Lost Covenant: A Widdershins Adventure (27 page)

“Where the
hell
is he?!”

The surviving hostages, now gathered together in a single large group, cringed from Maline's outburst—though a few, including Calanthe Delacroix, rather less than the others. Some wept, some whimpered, some remained stoic and defiant, but not a one of them
believed they would live to hear the clock chime again. Several whispered of a last desperate rush, an attempt to overwhelm their captors with sheer numbers and fury. So far, not enough of the nobles had agreed to try it, despite the impending—and very literal—deadline.

Except, thus far, their time
hadn't
run out; Maline hadn't begun marching them upstairs as he'd done the earlier groups.

“Rene!” He grabbed one of the Crows by the shoulder and hauled the man around to face him. “Go see what in the name of the gods’ shithouse is keeping Josce!”

The thug nodded, took two steps across the room, then froze—as they all did—at the voice from above.

“Josce won't be joining you, Maline. He seems to have suffered a sudden fit of not being alive anymore.”

Widdershins leaned over the second-floor balcony, elbows on the railing, chin in her hands, smiling prettily.

“Also,” she continued, as Maline and the others stammered, growled, and pointed a variety of weapons her way, “you won't be getting any more of your special ammunition either. Fingerbone is, uh…” Even the memory of it made her face go vaguely green. “Well, his position in your gang is kind of fluid at the moment.” Then, “Hush, Olgun. The funny is so I don't throw up again. Hey! Was
too
funny!”

“And you…What?” Maline had gone a furious red, the veins standing out on his neck. “Thought you'd come taunt me before I killed you? Maybe figured you'd watch me shoot a few of
them
, first?”

“Oh, no, no, no. Silly goose. I'm just distracting you. See?”

Nothing happened.

“Oh, figs.” Shins pouted. “My count must've been off. It would've been so dramatic if—”

A barrage of shots sounded from beyond the main door, though what they might have been firing at was anyone's guess. It certainly wasn't the castle, or else they'd all have heard the impacts as well.

“You two!” Maline cried out, already moving, “Keep your guns on the prisoners!” Everyone else followed their leader, taking up a defensive position near the door. “What's going on out there?” Maline shouted up the stairs.

A distant, muffled answer drifted down from one of his sentries atop the wall. “No bloody clue! Bunch of soldiers just fired into the air!”

Widdershins, who'd been counting softly to herself since the fusillade—and far more carefully this time—piped in with, “Oh, right. That's a distraction, too.”

Multiple flintlocks fired
inside
the castle, brutally cutting down the pair of Crows whose weapons were trained on the hostages. From multiple archways in multiple directions, house guards and constables flooded the banquet hall, led by Rosselin Veroche. Jourdain, captain of the Delacroix House guard, followed close behind her.

“Also,” Widdershins called, louder now so she could be heard over the chaos, “we found your door.”

“Please,” Veroche said, not even bothering to aim her weapon at the master of the Thousand Crows. “By all means, resist.”

For some reason, Ivon Maline declined.

“Maline? Maline!”

The banquet hall was packed, mostly with aristocrats thanking their guards, hugging and laughing with friends and family, or standing stiffly while trying to convince everyone they'd been on top of things the whole time. Still, Shins had little trouble slipping, pushing, and occasionally elbowing her way through, intercepting the constables escorting the heavily manacled gang leader from Castle Pauvril.

“What?” He tried to step forward, jerked to a halt at the end of his chains, and settled for glaring. “The hell do you want?”

“Just a quick question.” One she had almost, in fact, utterly forgotten about. “Why did you—or maybe it was the Carnots?—anyway, why were your spies waiting for me in Lourveaux? How did you know about my link to House Delacroix in the first place? I'd never have known about any of this if you hadn't pulled me in.”

Maline hesitated a moment, then answered with a nasty grin. “Guess you'll never know, will you, bitch?”

The guards hustled him out, making no effort to be gentle as he stumbled again and again over the manacles. Shins didn't even watch him go; she was too busy staring off into space and reeling.

