by Marmell, Ari
She saw Julien first—and, indeed, upon seeing him, recognized from the walls and the worn carpeting that she must be somewhere within the headquarters of the Guard—but it hadn't been he who spoke. So who…?
There. Seated on the edge of the major's desk as though he owned it, a handsome (if rather short) fellow grinned at her from behind a dark mustache and a pair of bluest eyes. His tunic was colorful enough to make the average flower garden seem positively drab, the buckles of his boots were polished to a mirror sheen, and he wore a purple half cape thrown dramatically over one shoulder. Widdershins saw an ostrich plume sticking out from behind him, and knew from experience it was attached to a foppish, flocked hat.
“Renard?!”
Renard Lambert, one of the few Finders whom Widdershins actually trusted (for all that he often annoyed the stuffing out of her), shot to his feet and bowed so low that his bangs nearly brushed the floor. “At your service, most lovely Widdershins.”
“What in the name of the gods and all their pets are you doing here?”
“Have you noticed,” Renard said with a sniff, “that you always greet me that way? It's never ‘Wonderful to see you, Renard,’ or even just a simple ‘Hello,’ but always ‘What in the name of some silly expression are you doing here?’ It's enough to make a gentleman feel unwanted.”
“And you, too, I'll bet,” she said smugly—which effect was ruined when she couldn't help but laugh at the look her comment brought to his face.
Then, when it became clear that Renard wouldn't offer any additional explanation, she turned back toward the others.
Julien, in response to the unspoken question, could only shrug. “I sent for Robin. I knew you'd want a friend close by—and one who could, ah, keep you company while the chirurgeon worked without, let's say, sacrificing either propriety or modesty.” He blushed faintly, as did Widdershins herself.
“I appreciate you thinking of that,” Widdershins said.
“Uh, you're welcome. But as for this ‘gentleman’…” He cast Renard a narrow grimace. “I've no idea. He said simply that he had ‘sources’ and insisted he was a friend. I'd never have let him stay, but Robin vouched for him.”
At Widdershins's puzzled look, the other girl smiled faintly. “I figured, with so many of the Guard out looking for this phantom-thingy, and with Major Bouniard having his own duties to attend to, it made sense to have someone nearby who could protect you in case…” Although her voice may have trailed off, the flicker of her eyes toward the wound on Widdershins's shoulder—a wound that, Widdershins only now realized, was swathed in bandages—left no doubt as to her meaning.
“Sources?” she asked Renard, trying not to grin.
“The good major and his fellow officers dislike believing that the Finders have eyes and ears within his ranks, but that doesn't make it any less true. Has been as long as there's been a Guard.”
“And you're comfortable just telling me about it to my face?” Julien snapped.
“Seeing as how you've no evidence that I've committed any crime, and thus have no grounds to hold or question me—to say nothing of the fact that I couldn't identify most of our informants anyway—why should I not?”
“Bouniard,” Widdershins interrupted, before the argument could go somewhere unpleasant for all concerned, “what am I doing here, exactly?”
“You…Widdershins, you came here looking for help. Don't you remember?”
“Well, yes, but I'd have thought—”
“You collapsed,” he told her. “It was safer for you to have you treated here, rather than try to take you anywhere else. And I could actually keep your presence quieter here than if I'd had to arrange for constables to help me transport you. I, ah, wasn't entirely sure that everyone in the Guard would understand why I was helping you.
“You're in my office, Widdershins. Have been for nearly a day. I had a mattress brought in, and I've left orders not to be disturbed except in dire emergency.”
“Why would you do all this?”
Julien's flush grew even redder, and he actually began to fidget like a schoolboy. “Because you needed me to,” he said finally.
Hesitantly, even shyly, Widdershins stretched out her hand. Just as slowly, the major stepped near enough to take it.
