Shut up, Shane told it wearily. I promise I won’t develop any self-confidence while your back is turned.
“A word in your ear, before you go,” said Ramsey. The priest and the paladin had accompanied them to the dock, leading their own horses. “Might not be useful, but then again, it might.”
“I’d never turn down a good word,” said Marguerite, pushing herself up onto a crate. Her legs dangled girlishly, but no one would ever mistake her for anything but a grown woman. Her shirt was modestly cut, but modest in her case still revealed a significant expanse of flesh. Shane averted his eyes. He had found a shrine in the town to the Four-Faced God, and offered up prayers last night, but he had not been comfortable leaving his companions for long. Wren was more than capable of standing up to most threats, but if she had to face them alone, the guilt would have eaten him alive.
Vigil on my knees at the next available opportunity. Whenever that may be.
“I don’t know where you’re going, other than upriver,” said the priest. “And I don’t want to know.
I’m not asking, and I’d rather you didn’t tell me. I smell secrecy on all three of you.”
Shane glanced back at Marguerite, who smiled guilelessly. “Secrecy? I don’t know what you mean.”
“Of course you don’t,” said Ramsey.
For some reason, her response disappointed Shane. It would have cost nothing to admit that they were traveling with a purpose in mind, but she was lying to a priest out of…what? Out of reflex?
What a terrible reflex to have—No. No, you are on a clandestine mission, and she is in command.
And she knows more of this than you do. You have no right to judge.
“But if you happened to be going into the highlands to the north,” said the priest, “which, the Dreaming God keep you, you will not, be warned.” His eyes caught Shane’s. “There are rumors of a demon out there with human accomplices. An old and subtle one.”
Shane’s blood ran cold. Most demons were young and stupid and did not know how the world worked. You could spot them easily. They moved wrong, they spoke in demonic tongues, they had a tendency to levitate. They did not understand hunger, so they ate dirt and stones, and they did not understand pain, so they broke their own limbs and barely noticed. But the ones that lived long enough to learn better, the smart ones, the old ones…those became much harder to spot. And if a human worked with one willingly…well. They could see a paladin coming from a mile off and sink into their human host, hiding behind human eyes. Those were the temple’s worst nightmare.
“What sort of rumors?” he asked, through dry lips.
“The kind that get through when a demon’s too smart to leave an obvious trail.” Sir Xavier rubbed absently at his injured arm. “It’s not doing anything obvious. No grisly murders. No unholy miracles.
Lots of little cults pop up in the wilds, whenever someone charismatic enough comes along and promises people a better life following orders. We don’t assume all of them are demons.”
“But you think this might be?” asked Marguerite.
“A view not shared by my superiors.” Ramsey grimaced. “The Temple says we don’t have enough evidence to go haring off into the wilds looking. We’re spread too thin already. Ever since whatever was keeping demons free of Anuket City stopped working, they’ve been coming through fast and furious. And we don’t have your brethren to call on any more—sorry, you two—so it’s all the Forge God’s people now, and most of their smiths aren’t warriors.”
Shane bowed his head. It was an old, old pain, long scarred over, but like many old wounds, it still ached, even though he knew that Ramsey’s comments weren’t directed at him. In another life, where he had been worthy of the Dreaming God, he would have been in Anuket City himself, binding demons before they could do harm.
“Keep an eye out,” said Ramsey. “It may be nothing. I hope to the God it’s nothing. But if you find yourself out that way…” He trailed off.
“And now we should take our leave,” said Sir Xavier. “Since I believe that they are about to begin loading your trunks, and my arm won’t let me assist with that.” He saluted Shane and Wren, then bowed over Marguerite’s hand and kissed each knuckle with maximum dramatic effect.
“Get on with you, you shameless reprobate,” she laughed, swatting at him. “Ramsey, keep him out of trouble.”
“Set me an impossible job, why don’t you,” muttered the priest. He signed a blessing in their direction, waved, and scurried off after his partner.
And in that other life, I would be the one kissing her. And perhaps thinking no more of it than either of them did. The thought sank Shane’s spirits even lower. He picked up Marguerite’s trunk of
perfume samples and followed the two women to the end of the dock, where the captain of their barge was waiting. She was an older woman with a mouth full of gold teeth and a grandson who looked capable of picking up the entire barge and carrying it to the Court of Smoke. “Well, don’t tha stand there gawping,” she said to the grandson in question. “Take tha trunks and put them in the cabin, afore I box tha’s ears.”
“Yes, gran,” mumbled the bear-sized young man. He picked a trunk up under each arm and carried it off. When he came back for the others, Marguerite had already stepped aboard, and the adolescent colossus stopped dead, staring at her chest.
Shane swung his own trunk with rather more force than was required, and the youngster caught it with a surprised grunt, but didn’t drop it. He tore his gaze away from Marguerite, turning dull red, and hastened to stow the remainder of the luggage.
“You alright?” asked Wren, joining him at the railing.
“Fine,” said Shane, through gritted teeth. “Why?”
“You’re growling.”
Vigil might not be enough. Perhaps he could find a hairshirt somewhere, or engage in some hearty self-flagellation. ( Careful with that, his friend Istvhan used to say. Flagellate yourself too often, you’ll go blind.)
“Wren?”
“Hmm?”
“Is there a word for feeling guilty that you don’t feel guilty enough?”
“Sure,” said Wren. “It’s called pathology.”
Marguerite went down to her knees to enter the low cabin.
“You’re still growling,” said Wren. “Do you have something in your throat?”
“I’m fine.” He cleared his throat and fixed his eyes on the surface of the river. “I don’t suppose you packed a hairshirt?”
“I don’t think they wear those at court. At least, not unless fashions have really changed.” She nudged him with her elbow. “Cheer up. We got the demon and we didn’t miss the boat.”
Shane summoned a smile for her benefit. Wren looked at it, shook her head sadly, and left him to his thoughts.