In that moment of hesitation, she'd seen the truth in his eyes, in his expression, the twitch of his lips and cheek.

He hadn't had the first idea what she was talking about!

The noises of the crowd fell away as her head once more decided to take a quick spin around the room without consulting her first.
He hadn't known.

“That's the whole reason we're here,” she breathed, utterly bewildered. “Olgun, what…How…?”

Olgun, for all practical purposes, shrugged.

Something Lazare Carnot had done without Maline's knowledge? Possible—the patriarch was based out of Lourveaux, after all—but…Was the leader of the Thousand Crows the sort to accept a partnership in which he was kept in the dark? About
anything
? Not hopping likely.

She couldn't know for certain, Lazare having been shot and all, but it didn't feel right. Not with Maline's ignorance.

“So who the happy horses knows enough about me to watch for me at William's tomb?”

Olgun had no answers as to
who
, but he had a very strong suggestion as to
where
.

“Yeah,” Shins agreed, sighing. “Would
have
to be someone in Davillon, wouldn't it?”

“Widdershins?”

She smiled, turning. “Hi, hero.”

Cyrille, his arm tightly bandaged and strapped to his chest, blushed and actually scuffed his feet. “I'm not…I…Um…I…”

Shins clapped him on the shoulder—the other one, of course. “No, I mean it. I don't know if I could have gotten that door open and kept going with that wound.”

“Yes, you could have.”

“All right.” Shins chuckled. “I could have. But most people couldn't. You did good, Cyrille. Got the guards here before I could have. You saved everyone as much as I did.”

So deeply was the boy blushing, now, that it would only have taken a leaf-green outfit to disguise him as a giant rose. “Widdershins, I…Will you stay? For a while longer?”

Another chuckle. “Your mother might have something to say about that idea, yes?”

“Actually, it was Mother's invitation.”

Widdershins very eloquently blinked at him.

“She wants to thank you. Properly. Feasts, rewards, all of it.”

She almost said yes. Yes to it all: the comfort, the warmth, the chance to stop traveling for just a while. This time, when she sighed, it was full of genuine regret.

“Thank you, Cyrille. And please thank Lady Delacroix for me, too. But I can't.”

He nodded as if he'd expected that reply, and perhaps he had. “Any chance I'll get an answer if I ask why?”

Widdershins hesitated, then lowered her voice so that, even standing beside her, Cyrille could barely hear her over the hum of the crowd. “I've been running from something for a long time now,” she admitted to him. “I…lost someone. Thought I failed him, failed my friends. I hated myself for it.

“But…I left them behind, Cyrille. I was hurt, but they were, too, and I wasn't there. I've hated myself a lot
more
for that. Angry at myself, and taking it out on everyone else. I didn't even realize it until
you
made me. I'm grateful for that.”

She stepped in, hugged him tight—gingerly, lest she hurt his injured arm—and moved back again. He watched her, his eyes glinting wetly.

“A lot of people died here today,” she continued. “Some…because of me. But I look around, and…How many more
lived
because of me? Because of us?”

Cyrille nodded, smiling softly. “You didn't fail the friend you lost,” he assured her.

“No. I understand that, now. I didn't fail Julien. I saved the others.

“And then I abandoned them. I have to—”

“I know. Go. Shins…Thank you.”

Widdershins reached out, offering her hand. “Friends, Cyrille?”

His smile widened, and if it was a terribly sad smile, it was also a genuine one. “Always.” He clasped her hand in his, and then faded back into the throng, leaving Widdershins to follow the path she'd chosen.

“Come on, Olgun.” She pretended not to notice the tremor in her voice, and she knew her god and partner would do the same. “It's time to go home.”

“Good evening, my
lord
.” The mocking condescension in the title was thicker even than the scented smoke that always swirled through the enclosed chamber.

From behind his desk, the Shrouded Lord, undisputed (mostly) master of the Finders’ Guild, raised his head. The ragged hood and tattered garb blended, as they were designed, into the eddies of smoke, so that any observer might be hard pressed to say where one left off and the other began. It was, under most circumstances, an unsettling, even intimidating effect.

