Page 8 of Paladin's Faith

“Desperately so. It’s part of the reason I’m sending you. I predict, in fact, that you will do brilliantly, succeed in circumstances that will likely prove far more muddled than anyone hopes, and bring yourself and Wren back in two pieces.” She cocked an eyebrow at him. “Second-guessing yourself all the way, of course.”

“Ouch. Would you like to stab me in the heart as well?”

Beartongue grinned. “Am I wrong?”

Obviously not, or I wouldn’t be here. It was simply a little embarrassing to be so transparent. Shane muttered something into his beard. After a moment he asked, “Do you trust her? Marguerite?”

“Trust,” mused Beartongue. “A complicated notion, isn’t it? I trust her to be acting in her own best interests. I trust that she is a very intelligent woman. And she and I both know that she proceeds with the understanding that, should her actions reflect badly on the Rat, I will claim to have been grievously misled.”

“Istvhan always says that trust is faith plus predictability,” said Shane. He missed his brother-in-arms a great deal, and more so lately. Istvhan could always make everyone laugh. The day we are dependent on my sense of humor to carry us through is the day that we will all be in a great deal of trouble.

It wasn’t that he didn’t have a sense of humor. He did. It was just that he kept it to himself rather than inflict it on other people.

Beartongue’s face softened slightly at the mention of Istvhan. “He’s not wrong. Let us say that I have a good deal of faith in Marguerite’s goodwill, but very little in my ability to predict her. Which is why you are perfect for the job, as you are, as we have established, very predictable.”

“Istvhan would be better at this than I am.”

“I wish he were here,” she admitted. “I know that you are not comfortable in this role. But he is happy in the north, traveling with his lady friend, and any word I send will take weeks to reach him.”

“What about Marcus?”

“There is a chance that he would be recognized. And since he has chosen to let his family believe he is dead—well, I do not agree with his decision, but I respect his wishes.”

Shane sighed. “Stephen, perhaps?”

“Working with Galen and Piper to track down more information about the death of the Saint.”

He bowed his head. Galen’s husband, Piper, was a lich-doctor, possessor of a rare wild talent. If he touched a dead body, he could relive their last moments. A few months earlier, he had laid hands upon the altar cleared from the rubble of the burnt temple of the Saint of Steel, and to the shock of everyone, he had felt the god’s death from the inside. Since no one knew how or why the Saint had died, they were trying to unravel as much as they could from that flash of insight. “I suppose there is no information to be gleaned about that at the Court of Smoke?”

“If you mean, are nobles likely to be casually discussing dead gods in the corridors? I shouldn’t think so. Then again, stranger things have happened. Keep your ears open, but don’t blame yourself if you don’t hear anything relevant.” Beartongue’s gaze lingered on him sympathetically. The only remaining paladin, the one that they had not mentioned, was Judith, and she had simply left after the revelation of the god’s death. Looking for something, perhaps. Running away from something. No one knew for certain.

He grunted.

“To that end,” Beartongue said, ignoring the grunt, “I have a message for you to deliver. Lady Silver dwells at the Court of Smoke for most of the year. She is favorably inclined to the Rat, and I have reason to believe that a message to her might not go amiss.” She slid a fresh sheet of foolscap in front of her and wrote quickly. Her hand was neat and clean, a testament to early training as a scribe, and Shane looked away so as not to risk reading the words.

“Deliver this to Lady Silver,” said Beartongue, sprinkling sand on the letters to dry them, then sealing it with wax. “Whether or not you tell Marguerite of this, I leave to your discretion.”

My discretion? I’m a berserker. I hit things with swords until they fall down. That is not discreet.

His alarm must have shown, because she smiled. “If you truly don’t know, then it rarely hurts not to tell everything you know.”

Shane groaned. “And then I will—”

“Feel guilty?”

His sense of humor was well-buried, but not completely dead. He gave her a wry look. “I was going to say, ‘worry that I am withholding vital information.’”

“Well, it’s always a concern.” She leaned over the desk and patted his hand. “You are the only possible choice,” said Beartongue. “And you are far more competent than you believe yourself to be.”

Shane squared his shoulders. “I pray that I may not fail you, Your Grace.”

“You won’t,” she said. “In that, I have faith.”

FIVE

Dawn’s gritty grey light was spilling over the courtyard when they assembled to travel north and west. Five horses awaited them, along with a groom to care for them. Four were saddled, and the last horse was clearly a pack animal.

Marguerite was not a particularly skilled rider as such things went, but she had learned to judge horseflesh because you could often tell a great deal about a person by their mount. These animals were well-cared for, sturdy, and no noble would be caught dead on any of them.