They settled swiftly, even instinctively, into a pattern that was nearly a dance, with each specific slash or thrust leading to a particular twist; each attempted riposte resulting in a specific parry. Step, step, cross-step, twist; thrust, slash, parry, lunge. Their feet on the cobbles provided a musical accompaniment, and the entire affair was borderline hypnotic.
And then, without so much as a flicker or a tremor to give himself away, the man in the coat broke that pattern. Rather than parry the dark figure's attempted grab, as he'd done half a dozen times now, he instead lunged forward on bended knee, dropping so low as to pass beneath the outstretched arm, and drove his blade home. Only the tip of the rapier, the first inch or so, penetrated whatever flesh lurked beneath the heavy black fabrics.
The result was a very human scream, immediately followed by the figure scampering off far faster than any normal person could have pursued. Something about the acoustics of the street and the heavy, rain-drenched air made it sound as though the shriek of pain echoed back at them from a different direction the same instant it erupted from the cloth-wrapped throat.
Faustine darted forward to stand beside her rescuer, who was currently examining the tip of his blade. Although it was already starting to run in the gentle rain, the liquid beading on the steel certainly appeared-so far as the feeble lighting allowed her to see it at all-to be normal, red blood.
Even as she opened her mouth to speak, however, the man shrugged and faced her. “Would you, m'lady, happen to have a cloth or a handkerchief you'd be willing to part with?”
Puzzled, she reached into her bodice and removed a scrap of linen. He bowed from the neck, then proceeded to clean his blade. “I can, of course, reimburse you for this…,” he began.
“Oh, don't you dare!” She smiled, even as she shouted. “I think I can afford the cost of a handkerchief for the man who saved my life.”
He returned her smile, sheathed his rapier, and began casting around as though looking for something. “I'm just glad,” he said, “that my own errands have kept me in this part of town. Otherwise, I'd never have been near enough to hear your cry.”
Faustine shuddered briefly at the implication-and then knelt as something caught her attention. From the shadows where he'd first emerged, she lifted a sodden tricorne hat.
“Is this what you're looking for?” she asked.
He bowed once more. “Indeed it is. My thanks, m'lady…?”
This time, there was no mistaking the question. “Faustine. Faustine Lebeau. And you, sir?”
“Evrard.”
“And have you a family name?” she asked after a moment of silence.
His smile widened, and he chuckled softly, as if at some private joke-or, perhaps, a memory of earlier that day. “I do,” he told her.
And just like that he was gone, vanished once more into the Davillon night.
CHAPTER FOUR
For several minutes-actually, rather longer than several minutes, if truth be told-Widdershins stood on the sad Ragway street and just glared at her destination. Her hands were clenched into pale fists, her hair plastered to the side of her face by the gentle but constant rain, and she really wanted nothing more than to turn around and go home.
“No, of course I'm not going to,” she answered Olgun's concerned query. “They want me to talk to them, I talk to them. I'm not that stupid.” And then, before even the god could possibly reply, “Shut up.”
Olgun responded with wounded innocence-a feeling not quite capable of hiding his amused self-satisfaction-and allowed Widdershins to return to her brooding.
The building across from her was a decrepit, dirty eyesore of a structure. Ostensibly, it was home to a rundown business specializing in pawnbrokering, caravan insurance, and similar endeavors, and was always on the verge of shutting down. At this point, though, Widdershins wondered why they even bothered maintaining the front, since pretty much everyone in Davillon-or everyone involved in either the law-enforcement or law-breaking communities, anyway-knew what the place was really for.
She herself had only been back a few times in the last half year or so, partly because she hadn't been stealing much-she really had tried to run the Flippant Witch as Genevieve would have wanted her to, no matter how unsuccessful (and, to be blunt, bored) she was at it-but primarily because a rather disturbing number of her fellow guild members were pretty eager to see her dead.
It had been here, six months ago, that Widdershins had come in a last-ditch effort to escape the clutches of a demon (yes, a real one), and the religious fanatic who had summoned it. She'd succeeded in doing so, thwarting their schemes in the process, but the creature had slaughtered over a dozen members of the Finders' Guild before it fell. The Shrouded Lord, leader of the Finders, had decreed that Widdershins's actions had actually saved the city and the guild from something far worse, and the guild's priests had backed him. As such, Widdershins's standing in the Finders' Guild was officially just fine, and she should be perfectly safe. Unofficially, not everyone in the ranks was so forgiving.
“Well, fine!” she announced abruptly, startling not only Olgun, but a small mockingbird that had landed for a brief rest on a windowsill nearby. “I'm supposed to be here, yes? So if they want trouble, well, they're welcome to it!”
As announcements go, it probably wasn't the most reassuring she could have made, seeing as how she could literally feel the sudden doubt radiating from her divine companion. But by that point, having made up her mind, she was already marching across the street. Chin held high, she pounded heavily on the door.
“Appointment with the taskmaster,” she announced as a concealed panel in the door slid aside, allowing the sentry within to get a good look at her.
“Hey!” She didn't recognize the voice, but then, it wasn't as though she could possibly know everyone in the guild. “Aren't you the one who-?”
“Yes! Yes, I am. And I don't want to hear it. I'm sorry about whatever happened to you, or at you, or near you, but it wasn't my fault. The Shrouded Lord said so and the priests said so, so get over it!” By the end of the brief but heartfelt tirade, she was actually panting.
“I…Uh…I was just gonna say, you have serious guts coming here. I don't know if I could do it if I were you, even if I was summoned. I'm impressed.”
“Oh.” Widdershins felt her face grow warm even in the chilling rain. What was that, three times today someone's made me blush? What in the name of Banin's overcoat is wrong with me?! The fact that she could feel Olgun laughing at her certainly wasn't helping matters any. “Uh, thank you?”
“You're welcome.”
Silence, save for the faint patter of the rain. Then, “Um, can I come in now?”
“Oh, sure.” A loud clatter as several bolts drew back, a single, louder thump as the bar (a relatively new addition) was removed, and the heavy portal swung inward.
The hall beyond was largely as she remembered it, save for certain portions of the walls that had been more recently repainted-hiding bloodstains, for the most part. The door guard, a young man with a scraggly beard and so many acne scars that he looked as though he'd been shot with a miniature blunderbuss, might not have held any animosity toward Widdershins, but the same couldn't be said for a number of the others. As she made her way through the winding, twisting hallways beneath the pawnbroker's-the halls that were the true headquarters of the Finders' Guild-she couldn't help but note that one of every three or four faces went sour at her approach. A few frowned unhappily, but most of them twisted in angry scowls, baring teeth or mouthing profanity-laden threats. A few hands even dropped toward daggers or flintlocks, but invariably the fact that the Shrouded Lord had forbidden any retaliation was sufficient to prevent the potential violence from turning into actual violence.