False Covenant (A Widdershins Adventure) (10 page)

When the figure first appeared, some cold and soggy minutes later, he wasn't even certain he was really seeing it. It looked, initially, to be nothing more than a denser spot amidst the drops, perhaps whipped up by an errant gust of wind. Only as it neared did it resolve itself into a human form, disturbingly long of limb and even more disturbing in how it moved. Shoulders shifted in an exaggerated gait; legs skimmed, rather than stepped, across the surface of the muddy road. It was less a walk than a ballet; less a ballet than a macabre glide. The traveler's forward movement seemed independent of those peculiar steps.

Even as it—he?—drew closer, Carville could make out few details, save for a ragged coat and a wide-brimmed hat that sagged sadly in the rain.

That and, peculiarly, the scent of peppermint, wafting clearly on the wet breeze.

“Who…” Carville stopped, clearing his throat even as he dropped one hand to the butt of his rapier. Gods, but the fellow's bizarre pace must have unnerved him more than he'd realized. “Who goes there?” he tried again, his voice steadier.

The figure halted, oh so briefly, and then twisted toward Carville. He stood several yards nearer, without having taken a single intervening step. The Guardsman could swear, absolutely
swear
, that somewhere in the distance he could now hear the faint giggling of children.

“Just a lonely traveler, sir.” The voice…It must be the weather and the wind, doing something strange, something awful, to that voice. “A traveler, come to seek his fortune.” It sounded very much as though there were two throats—one a grown man, one a young child—speaking in perfect unison. In some syllables Carville heard both, in some only one or the other, but never was there the slightest lack of clarity in the words.

“You, ah…You've business in Davillon, then?”

“Oh, yes, yes, indeed! Lots and lots and
lots
and lots of…business.” And the figure giggled, then—or was it once again those faint voices from so far away? Carville wasn't sure, seemed to be having some difficulty focusing on his duties.

“I…You'll have to wait until morning, I'm afraid. And you really ought to go around to the main gate…”

“Oh, but I
so
hate waiting!” The figure actually stamped a foot, sending a small deluge of mud and water spraying across Carville's boots.

(
Boots? My boots? Gods, when did he get that close?! I should…I…
)

“I don't think I want to wait!” The stranger was
singing
now. “I don't think I want to wait, I don't think I need a gate!”

One more step, just one, and he loomed over Carville, less than an arm's-length distant. And the Guardsman, finally, could see beneath the flopping brim.

“Oh, gods. Oh, gods, I
know
you!”

“Everybody knows me.” The grin beneath the hat grew wide, an ugly slash of gleaming white in the heavily shadowed face. “Or at least, they
will
.”

A lunge, faster than a blink, and the traveler's lips latched onto Carville's own, grabbing with what felt like a thousand tiny hooks. And Carville—
dwindled.

Skin shriveled against muscles that in turn flattened against bone. Eyes crumpled into little balls, yellowing and crinkling into age-old parchment. Hair and fingernails grew brittle, then fell from their perch, no longer held fast to drying flesh.

The stranger leaned back, allowing the now-desiccated lump of leather that had been Constable Carville to fall, with a dull plop, to the mud. And in the distance, the chorus of children that did not—could not—exist, sighed aloud in joyful satisfaction.

Gliding over the already-forgotten body, the traveler reached the walls of Davillon. Slowly, he extended his hands, hands possessed of inhumanly, impossibly long digits that twitched and flexed like the legs of some horrid spider. Narrow fingertips pressed against the stone and then—his body held rigidly straight, never touching the wall save with those gruesome, scuttling fingers—the newcomer began to climb.

Davillon had called to him, however unknowingly. And he was
so
looking forward to answering.

“…Ulvanorre, who stands upon the highest structures and the highest peaks; Demas, who watches over us, who interposes himself between his people and harm; and, Vercoule, who among all the gods, has chosen this, Davillon, as his favored city. To all these, and more, we offer our gratitude, and our devotion, and our most humble prayers.”

A ripple of sighs and similar exhalations washed through the assembly; a sign of piety from some, yes, but of relieved impatience from more than a few others. The bishop had not, in fact, named in his litany all 147 gods of the Hallowed Pact—had included barely a quarter of them, actually—but it certainly
felt
to some of the congregants as though the recitation had gone on interminably.

It would be inaccurate to say that the cathedral was “packed,” precisely, but it was certainly far more crowded than at any other time in the past two seasons. More of the pews were occupied than empty. The multihued light of the stained glass gleamed across more than a hundred faces, and the vast chamber sweltered, as though the height of summer had already arrived, due to the warmth of so many assembled bodies.

Standing atop a raised dais before the throng, clad in purest white, Ancel Sicard lowered his hands, which had slowly risen in supplication and emphasis as he listed those deities most important to the city that now fell under his purview. “My friends,” he said, his voice a little softer than it had been, “I know that these have been trying times. I know that many of you are frightened of the affliction that has so recently beset Davillon.” His stare flitted across the assembly, seeming to settle on each and every individual, one by one. “Fear is only natural, in light of what we must face. Only human.

