Page 76 of Paladin's Faith

“…that troubles your skin so fair, my dear, that troubles your skin so fair…”

Shane tried to give Wren directions, which went badly. Davith warbling about how the wolverine successfully scratched the milkmaid’s itch did not particularly help. “Just act like you’re going to the baths,” suggested Marguerite, “then find a page and ask them to lead you.”

“Will do.” She hurried out the door of the suite. It closed behind her and Marguerite tried to ignore the familiar lurch in her gut that happened every time she sent one of her people into potential danger. At least Wren can defend herself. Better than I can, come to that.

“…but the poor beast soon found that in scratching her itch…”

“Davith, you can stop now.”

“…he’d acquired quite an itch of his own, aye, acquired quite an itch of his owwwwwwn…”

“May I hit him now?” asked Shane. “Just a little?”

“Tempting, but no.” She poked the spy’s shoulder just as he broke into a particularly impassioned hum.

Davith took his fingers out of his ears. “Hmm? Are we done?”

“For now.” Marguerite went into her room and hastily threw the gear that she couldn’t leave behind into a pack. She shoved her feet into her most comfortable shoes and returned before Davith could successfully needle Shane into murdering him.

“Why are we taking him again?” asked Shane.

“He’s a dead man if we leave him here.” Judging from the paladin’s expression, this was not actually a negative, so she hurried on. “And he clearly knows more about the Sail’s operation than I do.”

“Ah.”

THIRTY

Wren returned within twenty minutes. Marguerite suspected, given her flushed face, that she’d had a bit of a cry on the way, and begrudged her none of it. “Lady Silver says that if we leave at exactly eleven, she will arrange a distraction.”

Marguerite glanced at the water clock. Half an hour. The diplomat moved quickly.

It was a long, fidgety half hour. Wren packed with the same efficiency that Shane had. “I shall never have to wear those dresses again,” she said, with enormous satisfaction. She was wearing one last dress, but had trousers on underneath, and a sensible shirt that was visible overtop of the low bodice. As fashion statements went, it was deplorable, but Marguerite hoped that no one would notice.

Shane, meanwhile, sat down in the corner and just…sat. He didn’t fidget. He didn’t fret. He just sat there. The man was as patient as a stone. Marguerite remembered the way he’d sat holding the bird, waiting for it to fly, and envied his coolness.

Other people were not nearly so calm. Davith stood up to pace back and forth, managed one circuit, encountered a look from Shane, and sat back down.

“May I have a weapon, in case someone tries to kill us?” he asked.

“No,” said Shane from the corner.

“No,” said Marguerite.

Wren swiped a whetstone over the blade of her axe with great enthusiasm.

“…Right.” He paused. “An axe? Really?”

“I prefer them to swords,” said Wren in a clipped voice.

“You have surprised me yet again, Lady Wren.”

Marguerite saw Wren’s expression and stepped in hurriedly. “While I’m thinking of it, give me all your money.”

He spun around, eyebrows rising to his hairline. “You’re robbing me?”

“I’m making sure you have fewer resources if you try to escape.”

“It feels an awful lot like robbery.”