Tonight, he knew immediately that it wasn't going to count for much. In part, this was because the intruders had gotten this far, to the very heart of the guild's complex, and he hadn't heard a single sign of their approach. In part, because he hadn't even heard them opening his door, one of the most secure portals in the entire maze of winding corridors.

Mostly, though, because he recognized the voice.

“And to you, Lisette. Why aren't you dead? My people have very specific instructions regarding you.”

The former taskmaster, as well as a handful of thugs—some of whom the Shrouded Lord recognized as members of his own Guild—poured into the room, slamming the door behind them. “You'd be astonished,” she said, lowering her hood, “just how much most of the Finders really don't give a bloody damn about who's in charge, so long as the Guild runs smoothly. A few of them
did
try to kill me,” she admitted, then shrugged philosophically. “They won't be trying again. Oh, don't give me that look. It wasn't that many of them. I
avoided almost everyone on my way in. I always did know this place better than almost anyone else. Including you, Renard.”

He felt the name as sharp and shocking as a physical slap. He tried to hold himself in check, hoped the combination of garb and smoke would hide any reaction he couldn't suppress, but he knew he'd flinched. And he knew, despite his hopes, that she'd seen it.

“I've no idea what you're talking about,” he growled at her.

“Oh, please. Put some emotion into it. At least the little scab always seemed to take some pride in her lies.”

“The little…. Is
that
why you've come back, Lisette? Your grudge with Widdershins? She's not even
here
!” He leaned back, idly studying his former taskmaster, as well as the muscle she'd brought along. They hadn't even bothered to spread out or draw weapons; just clustered behind her, standing to heel like well-trained dogs. Two of them carried lanterns, presumably so they could make their way through some of the little-used and unlit corridors, but the rest stood empty-handed.

“I know that, idiot. I have people watching for her. She was just in Lourveaux not too long ago, actually. But she'll be back soon, I'm sure. In the meantime…there's so much else I want to do with my city. And my Guild.”

“Your Guild, is it?”

“Mm-hm.”

“And what of the Shrouded God? He's given us our methods and our rites for choosing who leads us. Nobody knows that better than you—”

“The Shrouded God can burn in hell,” Lisette spat, “and kiss my arse on his way down.”

The guildmaster recoiled, more shocked than when she'd spoken his true name. The woman had been one of the most zealous followers the Guild had ever seen, outside of its own priesthood. What could possibly—?

“He turned his back on me when I needed him,” she continued, as if reading his thoughts, “when your pet bitch stabbed me in his own shrine! And again, when the rest of you turned on me!”

“
We
turned—”

“But that's all right.” She sounded calm once more. “There are other—”

Enough of this.
The Shrouded Lord—or Renard Lambert—raised a heavy flintlock from beneath his desk and fired.

Fired and hit nothing.

The former taskmaster moved fast,
so
damn fast, faster than Renard had ever seen a human being move. Faster, even, than Widdershins. Between the time his finger began to squeeze the trigger and the hammer fell, she had raised an arm as though catching an incoming punch.

And he felt the impact on his wrist, bruising flesh, shivering bone, knocking the weapon harmlessly aside.
But Lisette had never crossed the room.
Or rather, most of her hadn't. For the blink of an eye, just long enough to deflect his attack, her arm had
grown long enough to reach.

It took him a moment of puzzlement and mounting fear to realize what had happened, and a moment more to force himself to believe it.

“As I was saying,” Lisette continued as though nothing untoward had occurred at all, “I don't
need
the Shrouded God. There are powers in this world beyond cowardly, masked little deities—or forgotten, pagan ones, for that matter. More than a few, in fact. And
some
of them—some of them have as much reason to hate Davillon, and Widdershins, as I do.”

A harsh, impossible wind ripped through the chamber, shoving the smoke aside and making the flames in the lanterns gutter.

And behind it, made faint by distance but growing louder with every passing instant, Renard could hear the squeals and titters of a chorus of laughing children.