“But consider, my children. It has been nine nights and ten days, now, since this phantom, this demon, this fiend, descended upon our streets. In that time, how many of our brothers and sisters in Davillon have been attacked? Perhaps fifteen, sixteen? True, that is fifteen or sixteen more than there should be, but in a city so huge as this one? And of those, how many have been slain, or even crippled?
None
, my friends. Surely, a supernatural, unholy entity such as the one we are clearly facing should—nay,
must
—be capable of spreading carnage far more widely, and far more severely, than we have seen. Can this truly mean anything,
anything
, other than—despite the foibles of mere mortals that have caused the unfortunate rift between our father city and our Mother Church—that the gods of the Hallowed Pact still watch over us all? That they protect us, no matter our sins and our mistakes? Dare we, then, continue to avert our faces from our sacred guardians? No! We must renew our faith, renew our veneration, lest we—all of us, laymen and clergy alike—anger them sufficiently that they withdraw their protecting hand.”

Quite a few grumbles and murmurs of disagreement and discontent sounded in the audience—Davillon's bitterness at the clergy's efforts to isolate and punish the city for the death of William de Laurent, having built up over six months, was hardly about to vanish in a week and a half—but said sounds were vastly outnumbered by the nods and sighs of agreement. There could be no doubt at all that the people of the city were afraid, or that the hopeful words of Sicard and Davillon's other priests offered a respite, if only temporary, from that fear. Since the unnatural attacks had begun, attendance at masses and other services across the city had increased several times over, and if the congregations didn't rival their previous sizes, they were far closer than they'd been in ages.

Among those in the audience who were far from convinced was a young noblewoman in an emerald gown, her natural hair hidden beneath a piled and coifed wig of golden blonde. As Sicard continued his sermon—his tirade?—she could only tap her foot and absently wish that she had a lock of hair loose enough to chew on.

“What do you think?” Madeleine Valois (for that's who she was at the moment) asked in a voice so far under her breath that even those seated to either side couldn't hear her.

But then, she hadn't been speaking to them.

Olgun replied with the emotional offspring of a shrug and a scoff.

“Yeah, that's kind of what I thought, too,” she agreed. “I guess we shouldn't…” She shook her head, making the top-heavy wig wave and bobble. “I wish William were here.”

She smiled sadly at Olgun's sorrowful agreement. And then, her decision made, there was nothing left to do but wait courteously for the sermon to end, so that she might depart with the rest of the crowd.

As the congregation slowly dispersed, Sicard smiled and nodded beatifically from the dais, blessing all who had come and all who now ventured forth into the world. All the while, he scanned the crowd, attempting to match sight to the peculiar, not quite natural presence he had detected, something that didn't quite match up with any of the five senses normally available to mortals. It was a quiver in the air, something there and yet…not. Something wrong, or at least abnormal, and now was
not
the time for abnormalities. Not with so much at stake.

So where…?
Ah.

Maintaining his smile and scarcely moving his jaw, precisely as though he murmured prayers over the heads of the departing, the bishop called out for the man behind him.

Brother Ferrand appeared from his inconspicuous post, where he'd waited throughout the mass to provide anything Sicard might have required. “Yes, Your Eminence?”

“Do you see that young woman there? No, to the left. Green gown, blonde wig? Sort of in the center of the crowd by the far door?”

Finally, after several moments of this—and only shortly before the woman in question would have been through the door and out of sight—the monk bobbed his tonsured head. “Yes, I see her. What of her?”

“Do you know who she is?” the bishop asked.

“I can't say that I do, Your Eminence. Is she important?”

“I'm…not entirely certain. There's something about her. A presence, an aura…I'm not sure how to describe it. It's not quite what I feel in the presence of omens or other blessings of the gods, nor”—and here he lowered his voice so that Ferrand could only just hear, and
certainly
nobody else could—“does it feel at all similar to other magics with which I'm familiar.”

“You think her a witch, then?”

“I don't know what I think, Ferrand—except that I think the timing on this is suspect, and that I need to know what it is I
don't
know. You understand me?”

“I do. I'll learn who she is, Your Eminence, and all I can about her.”

“You do that, Brother Ferrand. Discreetly, of course—but do be certain to learn
everything
.”

The bishop returned his full attentions, then, to the retreating backs of his congregants, while his assistant slipped from the back of the dais and vanished into the streets of Davillon.

By the time she'd returned to the Flippant Witch, the afternoon had concluded its metamorphosis into early evening, and Madeleine Valois had completed
her
metamorphosis back into Widdershins. (Although the former was brazen enough to make such a transformation in public view of everyone, the latter had required a modicum of privacy in the back of an abandoned leather goods shop.) She wasn't decked out for robbing anyone—she wore a workable peasant's tunic, dark hose, and worn boots, rather than her “stealing leathers”—but the gown and the wig were most assuredly gone, with no trace that they'd ever existed. As always, the only item on her of any apparent value was the basket-hilt rapier that hung at her waist, originally stolen from, and then gifted to her by, the late and very much lamented Alexandre Delacroix.