Thief's Covenant (A Widdershins Adventure) (20 page)

NOW
:

“All right, all right! I'm coming, confound it all!” Through the living room of a small house, its interior neat and crisp as a military barracks awaiting inspection, the old man moved toward the front door. In one hand, he carried a small lantern, for he'd already doused the lights in preparation for bed. In the other, he carried a heavy bludgeon with which, even at his age, he was more than skilled enough to crack a skull or two. He wasn't expecting trouble, no, but neither was he expecting visitors—and one didn't reach an age to retire from the Guard of Davillon without knowing how to take precautions.

It took him an extra moment to work the lock and the latch on the door, what with both hands being full, but eventually he hauled the portal open a crack, just enough to see who waited on the other side.

“Well, I'll be…Come in, Major, come in!” The door swung wide in invitation.

“Thank you, Sergeant,” Julien Bouniard told him as he stepped across the threshold, doffing his plumed hat.

“None of that, Major,” Cristophe Chapelle told his former protégé with a smile far wider than any he'd offered during their years of working together. “No longer a sergeant, me. Unless you want me to call you ‘Constable'?”

Julien smiled in turn. “There was a time the thought of calling you anything else would have terrified me out of a week's sleep.”

“Well, I suppose you can go with ‘sir' if it makes you comfortable.” Then, still grinning, “Have a seat, Major. I fear I haven't anything prepared this late, but I could offer you a brandy.”

It was a test, as much as an offer, and Chapelle saw in the younger man's face that he knew it. “Nothing for me, thank you,” Julien demurred as he selected a chair.

“Not a social visit, then, is it?” The old soldier sat across from his guest. “Let me see. You obviously think of yourself on duty, but you're not precisely here in an official capacity. You need my advice on something, don't you?”

Julien couldn't help but chuckle. “You haven't lost a step, I see.”

Chapelle harrumphed. “I could return to the job
tomorrow
if they wanted me.” Then, more seriously, “Tell me about it, lad.”

And that he did, from Widdershins's arrest to the bizarre incident at Rittier's manor, from the man he'd been forced to kill to the murdered guard they'd located only afterward.

“Monstrous!” Chapelle agreed, puffed up with enough indignant fury that he'd clearly forgotten he was no longer part of the Guard. “For them to come into one of
our
headquarters…”

Julien nodded. “I don't know what Widdershins is up to, or the rest of the Finders' Guild. I don't know if His Eminence is still in danger. But I do know that things are heating up, at a time where Davillon really can't afford them to. And I have no bloody idea what the Shrouded Lord could
possibly
be thinking, since he
should
be as anxious to avoid tumult during de Laurent's visit as the rest of us!”

Chapelle's turn to nod, but otherwise, he let the major continue uninterrupted.

“We can't let the guild think they can get away with something so brazen. But we can't afford an open war, either—not even if we could find some theological grounds to allow for it.”

“And you want my advice, lad?”

“Ah—not exactly, sir. What I need is your
help.”

Again, Chapelle saw where Bouniard was hesitantly directing him. “You already
have
a plan, then. But it's not one that the Guard would let you carry out, so you need someone you can trust from the outside.”

“That's about the size of it.”

“I won't assist you in anything illegal, Major.”

“I'd never dare expect you to, sir,” Julien assured him. “It's not that the Guard would
disapprove
, exactly, so much as they'd probably find me unfit for duty, by reason of insanity, if they knew I was considering it.”

Chapelle leaned back in his chair, suddenly wishing he'd gone for the brandy after all. “Oh, Demas, I'm not going to care for this at all, am I? All right, let's hear it.…”

The chamber seemed even darker than before, as though the shadows within had spawned, layering each new generation upon the foundations of the old. Jean Luc hated coming to this place even under the best of circumstances. Today, though he brought news to mitigate it, he would have to admit that he'd failed a commission.

The highborn assassin stood roughly at attention near the center of the room, equidistant from the heavy, black-hued doors and the “evil wall” across from them. In the torchlight, he could just make out the hideous visage staring from within the darkened stone. The dancing illumination created the nerve-racking illusion that the face was laughing at him.

The pall of silence was chipped away by the muttering of the other killers arrayed behind him, the crackling of the torches, and the steady footsteps of the Apostle, who once again paced before the graven image, pondering Jean Luc's report.

Finally, he halted directly before the embossed idol and faced the assembled assassins.

“The information you bring,” he intoned, “is indeed valuable, more so than you know. I thank you for it.

“The fact remains, however, that you royally bollixed up a sensitive and equally vital task, one that fell squarely within your area of expertise. For this, you may find my thanks less palatable.”

The leather-clad killer snarled, paring his nails with a long dagger. “How the hell were we supposed to know some damn thief'd show up and spoil it?”

“You weren't supposed to know that at all,” the Apostle admitted, hands raised in a dramatic shrug. “Then again, six of you were assigned to this undertaking, but only two of you were actually in the house. That strikes me as poor resource management.”