“Thank you, Julien.” She couldn't quite bear to meet his stare; neither could she look away. She found herself smiling—and all but basking in the smile she got from him in return. Apparently acting without bothering to wait for orders from her brain, her fingers tightened their grip on his hand, and for a moment, she actually forgot the pain of her injuries.
Until, suddenly, a conscious thought actually wormed its way through the wall of surging emotion, and all Widdershins could think was, Oh, gods, I must be such a mess! Somehow, the fact that she'd been badly wounded, and unconscious for most of a day, didn't feel like much of an excuse.
It was Olgun—and wasn't it always?—who guided her back to an even keel. A faint surge of undifferentiated emotion, the equivalent of a gentle cough, was enough to grab her attention. From there, she felt as though she were briefly floating in what she could only describe as a pool of calm, cooling the extremes of her emotional turmoil and lingering pain both.
“Thank you,” she whispered again, this time too low for any mortal ears in the room—and Olgun could certainly have never doubted that her thanks were for more than just that moment.
Widdershins took a deep breath, felt her heart slow to something vaguely resembling its normal rate, and tore her rapt attention from Julien's face (or at least the vicinity thereof) to take in her surroundings. Indeed, she recognized his office, now, as she'd been there a time or two before. The same rickety chairs; the same cheap desk that seemed about ready to collapse beneath the tectonic shifting of the parchment continents moving about its surface; the same oily lamps that added an acrid tang to the air and had stained the walls a color that wasn't really gray, but wasn't really any other color even more than it wasn't really gray. All that had changed was the mattress on which she now lay.
Well, that and the truly motley assortment of individuals currently gathered in said office.
Individuals who…Widdershins blinked, puzzled, wondering if she remained dazed enough to be so severely misinterpreting what she saw. Both Renard and Robin were glaring at Julien Bouniard with a simmering anger; what could, indeed, have almost been hatred! From Renard, Widdershins could have dismissed it. The flamboyant thief, for all his bravado, had to be made a little uneasy just standing here in the heart of his enemy's domain. But Robin? What could Julien possibly have done to earn Robin's ire?
Perhaps sensing Widdershins's confusion, if not the underpinning reasons for it, Julien gently released her hand and took a half step back from her side.
“Better count your fingers,” Renard warned, casting a sidelong grin at Widdershins that almost hid the growl of genuine hostility underlying his words.
“Oh, please,” Widdershins huffed. “I wouldn't steal from Bouniard.” Her own grin went impish. “Until I was well enough to escape, anyway.”
Julien snorted back a laugh. “Whatever issues I may have with your friend here,” he said, “he hasn't left your side since he arrived. He says he's something important to tell you.”
Three faces swiveled toward Renard, then, who blinked, looked askance at Robin, and then back at the young woman on the mattress.
“I trust her,” Widdershins said simply.
“I'm sure you do,” Renard began, “but—”
“I trust her. Completely. Out with it.”
Robin beamed, tenderly brushing a strand of sweat-matted hair from Widdershins's forehead.
“Well…All right. Widdershins, there's been some talk going around the Finders.”
“Yeah? Wow. Good thing I'm already lying down, or else I'd probably fall—”
“Talk about you, my little jester.”
“Still not being shocked here, Renard.”
“Talk that you just murdered
a couple of Finders.”
“What?!”
It took a bit of time to calm things down after that. Widdershins needed a few minutes to recover from the surge of pain in her shoulder brought about when she shot to her feet (or attempted to). Bouniard had to speak to several of his fellow Guardsmen, assuring them that no, they had not in fact just heard someone being violently assaulted within the walls of their own headquarters. And thankfully, by the time all that was done, Robin had recovered most of the hearing in her right ear.
“Who do these people think they are?!” Widdershins was lying back, and her voice was substantially softer, but neither fact was preventing her from giving the rant everything she had. “What am I, the guild's designated scapegoat? ‘Something's gone wrong, must be Widdershins's fault!’ ‘Uh-oh, it's raining, must be Widdershins's fault!’ ‘Stubbed my toe! Curse that Widdershins!’”
