MARGUERITE LEANED back in the hot water and felt her muscles slowly unknot. The smell of mineral salts filled her nostrils and her skin soaked it up with intense delight.
Her mind, alas, was a little less willing to relax. You’re here. You’re finally here, and the Sail definitely has operatives here and you don’t know if they’re from a branch that wants you dead. An assassin could come through that door at any second—
Stop that, she told herself firmly. That’s why I’ve got bodyguards.
One of those bodyguards was currently sitting on the other side of the stone bench, up to her neck in water, with an expression of intense bliss. The baths had both an open general area and a series of enclosed bays for those who preferred privacy. Both women’s clothes lay piled up on the floor just inside the door of the bay. For the first time since they’d met, Marguerite was sure that Wren did not have any weapons currently on her.
Fairly sure.
Her paranoia twinged again.
Stop. You’ve got a paladin berserker with you. You are as safe as it is humanly possible to be.
Still, after two years of evading the Sail’s clutches, it was difficult to set the anxiety aside completely.
“Wren?”
“Mmm?”
“If an assassin came through the door right now, what would you do?”
Wren turned to study the door. It lasted for so long that Marguerite would normally have wondered if she’d forgotten the question, but finally, in an almost dreamy voice, the paladin said, “If she had a blade, pick up that wooden bathing stool and catch the edge between the legs. A good twist and she’ll likely either drop it or the blade will snap. If she holds on too long, assuming she’s righthanded, her arm will twist too, and it’s easier to snap the elbow backward at that angle. If she drops it, then go in fast with a blow to the throat, knock her down and hold her head underwater.”
Marguerite felt a chill despite the heat of the water. Aren’t you glad you asked?
Isn’t this exactly what you wanted, anyway?
Wren coughed and her eyes, which had been worryingly distant, focused again. “It, err, gets a little more complicated if she’s left-handed or unarmed.”
“That’s…uh…comforting?” Marguerite blinked steam out of her eyes. “You keep saying ‘she.’”
Wren shrugged. “I assume an assassin wants to blend in as much as possible, so they’d send a woman to kill you in here. Although it would be unwise. Blood would circulate through the whole pool before draining, and people tend to notice if the water turns red.”
It was remarkably easy to stop taking Wren seriously as a fighter, particularly with Shane standing around looking like a marble statue of a warrior. Marguerite realized that she’d been in danger of slipping into that mindset herself, and firmly squelched it.
“You’re terrifying,” she said, with deep admiration.
“Aww, thank you.” Wren stretched. “Do people bathe here often?”
“Every day if you want. I try to make time for one. If you’re not available for whatever reason, I can use the communal pools, though. They’re not going to swoop in and stab me where someone’s watching.” She eyed Wren thoughtfully. “You, uh, should probably avoid those, though.”
“I should?” Wren covered her breasts self-consciously with her hands.
“It’s not how you look,” said Marguerite. “Or rather it is, but not bad.” She shook her head. “It’s the scars.”
Wren looked down at herself, apparently surprised.
“People are going to wonder about those,” said Marguerite gently, pointing to a particularly wicked slash mark across the paladin’s left arm. “And nobody gets muscles like that from working on a tapestry.”
Wren snorted, stretching her arms out. Her forearms were almost twice as thick around as Marguerite’s. “You’re probably right. I can explain away some of the scars if I have to, but I don’t want to stand out.”
Marguerite nodded. “Don’t panic if someone notices, just be aware.”
The paladin sighed. “There’s so much to keep track of,” she muttered, sinking deeper into the water. “I don’t know how you can keep it all straight.”
“Practice,” said Marguerite. “I don’t know how you can swing a sword for hours on end, so we’re even.”
“It’s rarely hours,” said Wren. “More like a few seconds, repeated every few minutes or so, until either the other guys are dead or you are.”
“See, that does not sound fun to me.”
“I don’t know if it’s fun, exactly.” Wren considered this. “It’s more that I’m good at it. And it needs to be done. I don’t enjoy killing people, but I do enjoy doing something I’m good at. Does that make sense?”
“Quite a lot, yes.” Marguerite decided that she had wrung as much relaxation out of the hot water as she was going to. “All right. Let’s get back to our rooms, before Shane frets himself to death, or we turn into prunes.”
SHANE WAS NOT FRETTING. Not at all. Marguerite was with Wren, and Wren was extremely competent. There was no doubt in his mind that they would both return safely. None whatsoever.
He had seen guards stationed at various points in the corridors, and surely they would leap in to help stop anyone seen attacking a pair of women. Not that Wren would need help. Unless the guards are in the employ of this group that wishes Marguerite dead. But we have only been here a few hours, so surely that is unlikely.
I have absolutely nothing to be worried about.
He was so unworried that he spent only twenty minutes in the hot spring. After all, someone as relaxed as he was did not require a long soak to become even more relaxed. It would have been redundant.
Rather than fret when he returned to the suite and found that the others had not yet returned, Shane unpacked all of his gear into the tiny sleeping closet. Then he reorganized it to be more efficient, which he would have done anyway and was certainly not a sign of anxiety.
He was just wondering if he should try to reorganize it again when the door opened and he erupted out of the closet with his short sword in hand.
“We can come back if you’re busy,” said Marguerite, gazing down eighteen inches of steel.
“Sorry.” He let the point drop. “I…was…uh…”
“You were worrying,” said Wren, pushing past him. She glowered at him. “Don’t trust me to do my job?”
“I have absolute faith in you. It’s the rest of the world that I have concerns about.”
“Seems fair,” said Marguerite. Her black hair clung to her face in damp ringlets. “I’m going to bed. There is a featherbed calling my name.”
She vanished through one of the bedroom doors. Shane sat down, avoiding Wren’s eyes, but it was difficult to be the picture of relaxation while carrying a naked sword.
“You were absolutely worrying.”
“I was just going to sharpen this.”
“Where’s the whetstone?”
Shane muttered something under his breath—even he wasn’t sure what—and went to fetch a whetstone.
Wren flung herself into the chair opposite. “You like her.”
“I do not like her. I mean, I like her fine. I don’t dislike her.”