Carville had been a part of the operation at the Ducarte estate; had, in fact, been one of the Guardsmen dressed as servants, and had been right in the middle of the group on whom Widdershins had dropped the banner. His hair and complexion were both darker than Paschal's-the former by quite a great deal, the latter only slightly-but otherwise they looked identical enough, especially as both wore the black and silver of the Guard.
“So in other words,” Paschal said as Carville finished up his non-report, “you're bored as a blue blood without a mirror.”
The other snorted, nodding. It wasn't a crack either would have made had Bouniard been present, but as soldiers of the same rank-even if Paschal technically had seniority by a year or so-they could justify a certain breach of decorum.
“All right, Constable,” Paschal said. “You know the drill. Whistle if you need anything.” And with that he was off, continuing to walk the rounds of the wall so that he might check in with the other nighttime posts under his command. Carville saluted a second time, held the pose until Paschal was gone, and then resumed slouching against the monolithic blocks of the city wall, trying not to wince as the cold drizzle occasionally dribbled off his hat and down the back of his neck.
When the figure first appeared, some cold and soggy minutes later, he wasn't even certain he was really seeing it. It looked, initially, to be nothing more than a denser spot amidst the drops, perhaps whipped up by an errant gust of wind. Only as it neared did it resolve itself into a human form, disturbingly long of limb and even more disturbing in how it moved. Shoulders shifted in an exaggerated gait; legs skimmed, rather than stepped, across the surface of the muddy road. It was less a walk than a ballet; less a ballet than a macabre glide. The traveler's forward movement seemed independent of those peculiar steps.
Even as it-he? — drew closer, Carville could make out few details, save for a ragged coat and a wide-brimmed hat that sagged sadly in the rain.
That and, peculiarly, the scent of peppermint, wafting clearly on the wet breeze.
“Who…” Carville stopped, clearing his throat even as he dropped one hand to the butt of his rapier. Gods, but the fellow's bizarre pace must have unnerved him more than he'd realized. “Who goes there?” he tried again, his voice steadier.
The figure halted, oh so briefly, and then twisted toward Carville. He stood several yards nearer, without having taken a single intervening step. The Guardsman could swear, absolutely swear, that somewhere in the distance he could now hear the faint giggling of children.
“Just a lonely traveler, sir.” The voice…It must be the weather and the wind, doing something strange, something awful, to that voice. “A traveler, come to seek his fortune.” It sounded very much as though there were two throats-one a grown man, one a young child-speaking in perfect unison. In some syllables Carville heard both, in some only one or the other, but never was there the slightest lack of clarity in the words.
“You, ah…You've business in Davillon, then?”
“Oh, yes, yes, indeed! Lots and lots and lots and lots of…business.” And the figure giggled, then-or was it once again those faint voices from so far away? Carville wasn't sure, seemed to be having some difficulty focusing on his duties.
“I…You'll have to wait until morning, I'm afraid. And you really ought to go around to the main gate…”
“Oh, but I so hate waiting!” The figure actually stamped a foot, sending a small deluge of mud and water spraying across Carville's boots.
(Boots? My boots? Gods, when did he get that close?! I should…I…)
“I don't think I want to wait!” The stranger was singing now. “I don't think I want to wait, I don't think I need a gate!”
One more step, just one, and he loomed over Carville, less than an arm's-length distant. And the Guardsman, finally, could see beneath the flopping brim.
“Oh, gods. Oh, gods, I know you!”
“Everybody knows me.” The grin beneath the hat grew wide, an ugly slash of gleaming white in the heavily shadowed face. “Or at least, they will.”
A lunge, faster than a blink, and the traveler's lips latched onto Carville's own, grabbing with what felt like a thousand tiny hooks. And Carville-dwindled.
Skin shriveled against muscles that in turn flattened against bone. Eyes crumpled into little balls, yellowing and crinkling into age-old parchment. Hair and fingernails grew brittle, then fell from their perch, no longer held fast to drying flesh.
The stranger leaned back, allowing the now-desiccated lump of leather that had been Constable Carville to fall, with a dull plop, to the mud. And in the distance, the chorus of children that did not-could not-exist, sighed aloud in joyful satisfaction.
Gliding over the already-forgotten body, the traveler reached the walls of Davillon. Slowly, he extended his hands, hands possessed of inhumanly, impossibly long digits that twitched and flexed like the legs of some horrid spider. Narrow fingertips pressed against the stone and then-his body held rigidly straight, never touching the wall save with those gruesome, scuttling fingers-the newcomer began to climb.
Davillon had called to him, however unknowingly. And he was so looking forward to answering.
CHAPTER FIVE
“…Ulvanorre, who stands upon the highest structures and the highest peaks; Demas, who watches over us, who interposes himself between his people and harm; and, Vercoule, who among all the gods, has chosen this, Davillon, as his favored city. To all these, and more, we offer our gratitude, and our devotion, and our most humble prayers.”
A ripple of sighs and similar exhalations washed through the assembly; a sign of piety from some, yes, but of relieved impatience from more than a few others. The bishop had not, in fact, named in his litany all 147 gods of the Hallowed Pact-had included barely a quarter of them, actually-but it certainly felt to some of the congregants as though the recitation had gone on interminably.
It would be inaccurate to say that the cathedral was “packed,” precisely, but it was certainly far more crowded than at any other time in the past two seasons. More of the pews were occupied than empty. The multihued light of the stained glass gleamed across more than a hundred faces, and the vast chamber sweltered, as though the height of summer had already arrived, due to the warmth of so many assembled bodies.
Standing atop a raised dais before the throng, clad in purest white, Ancel Sicard lowered his hands, which had slowly risen in supplication and emphasis as he listed those deities most important to the city that now fell under his purview. “My friends,” he said, his voice a little softer than it had been, “I know that these have been trying times. I know that many of you are frightened of the affliction that has so recently beset Davillon.” His stare flitted across the assembly, seeming to settle on each and every individual, one by one. “Fear is only natural, in light of what we must face. Only human.
“But consider, my children. It has been nine nights and ten days, now, since this phantom, this demon, this fiend, descended upon our streets. In that time, how many of our brothers and sisters in Davillon have been attacked? Perhaps fifteen, sixteen? True, that is fifteen or sixteen more than there should be, but in a city so huge as this one? And of those, how many have been slain, or even crippled? None, my friends. Surely, a supernatural, unholy entity such as the one we are clearly facing should-nay, must-be capable of spreading carnage far more widely, and far more severely, than we have seen. Can this truly mean anything, anything, other than-despite the foibles of mere mortals that have caused the unfortunate rift between our father city and our Mother Church-that the gods of the Hallowed Pact still watch over us all? That they protect us, no matter our sins and our mistakes? Dare we, then, continue to avert our faces from our sacred guardians? No! We must renew our faith, renew our veneration, lest we-all of us, laymen and clergy alike-anger them sufficiently that they withdraw their protecting hand.”