“Uh, Shins?” Robin began. “Maybe—”
“This was supposed to get better once Lisette was gone! But noooo, I still have a target painted on my soul's butt!”
“Widdershins,” Julien said, “I think—”
“All right, so I messed up one job! But it was dumb! And it wouldn't have worked anyway, and it would've brought the Guard down on us! And—”
“Widdershins!” Both Robin and Julien, this time.
“Well…it's all I've done lately. How long can they hold a grudge, anyway?” She crossed her arms with a genuine hmph, as though daring anyone to answer. “All right, fine. I've done a lot. So if there's plenty to blame me for, why does the world always insist on getting me in hot water for stuff I didn't do, hmm? Seems like a stupid amount of effort to go through, yes?”
Robin, Julien, and Renard all waited, presumably to be certain she was done. Then, as she began to draw breath—suggesting, perhaps, that she wasn't done—her fellow Finder spoke up, apparently determined to head her off before she built up any further momentum.
“There's a witness,” he told her.
“What?” Not a screech this time, but more of a faint squeak, as Widdershins seemed to deflate or even flatten rather like a mouse in a grain mill.
“Simon Beaupre.”
Widdershins was able, this time, to keep herself from sitting bolt upright and stressing her injuries even further. She settled, instead, for squeezing her eyes shut against what promised to become an incipient headache. “Squirrel.”
“Squirrel?” Robin and Julien asked simultaneously.
“That's him,” Renard said.
“I'm gonna kill him!” Widdershins promised.
Several chuckles answered her. “Maybe not the best thing to say when he's the one accusing you of murder,” Renard pointed out.
“Or in front of the Guard,” Julien added.
“Oh, both of you shut up.” Then, “Renard, I didn't kill anyone, and I don't know what Squirrel's talking about, though I can take a pretty good guess as to why he's trying to blame it on me.” Another pause, as she squirmed beneath the questioning expressions of Julien and Robin. “I, uh, sort of interfered with a job he was trying to pull. You…” She offered the Guardsman a weak, limp sort of smile. “You, uh, were sort of there for part of it.”
Julien's face stiffened. “I think you'd probably better not go into any further detail, before I hear something I'll have to act on.”
“Yeah, I was just thinking that.”
Robin looked at her, at Julien, at Renard. “Guess there's a reason you thieves don't plan anything with Guardsmen in the room, huh? Umm…” It was her turn to wither beneath the weight of several unamused glowers. “Maybe you guys should keep doing most of the talking.”
“What the hell have I gotten myself into?” Julien asked the world at large. Widdershins—who knew, for once, when not to make a snide comment—just nodded her sympathy.
“I never for a moment believed you a murderer, Widdershins,” Renard assured her, with a borderline melodramatic hand over his heart. “More importantly, neither do the Shrouded Lord or the taskmaster.”
Widdershins felt the fist that had closed around her lungs relax its hold just a bit, and nearly gasped aloud.
“There's a lot of pressure from the ranks of the Finders to question you—you're, let's say, not popular in some quarters…”
“You don't say?”
“…so I can't promise you that there won't be repercussions. And I'd definitely watch my back while out alone, were I you. Actually, I wouldn't go out alone, were I you.”
“You offering to follow me around, Renard?”
“Well, if mademoiselle wishes…”
“Never you mind.”
Renard chuckled. “Honestly, though, I think it should blow over fairly quickly. Even most of the Finders who believe you capable of murder don't really believe you'd use witchcraft to do it, so—”
“Stop. Stop right there. In fact, go back a few steps. What are you talking about?”
“The bodies. Our people you supposedly killed. They certainly weren't natural deaths.”
That fist in Widdershins's chest began to clench again. “Dry?” she asked. “Like old leather or parchment?”
She'd already had the attention of everyone in the room, yet somehow it felt as though her audience had grown. “You know about it?” Renard demanded.
“How many?”
“Widdershins…”
“Renard, please! How many?”
