False Covenant (A Widdershins Adventure) (4 page)

Two of the Guardsmen—those who hadn't already discharged their pistols—fired at the dark figure that suddenly appeared before them, but Widdershins was already dropping to the floor. The two balls sailed high over her head, missing even without Olgun's extra nudge. She landed in a crouch atop the heavy table and leapt again, once more clearing a height impossible for any mortal athlete, let alone a girl of her size. At the apex of her abbreviated flight, her fingers closed around a thick cloth of darkest green. The banner boasting the red petals of Ruvelle went taut, and then ripped free from its anchor, unable to support even Widdershins's slight weight.

But then, she'd never intended it to.

“Olgun…” It was the lightest whisper as she dropped, coming down on one knee, both palms pressed flat on the floor. She hadn't time to explain what she wanted, but then, she didn't need to. She felt the familiar tingle of the god exercising what power he had, and the enormous hanging twisted as it fell.

Twisted so that, impossible as it seemed, it landed atop all four of the disguised Guardsmen. It wouldn't hurt them—though the bruises on their pride wouldn't fade for quite some time—but they were effectively blind and helpless, if only briefly.

“Run!” she hissed at her fellow Finders. “Get out!”

“But…but our score!” one of them protested—whined, really.

“You think these are the only constables here, you idiot? They were waiting for you!” She pointed imperiously at the injured man. “Get him and
get
!”

They got, hauling their companion upright and vanishing through the doorway to the front hall.

And, as though in answer to Widdershins's prediction, another door—this one across the ballroom and leading deeper into the house—flew open as though shot. Through it marched another pair of Guardsmen, these two in full uniform: black tabards emblazoned with the silver fleur-de-lis, equally black plumed hat, and medallions showing the silver face of Demas, patron god of the Guard.

One, blond with a goatee, was a stranger to her. But the other, with hair and mustache of rich brown, she recognized all too well.

“Oh, no…” She was sprinting, despite an ankle made slightly wobbly by the earlier drop, before she might be recognized in turn.

There were few in the city, and none in the Guard, who knew her face as well as Major Julien Bouniard. She'd always been sure she'd never call one of the Guard a
friend
, but Julien was starting to challenge that certainty.

Unless, of course, he identified her as part of the group of thieves who'd invaded the home of the Marquis de Ducarte, at which point, she was fairly sure, any burgeoning friendship would end with the slamming of a cell door.

From the sound of things, as best she could tell in the thumping, pounding tumult, only a couple of them were following her as she fled. Probably, she guessed, Julien and his other uniformed friend. The other Guardsmen, the ones disguised as servants, were either still flailing about beneath the banner or, more probably, had taken off in pursuit of the other escaping thieves.

Well, Julien was good, no doubt of that. And while Widdershins didn't know the man with him, she had to assume the major had chosen only good people to work with him on this. Nevertheless, the day she couldn't outrun two Guardsmen was the day she
deserved
to be arrested.

She pulled streamers off the wall as she passed, shoved over the occasional chair or unlit candelabra, hoping to tangle the feet of her pursuers. Again, it wasn't that she doubted she could stay ahead of them, but why take the chance that they'd come close enough for a clear shot? She took a small flight of stairs in a single leap and found herself nearing one of the manor's side doors, presumably meant for deliveries and servants. It hung open before her, and Widdershins found herself wondering briefly if some of Squirrel's gang might have already used it as an escape route. Not that it mattered; a few more steps and she'd be…

Olgun's cry of alarm warned her a split second before the much more human grunt of pain would have. She twisted in the doorway, slouched uncomfortably so she could keep the hood over her face, and gasped at the scene playing out before her.

Two of Squirrel's thieves—she could tell, even with the masks, that they were not part of the group whom she'd helped escape—were closing in from behind the pursuing Guardsmen. The blond constable she didn't know had staggered back against the wall, his right arm bleeding freely from an ugly gash across the bicep, his bash-bang having fallen to the floor at his feet, discharging its payload harmlessly into the wall when it hit. Even as his face paled with pain, he struggled to draw his rapier, however awkwardly, with his left hand.

Julien himself had dropped into an expert duelist's stance. Widdershins wasn't certain what had happened to his own firearm; he held his rapier unerringly straight, but he was having more than a little difficulty trying to cover both opponents at once.

No, not both. All
three
. Even as Widdershins watched, Squirrel himself—a deep bruise creeping across the lower half of his face like a fistful of grape jelly—stepped from a side passage to join the others.

“You're losing your touch, Olgun,” she muttered softly. “Well, of course
your
touch! I mean, you
know
that
I
can't hit that hard….”

Squirrel growled something unintelligible, drew his stiletto with his left hand—and with his right, produced what could only be Julien's own flintlock! Widdershins couldn't begin to guess when or how he'd gotten his hands on it, but then, he was a thief, after all. That's what he did.

Except now he was about to become not just a thief, but a Guard-murderer.

And Widdershins couldn't afford to worry about her own escape any longer.

“Olgun!”

A flash of divine power, a spark from nowhere, and the bash-bang discharged before Simon could pull the trigger, while he was still bringing the weapon up to fire. The ball shot past Julien, ruffling the edge of his tabard rather than punching through flesh and bone, and gouged an ugly hole in the wall behind him.