“We figured Jean Luc could handle it!” the assassin protested. “I mean, even the six of us together couldn't fight through the marquis's guards, and once it was just a matter of sneaking, we thought that a smaller group—”

“Had all of you been there, doing the job for which you were hired, Adrienne would never have won past you. Now, not only do I still have to track her down, I've got to find someone else to handle the archbishop.”

“Someone else?!” The killer's voice was choked with rage, and the others behind him growled their agreement, all save Jean Luc, who was rapidly developing a sinking sensation in his gut. “You can't take us off this! You owe us—”

“For a job you failed to complete,” their employer interjected, slicing off their protests like a gangrenous limb. “I'd say that makes us even.

“However,” he continued more reasonably, before the argument could heat up, “I do have another task in mind for you. It doesn't pay as much as the archbishop would, but I think we can work something out.”

The assassin looked far from happy, his face twisted in a scowl, dagger still clutched in his fist, but he wasn't entirely beyond the bounds of reason. “All right, let's hear it.”

“In a moment, my impatient friend. I need to pray, seek guidance for my next step. I'll ask you all to bide just a few minutes. Except you.” He pointed imperiously at Jean Luc. “You, come stand beside me.”

The aristocratic killer blanched, though it went unnoticed in the cloak of shadows that draped the room, and reluctantly shuffled forward.

The Apostle turned to face the image and began to chant in a low, sonorous rumble, his lips, tongue, and throat twisting themselves around words that came from no language Jean Luc had ever heard. It sounded…“guttural” wasn't a strong enough term. Chthonic, perhaps, not just inhuman but inhumane.

A single horsefly circled the room once, buzzing softly, and then set down on the floor and spat up something tiny and unidentifiable, coated in blood. The insect convulsed as though suffering some sort of fit and then burst, adding its internal fluids to the tiny viscous pile already deposited.

A second horsefly appeared. It, too, vomited something strange into the minuscule but growing mass, and then ruptured. It was followed just as swiftly by a third, a fourth, a fifth, and then the chamber shook with the drone of a thousand horseflies, and even the dullest of the assassins knew that something was very wrong.

From every conceivable hiding place they came. From the corners of the room, the edges of the door, the folds and drapes of clothing, even the ears and nostrils and mouths of the horrified killers they flew, buzzing angrily, forever adding to the swelling
thing
upon the floor. The room filled with a nauseating, acrid odor, a miasma of rot and decay. The air blurred visibly with the heavy stench.

It wasn't until the leather-garbed assassin glanced down at his arm to see it shrivel and shrink, muscle and flesh disappearing from under the skin, that he knew what was happening.

And with that knowledge, so came pain. Suddenly, the men couldn't just see the horrific fate befalling them, they could
feel
it, now consciously aware of each and every fly-sized morsel that detached itself from their innards to be regurgitated across the room. Four mouths gaped open, to scream, to cry, perhaps to beg. Nothing emerged but an atrocious gurgle as various fluids mixed within their lungs. Blood and bile erupted from between cracked and drying lips; eyes collapsed as aqueous humors bubbled through punctured membranes and ran in monstrous tears down sunken cheeks. Limbs folded as bones and tendons liquefied beneath the unrelenting assault.

The shape on the floor began to pulse, palpitating in time with some unseen heart. With each beat, the mass shifted. Crests and ridges that formed with one pulse didn't quite subside with the next; hollows and cavities remained despite the press of fluids.

For long minutes the horror grew, and the helpless men writhed on the floor, deflated from within, until nothing remained save four sopping, gummy sets of clothing, each with a ring of teeth lying neatly nearby.

Jean Luc fell to his knees and retched, his stomach heaving long after it was empty of anything to purge. His expression thoughtful, the Apostle stood over him, watching the ongoing transformation.

The mass on the floor resolved itself into a clearly humanoid shape. It twitched once, twice, and rose to its feet. Even as it stood, a rough skin blossomed across its surface. Fingers flexed, testing muscles; eyes rolled up from within, sliding into formerly hollow sockets. Finally complete, it loomed above the watching mortals, death incarnate, and Jean Luc was certain that the abhorrent fate of his companions was nothing compared to what this monstrosity held in store for him. If Jean Luc could be grateful for one thing in this night of terrors, it was that the room's feeble lighting prevented him from seeing more details of the beast.

But then, he didn't have to look at it now. He'd seen it once before, two years ago…

“Do you know why you're alive, Jean Luc?” the Apostle demanded. “Do you know why you aren't currently a part of my pet here, like your companions?”

“I…I…”

“Get a grip, man! It was you who told me of Adrienne's illicit activities. That buys you some leeway. I also need your connections in the city's criminal element to track her down—and guide my little pet to her doorstep.”

“Oh, gods, no! Please, you can't—”

“I can. My own people will accompany you. Both of you. Succeed, and all previous failures will be forgotten. Fail me again, though, Jean Luc…” He felt no need to complete the threat.

Jean Luc watched the demonic form collapse in on itself, flesh crumpling like old parchment before once more smoothing into a roughly human size. It couldn't be mistaken for mortal on close inspection, but seen briefly on the night-dimmed streets, it shouldn't draw attention.

And then, with a grin that wasn't
remotely
human, it bowed and gestured toward the door, allowing the weeping assassin to exit first.