The older thief sighed. “Four.”
Widdershins shook her head. The hair Robin had so carefully brushed away fell right back into her face, though she scarcely noticed. “I only knew about two. Robin, help me sit up, please.”
During the few moments it took for her to get settled again, the pillows propped behind her so as to avoid putting any pressure on her wounds, Widdershins's mind was furiously chasing itself in half a dozen different directions. How much could she say here? Who would she have to keep secrets from? Gods, but this had been easier when she didn't mind lying to Julien, but now…
She blinked. When had she decided she didn't want to lie to Julien anymore?
Oh, this is bad….
“I ran into—well, into something—on the street last night,” she began. Better not mention that two of the Finders were actually masquerading as our local “phantom,” not in front of Jul—in front of a Guardsman. “I don't know what it was, but it…” She shuddered, and not just for dramatic effect. She found herself clutching at her shoulder with her right hand, though she didn't remember moving. “It did this to me, and…Well, you know what it did to them.”
“Something?” Julien asked, crouching down beside her. “Not someone?”
“Trust me, Julien, I can tell the difference.”
He nodded, and if he doubted her words at all, no such qualms appeared in his expression or his voice. “Can you describe it?”
“It, he—whichever—was kind of human-looking. Frighteningly gaunt, like a scarecrow, with really long limbs. Even longer fingers, like spider's legs or—”
Robin, with something somewhere between a gasp and an abortive shriek, actually lurched back from Widdershins's bedside. Her voice, when it emerged from between quivering lips, was a gravelly whisper. “Spider hands and webs for hair…”
“What?” Widdershins, stunned at the reaction and frightened by the sudden pallor in her friend's face, ignored her own pain and reached out to put a hand on Robin's arm. “Sweetie, what is it?”
“Don't you remember, Widdershins? You must have heard it when you were young. I'm sure everyone who grew up in Galice must have!”
The thief frowned, troubled once again by the strange sense of familiarity she'd felt when she'd first gotten a good look at the creature. “I'm not sure what…”
Robin took a deep breath, and began.
“Beneath the sun, the roads are man's,
His work, his home, his town, his plans.
But 'ware the ticking of the clock:
The night belongs to Iruoch.”
Widders
hins's breath caught, and she felt the tingle of a thousand tiny legs across her back and neck. She did remember!
“In shadowed wood, in distant vale,
In summer rain or winter hail,
If you alone should choose to walk,
You may just meet with Iruoch.”
It was a children's rhyme, nothing but a silly, scary story; one of scores they told each other in the dark, long after they were supposed to have gone to sleep. Just one of many Galician bogeymen.
But he wasn't real!
“With spider hands and webs for hair,
A black and never-blinking stare,
A scarecrow's form, a dancer's walk,
There's no mistaking Iruoch.”
It didn't seem that Robin could have stopped, now, even if she'd wanted to. With every word, her cadence grew ever more singsong; her voice grew higher, as though she were physically reverting back to the girl she'd been when first she'd heard the words. She shook beneath the weight of a childhood nightmare made very, very real, and Widdershins could do nothing but try to hold her.
“No means to fight, nowhere to run,
Your dreams are ash, your days are done.
No point to scream, to cry, to talk;
Your words mean naught to Iruoch.”
Even Julien and Renard were captivated, reaching out to Robin as though to comfort her, even as they clearly had trouble believing that she could possibly need comfort, not from something as simple, as silly, as a rhyme. And Widdershins—Widdershins, who now remembered it as clearly as when she herself was a little girl, could only recite the last stanza along with her friend.
“No mortals, magics, blades, or flames,
He only fears the Sacred Names.
Only a faith as stout as rock
Might save your hide from Iruoch.”
Robin inhaled once, deeply, as though only now able to breathe, buried her head in Widdershins's chest, and sobbed. Unsure of what else she should do, Widdershins held her tight, casting a worried glance over Robin's head—a glance returned by the other occupants of the room.
