She knew, also, that she should be upset that-despite his high-sounding justifications-Sicard had chosen the Verdant Hills Cemetery, which serviced workers, craftsmen, and other citizens of moderate means, rather than one of the wealthier, upper-class graveyards with which he'd probably have been more familiar. (He'd told them it was so Iruoch wouldn't have the mausoleums on which to climb, but Widdershins wasn't sure she bought that logic.) Should have been upset, except that she could only give thanks, however ashamed she might feel of herself for it, that neither Genevieve's nor Alexandre's graves would be impacted by what was to come.
His Eminence, apparently realizing that no further questions or objections were forthcoming, returned to his efforts, laying out a broad circle of various herbs and incense, fine links of silver chain, small two-faced mirrors, and other esoteric components for his forthcoming mystical endeavors. Widdershins, in turn, tore her gaze off the stretches of thick green grass and sprouting flowers, the meticulously carved stones and raised patches of earth, and studied her motley allies instead.
No Robin; Widdershins had shouted and ordered and eventually threatened to tie the girl up until she swore to remain behind. The thief understood her friend's burning need to help, but really, she could have done little except put herself, and the others, in greater danger. Similarly, no Constable Paschal. Julien had stationed him with the other soldiers at the gate, to ensure that no innocent mourners wandered into danger, but the man's injured arm would have made him a liability in the battle to come. He knew it, of course, which is why he'd swallowed his pride and accepted the “lesser” assignment.
All of which left, in addition to Widdershins herself (and Olgun, of course): the bishop, who would be responsible for the casting and maintaining of the enjoining incantation; Igraine, who would do what she could against Iruoch, but served primarily as Sicard's assistant; Brother Ferrand, who would share (as much as the spell would allow) in Olgun's power; Evrard d'Arras, who stood off on his own, shoulders stiff and chin raised against the mistrustful glares constantly lobbed in his direction; Renard Lambert, resplendent in his usual finery, who had won the coin toss and would be linked to Evrard, in order to share his dueling acumen; and Julien Bouniard, whose own loss of that coin toss had probably rendered him relatively useless in the coming confrontation and had sent him into a furious sulk, though he was doing his damnedest not to show it.
And they were supposed to not only stand against Iruoch, a creature from myth and fairy tale who had already taken everything Widdershins could throw at him-twice-but to destroy him. It would have been laughable, if it wasn't quite so terrifying. Despite her every effort to remain upbeat, Widdershins found herself looking again and again at the various grave plots around her and wondering if her own final resting place would be so neat and tidy.
So preoccupied was she in her grim ruminations that she almost missed it when Renard suddenly pushed away from the tombstone against which he'd been leaning and strode purposefully to Evrard's side. Only Olgun, metaphorically tapping her on the shoulder and pointing, was enough to draw her attention. Worry wrapping her fingers into fists, she sidled closer to listen in.
“…threats you're planning to make,” Evrard was saying, not even deigning to face the shorter man, “you needn't bother. Widdershins asked me to be here. Our personal issues can wait until later.”
“Maybe yours can,” Renard replied. “Maybe hers can. But I wasn't consulted, and I made no such agreement.”
Still Evrard refused to turn, but Widdershins didn't miss-and Renard could not have missed-the slow slide of his hand toward the hilt of his rapier. She felt her breath catch.
“What would you have of me, then, Monsieur Lambert?” the aristocrat asked.
“A token, nothing more. A sign that you can, at least while our interests coincide, be trusted.”
“And what form might such a token take?”
“Just this, Monsieur d'Arras: the name of the man who told you that Widdershins was responsible for the theft at your tower.”
That same gasp, trapped a moment earlier, now exploded from Widdershins's throat. In all the chaos, all the other priorities, she'd completely forgotten that was even a question!
“You didn't just stumble across that information,” Renard was pressing. “While it wasn't precisely a secret within the Guild, it's not the sort of thing any of us would speak of in public.”
Widdershins couldn't keep out of it any longer. “And Genevieve's will! You knew enough to question the veracity of the will! Only someone with contacts deep in the Finders would have known enough to do that!” If she realized that she'd just more or less confirmed to Evrard that the document was, indeed, a forgery, it happened too late for her to swallow the words.
“And what if,” Evrard asked them, “I choose not to reveal my sources at this time?”
“Then, Monsieur d'Arras, you either prove all the rumors of your skill by killing me-and thus do without me in the coming battle-or I disprove them by killing you, and His Eminence links me with the major instead of you. But I'll not put my life, or Widdershins's, in the hands of a man I cannot trust even in the face of a common foe.”
Evrard pursed his lips in thought, and then nodded sharply. “I owe this person nothing. I made no oath of secrecy, and I knew from the beginning that she had her own purposes and agenda in telling me of what happened.”
“She?” Renard snarled. Widdershins just scowled.
Of course. Who else could it have been?
Another nod. “She. A woman with hair like the reddest leaves of autumn, and a notable limp. Her name was-”
“Lisette,” Widdershins hissed. “Lisette Suvagne.”
“I see I wasn't wrong in assuming the two of you had some past history,” the aristocrat said blandly.
“A bit.” Widdershins sneered. “Did she tell you that the reason she hates me was because I got to your tower before she did?”
All traces of humor faded from Evrard's face. “She…No, she neglected to mention that detail.”
“Thought she might have. Renard?”
“I can't speak for the Shrouded Lord,” Renard said, an odd inflection to the words. “But I'm fairly certain you can count on the Finders' Guild making every effort to hunt her down. Even after she was removed from the Guild, she should have known that her oaths remained binding-especially as a former taskmaster!”
“It won't help,” Evrard said. “She's not in Davillon. Or, well, she wasn't when we last spoke.”
“We have reach,” Renard said, though he refused to expand any further on the topic. What he did say, some moments later, was, “Thank you, Monsieur d'Arras. That answer was more helpful than you know. Shins, you should have killed her when you had the chance.”
“I'm getting that, yes.”
“Would that be when you gave her the limp?” Evrard asked.
“As a matter of fact, it-”
“His Eminence is ready,” Igraine called to them.
All thoughts of the traitorous Lisette instantly forgotten-well, most thoughts of her, anyway-the three of them, along with Julien Bouniard and Brother Ferrand, gathered around the kneeling priests.
“We'll start with Messieurs Lambert and d'Arras,” Sicard said. “I know how long the spell's effect is supposed to last, but I do not know how the presence of Olgun might alter such details. So I'd prefer to link Widdershins and Ferrand second, in case the incantation is foreshortened.” He paused briefly. “Ferrand, are you certain about this? You're not required to-”