Remy bowed, albeit stiffly.
“And draw up whatever modifications you feel we should make to our procedures. We'll discuss them next week, and implement those with which I agree.”
“Understood, my lord.” A second bow, rather less rigid and reluctant than the first, and Remy-clearly having recognized the dismissal for what it was-once more retreated from the chamber.
“I assume,” the voice said from within the smoke and hood, “that I needn't point out to either of you that the timing of this ‘con job’ coincides neatly with the start of the initial, nonlethal attacks on Davillon's citizens?”
“I'd noticed that,” Widdershins said flatly.
Igraine was chewing on her left thumbnail. “It doesn't prove anything,” she muttered obstinately. Then, with a sigh, “But I admit, it's certainly suspicious. If nothing else, we should look into it enough to ensure that we do not, in fact, receive any of the blame for what happened next.”
Widdershins smiled sweetly. “I bet that hurt you to say. You look like you just swallowed a monkey.”
“Widdershins…”
“A poisonous monkey.”
“That will do, Widdershins,” the guildmaster warned.
“Yes, my lord.”
“So what are we thinking?” he asked, shifting in his chair. “Is this some scheme of the Church as a whole? Something Sicard has put into motion? Or is Ferrand acting on his own? Igraine? You'd know better than the rest of us….”
The priestess nodded and began to pace, leaving whorls of haze in her wake. “I think we can rule out the notion of this being officially Church sanctioned. They have other resources on which to draw, without taking the risk of involving any outsiders, let alone a bunch of Finders.
“But as to whether this is something put in motion by Sicard or Ferrand-well, I can't imagine what either would have to gain, and it's not precisely in character for either a bishop of the Pact or a brother of the Order of Saint Bertrand, so I'm at a loss.”
Widdershins raised her hand like a schoolgirl. “So what's stopping us from finding out?” Then, beneath the weight of twin glowers, “Well, I mean, how hard can it be to spy on a couple of clergymen? Shouldn't be too hard to follow them long enough to figure out what they're up to. And besides, if this is something they started, maybe they'll have some idea of how to stop it, yes?”
“Much as I hate to say it,” Igraine admitted, “I haven't any better ideas.”
“Well, if you hated that, you're going to loathe this…”
“Oh, gods…”
Widdershins offered a shallow smile. “I think we should bring the Guard in on this.” And then, “Uh, Igraine? If your jaw drops any farther, we'll actually be able to see your brain….”
“Widdershins,” the Shrouded Lord asked, his voiced vaguely strangled, “are you completely insane?”
“This is even a question?” Igraine muttered.
“Maybe,” Widdershins admitted readily. “But I'm also right.”
“I await your efforts to convince me,” the guildmaster told her, “with breathless anticipation.”
“That'd be the smoke, I think. But, uh, it's just…Even if we learn something, Sicard and Ferrand will just deny it, right? If we don't have some pretty unimpeachable witnesses, we can't exactly make use of whatever we learn. I mean, I'm assuming the Finders' Guild isn't planning to just ‘disappear’ the bishop, so we need a way to handle this legally, right? Right?”
Then, having not exactly gotten the unambiguous agreement she was looking for, she hurried on. “Plus, what's the point of working to show that the Finders' Guild isn't responsible for what's happening-that we even tried to help stop it-if nobody knows about it?”
“Maybe I'm going mad,” Igraine said to the Shrouded Lord, “but she's actually making sense.”
“Oh, good,” he replied. “I was worried it was just me. Widdershins, I hear what you're saying, but…the Guard? Really?”
“I'm pretty sure I can get them to give us a fair hearing. I have, uh, friends…”
“Yes.” The Shrouded Lord's voice once more went flat, even frosty. “Yes, you do.” He heaved a sigh, made ragged by the fumes in the air. “Very well. Widdershins, you'll contact your…friend. Igraine, you'll accompany her.”
“I-what? My lord-”
“This isn't open for discussion. You're a priestess of a god of the Hallowed Pact. Your word will carry some extra weight, if we do indeed have to make accusations against the bishop or his assistant.”
Igraine bowed her head. “As you wish.”
“Good. I expect the two of you to cooperate. And I'll be sending along someone to provide extra muscle, in case things go poorly.”
The priestess smirked tightly. “‘Muscle.’ By which I assume my lord means ‘babysitter’? Widdershins, I don't believe he trusts us to get along.”
“I am shocked at such an insinuation. Truly scandalized. Possibly appalled, even.”
The pair of them aimed matching grins and wide, innocent looks at the smoke-wrapped figure.
“Get out of here,” he ordered, “before I come to my senses and realize what an abominably bad idea this is.”
The pair of women bowed, still oddly in unison, and turned. They had just about reached the door when, “Widdershins, Igraine?”
Two necks twisted as they both looked over their shoulders.
“We don't know what we're dealing with. We don't know who this conspiracy entails, other than that it's someone highly placed in the Church-a Church, I would remind you, that is not especially popular in Davillon at the moment. We don't know what their masquerade was intended to accomplish, or why it appears to have gone so horribly awry. Be careful-not just for your own sake, but for the Finders. This city is desperate for a scapegoat for our recent woes. Let's not volunteer for the position, hmm?”
Two deep nods, doubling as final bows of farewell, and they were gone.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The hum of conversation slithered from several of the rooms they passed on their way, and the halls were, if not full of Finders going about their business, then at least sporadically occupied. Plus there were the occasional guards, the chime of bells indicating that someone had failed to pick the pocket or slit the purse of a practice mannequin, even the hiss and spit and crackle of the oil lamps.
Yet, to Widdershins, it felt as though she and her reluctant companion were traversing the entire length of the Finders' Guild sanctum in utter silence. Whatever thoughts the priestess had, she hoarded them to herself as if they were pure gold and uncut gems.
For a time, Widdershins felt that allowing said silence to linger was the best option, but eventually…
“I'm not the enemy, Igraine.”
“Hmm?”
Widdershins shrugged without turning or pausing in her stride. “I know you don't trust me.”
“Why, whatever gave you that silly idea?”
“Call it a hunch. I'm just sensitive that way. But look, I'm really not. I'm loyal to the Guild. I always have been.”
“And that's why you led a demon into our halls last year, is it?”
“Didn't have a choice. I know you think there's something weird about me, but I'm no traitor and I'm no danger to the Finders. I'm not responsible for what's happening out there on the streets, and I really am trying to stop it. The sooner you get that, the happier we'll both be.”
“I don't think there's something weird about you, Widdershins. I know there is. I sensed it even before I heard the rumors of your impressive physical feats-to say nothing of that little display of inhuman speed you put on for me earlier. The presence of the unnatural is one of the first things priests of the Pact learn to sense.