Page 33 of Paladin's Faith

“You’ll be fine,” said Marguerite soothingly. She fixed Shane with a gimlet eye and jerked her head toward Wren’s back.

“You…uh…look quite nice, Wren.”

“You are just the worst liar. Do you know that you can’t fit an axe under these skirts? You’d think it would be easy, but no.”

Her skirts were a froth of petticoats. They had been the cutting edge of fashion two years ago. The Rat’s suppliers had done their best, but high fashion was where they fell short. The result made Wren look like a disembodied torso levitating over a particularly ornate cake.

As they entered the antechamber to the largest ballroom, Marguerite watched Wren steel herself. “You are perfect,” said Marguerite softly. “You are supposed to be backward and provincial and on the hunt for amusement, and you are going to play that role magnificently.”

Wren flashed her a brief smile. “I’m not sure it’s a role.”

“It is. Don’t forget it.”

Shane bent his head and murmured in her ear. Wren laughed abruptly, straightened her shoulders, and lifted her chin. “Alright. Let’s do this.”

The door opened. The majordomo announced the Lady of Sedgemoor. A few heads turned. Wren snapped her fan open and strode forward into battle.

“What on earth did you say to her?” murmured Marguerite, as they waited their turn to be announced.

“I reminded her that she could kill anyone in the room if need be.”

“That might do it.” Marguerite watched Wren vanish into the crowd.

The majordomo announced Marguerite simply as “Marguerite Florian of Anuket City, merchant,” and omitted Shane entirely. Three more merchants were announced in rapid succession, which, as far as she was concerned, was just fine. She was here to see, not to be seen. At least, not until necessary.

She scanned the room, picking out people she knew, people she liked, people she loathed. And, much more rarely, people she feared. There weren’t many of the latter. One dead-eyed courtier that she knew to stay well away from. He’s no part of this, thank god. One old woman with a shaky smile and an entourage of giddy young things. Marguerite knew for a fact that her web of blackmail extended into three nations. Only concerned about seeing her granddaughters married off, even if she has to start wars to do it. Another operative who she didn’t fear, but who worked for a man that she did. Though my best information is that he is in Charlock right now, and the Red Sail does not concern him, so likely not a player in this particular game.

It was unlikely that any of them would pay much attention to her. Her cover as Marguerite, perfume merchant, was well-established.

Mostly, though, it was the usual swirl of people. Courtiers playing games of rank, merchants playing games of wealth, and scattered spies playing games of information. The three goals crossed and re-crossed, sometimes parallel, sometimes at odds. But as long as our interests do not overlap, we shall leave each other well alone.

Perhaps strangely, she felt herself begin to relax. This room felt—oh, not safe, exactly, but familiar. She had told Shane the truth. She was walking into a den of tigers, but she knew all the tigers by name and which ones she could step over and which she should avoid.

“Who are the men carrying arms?” asked Shane. “They do not appear to be guards or duelists.”

Marguerite followed his gaze. “Oh, those. They’re chevaliers. Ah…courtier knights.”

“Do they know how to use those swords?” asked Shane.

“They’re trained in dueling,” said Marguerite. Shane gave a noncommittal grunt.

She could understand his skepticism, assuming that grunt had been skepticism. The chevaliers mostly did not look like warriors. They wore silk and velvet and had elaborately plumed hats, and their peace-bonded swords were narrow and often encrusted with jewels. “Don’t underestimate them,” she warned. “Some of them make a habit of calling other men out for fun.”

“I try never to underestimate an opponent.”

“I’d prefer you didn’t get in any duels.”

“I would also prefer that.” His eyes moved across the room, lingering briefly on a knot of chevaliers. “Do you know anything of their fighting style?”

“Not much,” admitted Marguerite. She was an encyclopedia of information on a great many topics, but armed combat was not one of them. “The duels I’ve seen all looked very fast and showy?”

“Mmm. Yes, with those swords, that would make sense.” He moved his elbow, brushing it against the scabbard across his back and the heavy sword there. Marguerite tried to picture a chevalier fighting a demon-possessed bull with a slender rapier and failed.

“Does that mean that you could beat one?”

“Not necessarily.” Shane’s eyes continued to scan the crowd. “I am very strong, but my weapon is not made to parry quickly. But by the same token, they could not parry my blade without breaking theirs. It would likely come down to endurance and luck. And the terrain, of course.”

The way that Shane said I am very strong struck her as amusing. It wasn’t boastful. So far as she could tell, the man would rather fall on his sword than boast. It was simply an unremarkable fact. Squirrels exist. It is raining today. I am very strong.