Page 116 of Paladin's Faith

Midway through the second day, Marguerite consulted her map and pronounced them officially Out of Cambraith. Everyone sighed in relief, except the mules. (Shane was not skilled at reading mule expressions, but they seemed to disapprove of everyone, except possibly Davith. Davith was the one who had rubbed them down and given them oats and told them that they were good and strong and pretty mules. This affirmation of equine self-image had earned him slightly more tolerance, though not by much.)

“Whew,” said Ashes. “I feel less hunted already. Now where do we turn east?”

Marguerite consulted the map again. “As soon as we find a road going downhill. There’s supposed to be one, but don’t ask me how far it is. Parts of this map involve a lot of artistic license.”

“Ah, well. It’s pretty country, anyway.” The artificer surveyed the green rolling landscape. A nearby marmot took that as a threat and sent up an alarm whistle. “Though to be honest, I’m near dying to see a color that isn’t green. A wheat field ready for harvest would damn near make me cry.”

“I may cry just thinking about it,” Davith said. “No, wait, I’m thinking of what they make with wheat.”

“Bread?” Wren asked.

“That, too.”

Ashes snorted. “Don’t start with me, lad. I’ve been drinking the stuff they brew up here for months now. At first I thought, oh, a nice rich dark beer, how lovely. Now I’d give my arm for something light enough to read a book through.” She considered. “Well, somebody’s arm, anyhow.”

“Have you really been up here for that long?” asked Wren.

“Probably feels like longer than it was, but it feels like it’s been years.”

“When did you first realize the Red Sail was after you?” Marguerite asked.

“You might say that my workshop being burned to the ground was something of a clue.” Ashes scowled. “Stupid bastards. They didn’t realize that an artificer’s workshop either blows up or melts down at least once every few years. I waited ’til the wreckage cooled, fished out the fireproof strongboxes, and dropped them off at the Guild for safekeeping. Still, it didn’t seem healthy to stay around there. So I wrote to old Maltrevor, and he sent me out this way.”

“Maltrevor’s your patron, I hear,” said Shane, attempting to keep his voice neutral.

“Dreadful old lecher, isn’t he?” Ashes shook her head. “But he’s got deep pockets and I haven’t had to see him face-to-face in years. I ship him off some silly clockwork toy every few months and he’s happy.”

“He was showing them off at the Court,” Marguerite said. “Like the little dog that moved when you clap. Amazing craftsmanship.”

“Oh yes.” Ashes slid a look in her direction. “Surprised he didn’t try to show you some of the…other…clockwork toys…”

“He did mention something of the sort,” Marguerite said dryly.

“Other toys?” asked Shane, puzzled.

In the wagon behind him, Davith had a sudden coughing fit.

“Oh yes. Vast market for that sort of thing, you know.”

“What sort of thing?”

Ashes cocked her head and studied Shane thoughtfully. “Why are the pretty ones always dim?” she asked no one in particular. Davith’s coughing fit worsened dramatically.

“He’s a paladin,” said Marguerite. To Shane she said, “They’re…ah…erotic aids.”

“Erot—” Understanding crashed over him. “You mean for the bedchamber? Clockwork?”

“It’s a significant export of the artificer’s district,” Marguerite said. “I know at least two merchants who act as agents.” Shane could feel his ears getting hot.

“I…see.”

“Hang on,” said Wren, breaking in. “You mean people put clockwork things in their—uh—bits?”

“On, in, against…” Ashes shrugged. “The primary problem is the waterproofing. The vibration’s absurdly simple.”

“But why?”

Davith appeared to have contracted consumption at some point in the last few minutes and was currently dying of it. Shane reached back and pounded him on the back with slightly more vigor than was necessary. Fortunately for his emotional equilibrium, this caused him to miss Marguerite’s explanation to Wren.