Few people on either side of Davillon's law-and-order divide remained ignorant of the place's true nature. But everyone who attempted to infiltrate the place was murdered in some brutal fashion, and even if the City Guard had possessed the manpower and the cannon to take the place by main force, the Hallowed Pact forbade open war between two organizations with patron deities. So the Guard pretended they didn't know about the place and left it well alone; it was the only sane thing to do.
Tonight, Widdershins was ever so slightly south of sane, and she wasn't about to let anything as insignificant as near-certain death come between her and the answers she so desperately needed.
She'd made a quick stopover after parting company with Gen and Renard, darting briefly into an apothecary's shop that the proprietor foolishly thought was closed for the evening. Her own knowledge of herbs and medicines would have fit on an arrowhead, while still leaving room for a jaunty sonnet. Olgun, however, was more than able to fill in the gaps in Widdershins's knowledge. In a matter of moments, she'd gathered what she needed and flitted from the shop.
Now she took a last look around, drew in a long, deep breath. “All right, Olgun,” she exhaled. “You ready?”
There was no mistaking the god's nervous response for anything but a heartfelt no.
“Ah, buck up, Olgun. It'll be fun, yes?”
She got no response to that at all. With an unconcerned shrug, she slipped away from the edge of the roof.
There was, Hubert lamented silently as he shifted foot to foot in the sickly moonlight, absolutely no justice in this world. Normally, that was a good thing, what with him being a thief and all. But tonight, as the air grew pregnant with the weight of coming rain and he shivered in his “unobtrusive” clothes, he felt more than a little bitter.
And why was he stuck out here, on this gods-forsaken night, while most of his companions were either inside enjoying dice and spiced wine, or out relieving citizens of their encumbering coins? Why was he garbed as a beggar when he preferred the newest styles of the aristocracy?
It was because he, Hubert Juste, member in good standing of the Finders' Guild and loyal servant of the Shrouded Lord, had proven himself trustworthy enough for guard duty. It was, he'd been told repeatedly, an honor. This was a Good Thing. It meant that he'd been noticed by the people above, people who mattered. He was on his way to big things with the guild, no doubt about it, big things indeed!
Hubert huddled closer inside his beggarly disguise, winced as the first corpse-cold drops of an icy drizzle pelted him in the face, and cursed the whole bloody lot of them.
If this is what comes of proving one's worth, let's just see how well I do on my next job, damn them all to-
“Excuse me.”
Keeping to his beggar routine, Hubert coughed, forcing a moist, phlegmy sound through his throat, and lurched forward with a slight stumble. Inside his coat, he dropped a hand toward his thin-bladed dirk, and the alarm whistle that hung at his side. Between this and the visitors of a few nights ago, this place was getting downright popular. “Some'at I kin do fer ya, missy?” he wheezed.
“Actually, yes,” she simpered softly, her tone seductive, one arm slinking out as though she intended to embrace or caress the filthy miscreant. “My name is Widdershins,” she told him. “I'm Taskmaster Lisette's most wanted. I intend to drug you, and force you to be my guide.”
Hubert blinked, startled. “What-?”
Widdershins opened her palm, now directly beneath the bewildered guard's face, and blew. The powder, clenched tight in her fist to prevent the rain from transforming it into so much paste, billowed out in a thick cloud. Hubert gasped, backpedaling, but it was far too late.
He staggered, all but slapping himself as he grabbed for both his whistle and his blade. The former fell back to his chest unsounded, swinging pendulously on its lanyard as he collapsed in a torrential choking fit. His dagger clattered to the cobblestones, the tip bent and the blade notched by the impact. Hubert fell to his knees, ripping even more holes in his patchwork pants.
Widdershins glanced around furtively, brushing hair and rainwater from her eyes. Once she was satisfied nobody had seen them, she reached out and helped the dazed fellow to his feet. The air sparked with a surge of Olgun's power, enhancing even further the effects of the drug on the sentry's system.
“What's your name?” Widdershins asked softly, shivering as a rill of rainwater cascaded down her back.
“Hubert Juste,” he answered dreamily.
“Hubert, how are you feeling?”
“Funny,” he admitted, punctuating the sentiment with an almost girlish giggle.
Widdershins couldn't help but grin in response. “It is funny,” she admitted, watching him nod vigorously in agreement. “Hubert,” she said, voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper, “I need you to help me with something. Can you do that?”
“I can help!” he insisted, still nodding. Widdershins worried that his head might fly off and go bouncing down the street, gibbering softly.
“I don't know,” she hemmed. “This is pretty tough….”
“I can do it! I'm good at shtuf-stuff!”
“Maybe you are, at that,” she conceded. “All right, Hubert, I need you to guide me through the Finders' Guild. You see, I've only ever been in the upper levels, and the lower floors have all sorts of bloodthirsty guards, and tricky passages, and I'd so hate to get hurt down there. You wouldn't want that, would you?”
“Oh, no!” he insisted, nodding his head yes.
“Good. Then lead the way, my friend.” She followed his unsteady but determined tread through the main doors, pausing only to retrieve his abandoned dagger from the street. There was nothing she could do to prevent the thieves from discovering their sentry had vanished, but she could at least remove any evidence that something untoward had happened. Let them wonder.
They'd barely passed the front door when she learned that it wasn't to be that easy.
“Hey! Hubert!”
From a platform above the door, a slender young woman, built much like Widdershins herself, dropped to the floor. She was garbed in tight red hose, brown boots, and a blue tunic cut so low that Widdershins actually started to blush. Her hands clasped a small crossbow-presumably, or so Widdershins guessed, because it'd do less harm to the walls than a flintlock if she had to fire it indoors. The weapon was sufficient indication that, despite her wardrobe, she meant business.
“What the hell do you think you're doing?” she demanded, getting right up in Hubert's face and staring up at him. “You know damn well you're not to leave your post for any reason, certainly not for some doxy off the streets!”
“Especially when he can just walk through the doors and have his pick of any doxy from inside, right?” Widdershins asked mildly.
The other thief spun angrily, straight into a brutal right hook. She staggered, her eyes rolling so far back in her head that she could probably have counted the wrinkles in her gray matter, and fell with a dull thud.
Widdershins shook her aching fist and considered. She really didn't want to have to kill anybody here. On top of any moral compunctions, she'd be in enough trouble over this as it was. With no other option, she stashed the senseless brigand in a nearby coat closet, tying her hands and feet with the woman's own boot-laces, and gagging her with the tiny scrap of fabric she'd apparently mistaken for a shirt. Hubert, his confused expression betraying no understanding of the situation, resumed his guided tour. The passages grew dim as they continued, lit only by the occasional lantern or torch. Widdershins pulled one burning brand from the wall to carry with her as she walked.