Covenant's End - Ari Marmell Page 0,44
plan.”
“I thought it had some charm to it.”
“May I,” Shins asked haughtily, “make an alternate suggestion?”
“I was almost certain you would.”
It didn't require much, all in all. A nearby stable provided the raw materials. (“Raw materials,” in this instance, meaning “horses.”) A bit of shouting and arm-waving bolstered by a surge of artificial panic from Olgun, and the beasts began rearing and screaming, agitated without quite being alarmed enough to injure themselves.
After that, as the building's private guards and those few people out and about in the street gravitated toward the commotion, it was simple enough for Igraine to help Widdershins stagger away from the stable, as though she'd been injured by a frenzied hoof.
And then they really did just walk through the front door.
The one and only time Shins had previously visited the Golden Sable, she hadn't seen the entryway, the open lobby, the broad halls. Carpet, thick and lush enough to warm a bear in winter, led to a series of doors here, a massive staircase there. Clean-burning lanterns of polished brass and scintillating crystal held the shadows at bay to all but the deepest corners. Several servants in livery or other fine outfits looked down their noses at the shoddy pair, but none of them said a word. They all had their own duties to think about, and probably assumed Shins and Igraine would be hearing an earful from their own employer soon enough.
Three flights up, several corridors in, and they finally halted at what Widdershins believed was the proper door. (Having only ever entered the suite via the window, and never having set foot in the rest of the building, “believed” was as certain as she was getting, and “guessed” was probably a more honest assessment.)
“This place is unbelievable!” Igraine sounded almost offended rather than impressed. “This is an inn?”
“Not exactly,” Shins said, hesitantly kneeling beside the door and fumbling for the last few picks that remained hidden in her belt and boots. “The Golden Sable's sort of long-term manor-sized suites for the high and flighty who aren't in town often enough to be worth buying something more permanent. Comes complete with servants, if you don't have your own. The Davillon Home for Wayward Aristocrats.”
“However often the Finders hit this place,” the other woman muttered, “it's not enough.” She started, then, and the faint clank-slosh-fwump as Shins took a swig of something from a faceted crystal decanter, then set the vessel down beside her as she worked. “Where in the Shrouded God's name did you get that?!”
“One of the aforementioned servants. He was too busy sneering at us to pay attention to the contents of his tray.
“Oh, don't give me that look! I have so much dried blood coating my mouth and throat, I couldn't even smell the frog-hopping stables! It's pure luck I'm even still able to talk!”
“I don't know if ‘luck’ is the word I'd have—”
“Shut up and have some brandy.”
Igraine did nothing of the sort, instead looming over Shins's shoulder and wincing at the occasional click within the lock. “Do you want me to do that?”
“I'm a little better at it than you are,” Shins insisted, tongue slightly protruding in concentration as she worked the tumblers.
“You're also injured,” the priestess pointed out.
“That's why I'm only a little better at it. And there's that look again. You're going to get bored of it eventually, yes?”
“Not at this rate.”
“You're way too uptight about this.” Shins leaned back in triumph as a much heavier clank announced the lock's unconditional surrender. She reached up, using the latch to heave herself to her feet as she slowly, silently began to open the door. “I told you, he's not going to be here.”
“And if you're wrong?”
“Then we reason with him. I'm not exactly his favorite person in the world—or even in this hallway—but he can be reasoned with. Weaaaaaughk!!!”
Something yanked the door away from her, taking her already precarious balance with it. Shins crashed headlong to the carpet, unable to catch herself or even to react at all, save to bite back a whimper at the renewal of agony across her back and stomach. Inch by inch, she twisted her neck until she lay on her cheek rather than her aching nose, struggling to see.
What she saw was the unwavering tip of a rapier, some few inches from her eyeball, and the onyx-haired, hawk-featured man standing at the other end of it.
“I suggest,” said Evrard d'Arras, “that you start reasoning.”
She squirmed, occasionally thrashing, caged by shackles of fever between