlingly deep even in a whisper. “Spread out, eyes open. You see something, you bloody well speak up! I don't need anyone else disappearing tonight.”

“Oh, Remy. Nobody's disappeared. Your boys are just a bit indisposed.”

He knew the voice. It rang every bell in his head, tugged on his memories like a ravenous dog, but he couldn't
quite
place it, not in this context. He
could
tell that it was feminine, and that it drifted down to him from atop one of the covered wagons.

The taskmaster glanced up casually, hand drifting slowly and obviously to his belt. He knew, at that moment, that three small but brutal crossbows—less powerful than flintlocks, yes, but also
much
quieter—were trained on the stranger from multiple directions. He'd chosen his companions tonight carefully, for just this—

The canvas atop the wagon billowed as the figure, all but invisible in the darkness, slid down one side. Remy heard a brief yelp, a snap that sounded sort of, but not exactly, like the twang of a bowstring, and then a limp
thump
.

The big man drew his blade and sprinted around the vehicle, skidding to a halt when he saw one of his own people charging from the other direction. Another of his men lay on the earth between them, unmoving, but of the stranger, there was no sign.

No sign except another dull thump from the side of the wagon he'd just vacated.

“That's two of your people down, Taskmaster. They're still breathing. So's your team from earlier. A gesture of goodwill.”

“Oh,
thank
you. I'll just kill you a little bit, then.”

Something
flashed from above, a dark raptor plunging from the night sky. By the time Remy registered that he'd just seen a nigh-impossible leap, that what he'd mistaken for wings was in fact a billowing cloak, his third companion was down, bleeding from a nasty gash in his arm.

“You could attack me,” the stranger observed. “But I think we both know how that'd work out for you, don't we? Put the steel away, Remy. I only lured you out to talk. No need for you to hurt yourself.”

She moved forward, then, walking with a faint limp that seemed utterly incongruous with the acrobatic prowess she'd just displayed.
Hands reached up to lower her hood, revealing jagged features and a cascade of fiery hair.

But by then, she needn't have bothered, for Laremy had finally placed her voice.

“Gods…Lisette…”

Lisette Suvagne, taskmaster prior to Remy and now hunted exile from the Finders’ Guild, grinned wide enough to give a serpent nightmares. “How do you like the office?”

“I should…I'm supposed to take you in. We all are. Dead or alive.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “It would be hard to take me in if you're dead, though.”

Remy glanced at the two men lying nearby, and nodded. “My team's all right?”

“Some of them won't work for a while, but they'll live. You want to do the same?”

“Uh…Given the option, I'd prefer it, yes.”

“Oh, good!” Lisette actually clapped once. “Self-preservation is a wonderful motivator, don't you think?” Then, before he could answer, “I have a proposition for you, Remy.”

“You're about to ask me to betray the Shrouded Lord.” It wasn't a question.

“Only temporarily,” she protested.

Remy cocked his head, puzzled. “The betrayal's only temporary?”

Somehow, Lisette's smile widened farther still. Remy would have sworn unnaturally so. “The Shrouded Lord's only temporary.”

The taskmaster knew he said
something
in response to that. He just wasn't certain what it was, or that it was even a word.

“Are you going to hear me out?” Lisette asked, the first traces of impatience creeping into her tone. “And if not, could you tell me who's your most likely successor, so I needn't waste too much of my time?”

She could, and she would, kill him. Somehow, even if he hadn't seen her drop his people so easily, he'd have known that to be true. No harm in listening, then, and quite a bit of harm in refusing. He could always turn her in to the Shrouded Lord later on.

Or make whatever other decisions seemed appropriate at the time.

“Let's hear what you have to say.”

Lisette's disturbing smile finally faded, but it truly appeared as though her eyes began to burn.