“There's also substantial risk,” Sicard interrupted, “that whoever linked with you would also suffer irreparable damage in the process. He'd be tapping into a divine power that wasn't intended for him. It's not inconceivable that it could cause the body to burn from the inside out, or become so stressed that even a small scratch could prove fatal.”
“Oh. Uh, that's less good, then.”
“It is.”
“Then what-”
“I'll do it,” Brother Ferrand said softly. Then, after giving the chorus of objections and protests a moment to subside, he continued, “I'm aware of the risks I'm taking. But you must understand, I've been part of this from the beginning. I aided His Eminence in his efforts. If there is any blame to be had for calling Iruoch to Davillon, I share in it. Bishop Sicard must cast the spell; he cannot be a part of it. I can.”
“Ferrand,” Sicard said, “are you certain?” He sounded as though he might cry again.
“I am, Your Eminence. I must do this. Please.”
Sicard bowed his head. Widdershins felt a gentle waft of sorrow from Olgun. “It won't be your fault,” she assured him. “All of which is well and good,” she continued more loudly, with a brief smile of respect to the monk, “but it's not sufficient. As I was saying, even two people who can do what I can do may well not be enough. We need more.”
“I can only link people in pairs,” Sicard said. “If we had others with your abilities-or even others who were more highly skilled than we are-I could work with that, but I cannot join more than one person to you.”
“Can we just overwhelm the creature?” Constable Sorelle asked. “I saw him take injury from a pistol, if only briefly. If we were to gather enough Guardsmen-or even Guardsmen and Finders together…”
Igraine and Sicard both shook their heads. “If Iruoch is drawn to emotion, as we believe,” the priestess said, “then he's certain to sense people's presence, however well hidden. If he feels there are enough of us to threaten him, he'll simply wait for a more opportune time. We have to keep the group small. Major Bouniard, have you any particularly skilled fighters in the Guard? Anyone whose presence might make a difference?”
Julien frowned. “My men and women are good, no doubt, but…Well, none that are so dramatically more skilled than myself that they'd tip the balance.” He shrugged. “Guards have to fight, but it's not all we do, so we can only train so much….”
“I know who we need,” Robin told them weakly. “So do you.”
Widdershins, at least, did Robin the courtesy of not pretending any confusion as to whom she meant.
“Are you completely out of your mind?!” she demanded (which, honestly, probably wasn't substantially more courteous than if she had pretended confusion as to whom Robin meant).
“Can you tell me I'm wrong?” Robin asked.
“Yes! Yes, I can. You're wrong! You're so wrong, there aren't enough syllables in the word ‘wrong’ to encompass how wrong you are!”
“Um, what are we talking about, here?” Sicard asked mildly. The two young women ignored him, if they even heard him at all.
“I'm not,” Robin said, “and you know it.”
“Robin…” Widdershins stood and put her hands on the younger girl's shoulders. “He's our enemy. He hates me. Gods, he kidnapped you!”
“No, really,” the bishop said. “Who are we-?”
“And he was going to let me go,” Robin reminded her.
“That doesn't excuse-”
“No, it doesn't. Shins, I'm not suggesting that he's suddenly our best friend or anything. But I spoke to him. I listened to him. I don't pretend to understand his code of honor, but I know he has one. Under the right circumstances, I think he can be trusted.”
“Under the right circumstances, so can the average trapdoor spider!” Widdershins snapped. “What does that-?”
“How many people told you about him, did you say? Said that he's one of the greatest duelists alive today? Not just in Davillon, but in all Galice? If you're looking for someone good enough to make a difference, while keeping the group small, you know you won't find anyone better suited.”
“Ugh!” Widdershins threw up her hands and began to pace, just a couple of steps in each direction, before her friend's chair. “Robin, I don't think you know what you're asking.”
“Is anyone going to fill the rest of us in?” Sicard asked, his tone starting to grow petulant. Renard leaned over and began whispering in his ear.
“I know this is more important than anyone's personal grudges,” Robin continued relentlessly.
“Yes, but-”
“It's more important than your pride, Shins.”
“This isn't about pride! This-”
“It was important enough that you sent someone else to save me.”
Widdershins stumbled to a halt, nearly tripping over her own feet.
Was that what this was really about? Was Robin testing her, to see if she'd do as much as she'd demanded of others, put the needs of the moment above her own feelings? Was the girl maybe even punishing her, if only a little?
And…After all that had happened, didn't she have the right to want to know?
“All right.” The words were bile on her tongue, actually burned the back of her throat, but still she coughed them up. “All right, Robin. I'll try to convince him. But if he kills me, you're the first one I'm haunting.”
Robin smiled, if only faintly.
“Start planning,” Widdershins told the others. “I'll be back soon.” One last, brief glance-lingering, perhaps, on Julien's troubled brow-and she was gone.
That this particular suite of rooms was nicer than the average house in Davillon would have come as no surprise to any visitor. Quality (read: ostentation) was the hallmark of the Golden Sable mansion block, located at the fanciest end of Rising Bend, scarcely more than a bowshot away from the estates of Duchess Beatrice Luchene herself. What might have surprised such a hypothetical visitor was the size of the suite; it was substantially larger than those same average houses. A combination sitting and dining room opened up into numerous hallways, which in turn led to almost a dozen additional chambers. The carpeting was thick and plush enough to have silenced the hoofbeats of a mule (and yes, said mule could potentially have fit through the door, while carrying saddlebags stuffed with unnecessary luxuries). Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their glass and crystal adornments glinting like stars in the light of their many candles, and the overall stench of the city was cloaked by pomanders hanging near the numerous doorways.
One of the rooms farthest from the front door, however, was utterly unlike the others. In this chamber alone, the carpet had been pulled up, the bulk of the furniture removed, the window covered by a sturdy square of wood. Several straw-stuffed mannequins stood along one wall, and heavy bags of sand hung at random intervals from the ceiling. Through it all, currently clad only in a pair of heavy hose, Evrard d'Arras twisted and spun, lashing out with rapier and dagger (the former of which was rather less ornate than the one he'd so recently lost). Straw flew and sand poured in torrents, yet so precise were his strikes that the bags barely swung or twisted as they opened to his blades. Sweat poured from Evrard's face, but he found that the growing knot of frustration-and, if he'd been more honest with himself, confusion-in his belly refused to loosen.
Finally, cursing in disgust, he stalked across the room and grabbed up a pair of towels-the first for his face, the second to ensure that no particles of sand clung to the steel.
“Jacques!” Evrard hadn't brought any of his family's servants with him to Davillon, but the Golden Sable included a few valets and maids as part of their amenities. “Jacques, some wine!”