Multiple astonished stares flickered to the disobedient weapon, and in that moment, Widdershins struck. Her own rapier—currently lacking its defensive wire basket so that the hilt could lie flush against her back—was now out and moving. The thug to Squirrel's left screamed and dropped to one knee, clutching at an arm that was now bleeding far more fiercely than the wounded Guardsman's.

Squirrel and the remaining thief spun, their faces twisting with a betrayed fury, and then recognized their error almost immediately. Squirrel broke into a run even as his remaining friend turned back to face the Guardsmen and received Julien's blade high in the chest for his trouble. Widdershins winced as the body dropped; she'd really hoped that Julien would strike to wound, as she had, even though she knew that wasn't how they were trained. She was only vaguely aware of Simon shoving past her and disappearing out the door.

Olgun shouted another warning, but there was little Widdershins could do. She gawped up, face pale, into Julien's twisted features; felt his fists close with bruising pressure on her upper arms.

“What the hell are you doing here, Widdershins?!” He was screaming at her, furious. She couldn't remember ever having seen him quite this way before, and she'd seen him in some truly ugly situations.

“I…Julien, I…”

“
What are you doing here?
”

“Julien, you're hurting me….”

His face rocked back as if she'd slapped him; his hands dropped away as though she were suddenly burning to the touch. “I…I'm sorry, Shins.” His eyes dropped for just a flicker of a second, then locked on hers once more. “Give me a reason.”

“A reason…?” Her thoughts were spinning wildly, enough to make her dizzy. She couldn't follow the conversation, didn't know what he was asking.

“Give me a reason not to arrest you,” he whispered. “Please, Shins, something.
Anything
.”

Widdershins had believed, well and truly
believed
, that nothing else that happened this evening could possibly surprise her. She was wrong. Even Olgun was stunned into silence.

“Please…”

Gods, he was practically
begging
. He really didn't want to have to take her in. Widdershins's peculiar sense of vertigo was, if anything, growing worse. She felt sick, her face feverish.

“I…I was an invited guest here, Julien. Not ‘Widdershins,’ I mean, but—uh, someone else. A noblewoman that I, uh, sometimes call myself…”

What am I
doing?!
I can't tell him this! He can't know this! Olgun, make me shut up!

But clearly, Widdershins's mouth was a far stronger force than even a god might contend with. Olgun did no such thing, and she kept right on babbling.

“I, uh—not dressed like this, of course. I mean, this isn't exactly, um, the height of fashionable party wear, you know? Maybe…maybe next year?”

Oh, gods, kill me now.

“And do you expect me to believe,” Julien asked softly, “that you
weren't
here to scout the place?”

“Uh…I wasn't…” She offered a limp-wristed wave toward the fallen thugs. “I wasn't part of
that
. I swear it, Julien, I wasn't…”

“Why didn't you run? You could have kept running.”

Widdershins's thoughts finally stopped spinning—froze, in fact, crystallized into a single, solid certainty. She looked up, finally meeting his gaze, and felt her heartbeat quicken even as her breathing slowed.

“I couldn't let them kill you,” she told him.

For somewhere between a second and a century they stood, staring at one another—and then Julien took a single step back. “Go.”

Widdershins, despite the ghostly chains of questions and uncertainties that dragged at her ankles, obeyed as swiftly as her feet could manage.

Constable Paschal Sorelle, of the Davillon City Guard, pressed a wad of moderately clean cloth to the gash in his arm and, with a pained gasp or two, staggered over to stand at his commanding officer's side.

“Sir? I don't suppose you'd care to explain that?”

Major Bouniard tore his attentions away from the darkness into which Widdershins had vanished and bestowed a disapproving frown on his lieutenant. “Did I miss a promotion ceremony, Constable? Am I
supposed
to explain myself to you now?”

“Not at all, sir.” Paschal's tone, though thinned by the pain of his wound, was deliberate enough to suggest that he was choosing his words
very
carefully. “You needn't explain a thing to me. But, ah…you
will
have to explain yourself to command, sir.

“That's not,” he added swiftly, “a threat, of course, sir. Merely a statement of fact.”

“I know that, Constable.”

“Just wanted to be sure, sir. You'll write your report as you see fit, of course, sir, but I've also got to write mine, and…Well, the operation was overall a success, sir, but I'm not sure this last incident casts you in all that flattering a light.” Paschal's face softened imperceptibly in the flickering lantern light. “I don't want to cause you any problems with command, sir. I
really
don't. But—”

“Say nothing more about it,” Bouniard ordered, clapping a hand on Paschal's shoulder (on the uninjured side, of course). “You report the events exactly as you saw them. If there's any trouble coming my way, I brought it on myself. First lesson I learned from Major Chapelle, back when I joined up: You don't sacrifice your integrity for anyone, not even a colleague. You hear me, Constable?”

“Loud and clear, sir.” Then, after a moment, “She's certainly a unique one, sir.”

“She is that, Constable. You
did
note that she acted to assist us, didn't you?”

“Of course, sir. And it'll be in my report, make no mistake.”

“I was certain it would be, Paschal.”

Julien Bouniard once more turned his face to the darkness; Paschal Sorelle turned his own toward his commander.

“Come on, Constable,” Julien said finally, turning away from the door. “Let's get that arm looked at.”