Page 43 of Paladin's Faith

Marguerite made a sympathetic noise from behind the desk, where she was writing out invitations to a perfume testing. “Long day, I take it.”

“I stand and talk and stand and talk and say absolutely nothing,” said Wren. She sighed heavily. “I knew it was tiring, from when I was young, but somehow I thought I was misremembering. But I think it’s actually worse.”

“Any luck?” asked Shane, who was sharpening his sword. He was always sharpening his sword, as far as Marguerite could tell. It was a wonder he didn’t go blind.

Wren waved her hand. “Nothing useful. Most of the women here won’t talk to me because I’m so terribly unfashionable, but a couple of wallflowers will, mostly because I talked to them first. And Lady…err…I forget her name, sounded like “corrugated”…”

“Coregator,” said Marguerite, signing another invitation. “Middle-aged, has outlived two husbands, likes fast men and faster horses.”

“She seemed nice,” said Wren meekly.

“She’s lovely, actually. She doesn’t care what anyone thinks of her and she prides herself on being so unfashionable that she’s come out the other side. And if she likes you, that goes a long way.” Marguerite made a note to add Lady Coregator to the perfume testing.

“She talked to me for nearly an hour,” said Wren. “And she was very kind. I think.”

“You’d know if she wasn’t.”

Wren sighed again. “Would I? At least three people have come over and been fake-polite to me so that they could deliver what they thought was a really cutting insult, then scurry away and giggle.”

Shane’s hands stilled on the sharpening stone. “Tell me their names,” he growled.

Wren rolled her eyes and shared a look of mutual exasperation with Marguerite. “That won’t work, brother. You can’t go rattling your sword at giggling heiresses. For one thing, it’d blow your cover as Marguerite’s bodyguard. You’re supposed to hold me in thinly-veiled contempt.”

The paladin bowed his head as if accused of a severe dereliction of duty. “You are correct,” he said. “Forgive me. I am not skilled at subterfuge.”

“And for the other thing, I am perfectly capable of rattling a sword at them myself,” said Wren. “At least, if I had a sword. But I amuse myself thinking of ways to kill them with the silverware.”

“You are a bloodthirsty lot,” said Marguerite, amused.

“Anyway,” said Wren, dragging the conversation back. She began ticking things off on her fingers. “Lady Coregator says that the current fashion for patronage is for painters. Playwrights are completely unfashionable. Sculptors are okay if you can find one. Poets are always acceptable, but I get the impression that when you are the patron to a poet, it’s assumed that they are providing…err…extremely private readings.”

“It was ever thus,” said Marguerite, sighing. “Though it’s gotten better since the poet God’s Songbird broke her patron’s arm for making that assumption.”

“I wish I could break someone’s arm,” said Wren wistfully.

Marguerite snorted. “No word on artificers, then? Not that I want you to ask directly, of course.”

“I asked about practical things. Lady Coregator is a patron of a horse trainer and has a friend who patronizes a botanist. I said that sounded more interesting than poets.”

“Good!” said Marguerite, setting down the pen. “Very good. Lady Coregator will have it in the back of her mind to find someone for you now. She is a great organizer of things. If you can slip it into the conversation somehow, next time the discussion turns that way…ask if artificers have patrons, make up a story about one inventing a new millwheel or something like that…then we can put her contacts to work.”

Wren’s smile was genuine this time, and less tired. Marguerite gentled her voice. “You’ve got the miserable role on this one,” she said, “but you’ve made a good start on it. Certainly you’ve gotten farther than I have.” She frowned down at her invitations. “If this damned perfume demonstration doesn’t generate some leads, I may be forced to start breaking into people’s rooms and rifling through their accounting.”

“Can you do that?” asked Wren.

Marguerite grimaced. “Yes, but not as well as I’d like. I once knew a master in Anuket City who could forge bookkeeping entries in a dark room while the clerk snored in the next, but talents like that are few and far between. So we start with perfume.”

She went back to work on the invitations, keeping half an eye on Wren as she worked. The woman’s role was clearly wearing on her, and praise could only go so far. I cannot regret making use of what tools I must, but I could wish that she suffered less for it. It was all well and good to know that the best performances were rooted in real emotion, and that Wren’s pride and vulnerability made her exquisitely convincing, but that did nothing to lessen the hurt.

Her first thought was to ask Wren if she was comfortable continuing, but Beartongue’s warning sounded in her head. Wren will never tell you if she is injured or overmatched. A direct approach was probably not the best idea, which was a shame. Marguerite quite liked the direct approach. So few people ever saw it coming.

Accordingly, she waited for the chance to speak to Shane alone. He finished sharpening his sword and went off to his tiny servant’s room. Wren took a little longer, staring into the fire, before she, too, got to her feet and went to bed. Marguerite finished addressing invitations and closed the desk.

She went to the narrow door and tapped it. “Shane?”

The door jerked open instantly. Marguerite blinked in surprise. Then she looked up at Shane and briefly lost the power of speech.

The paladin was naked to the waist, carrying that short sword again. “Are we under attack?”