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?”
“Uh…” Marguerite had to swallow several times. “Uh. No. Nobody’s under attack.” Dammit, this is not the first bare chest you’ve seen, she told her libido, annoyed. It just happens to be a particularly fine one. Get yourself together.
Whoa damn, her libido replied, not listening.
It was a particularly fine chest. Shane was so self-effacing and so inclined to fade into the background that you forgot how large a man he really was. His shoulders were easily twice as wide as Marguerite’s. Her gaze traveled downward, admiring the sleek indentations of muscle under the skin. A line of dark blonde hair vanished under his waistband. It might as well have been a signpost reading THIS WAY TO THE GOOD BITS.
“Ah…” said Shane.
She realized that she had been staring shamelessly and coughed. Deflect, she told herself. Deflect.
Otherwise this will be rather awkward. Pure of heart, doesn’t trust you. And unlike Davith, not really the type to enjoy casual ogling.
“You have a lot of scars,” she said.
He grimaced. Ah. Well, now it’s awkward in a different way. Well done. Fine smooth-tongued operative you are.
It was true, though. White lines scored his skin like a playing board, some following the line of his ribs, one slashed down across the left side of his chest from the collarbone almost to the nipple.
Her hands itched to touch his skin and feel the texture there, wondering how it would change across the scar, like the nap of velvet rubbed a different direction.
“My shield was low,” Shane said, tapping the slash mark with his free hand. “The other fellow’s sword went right over the top. I’m lucky it didn’t sever the muscle.”
“It looks that way.” She focused, with difficulty, on his face. “I wanted to ask you about Wren.”
“Wren?” He frowned, glancing in the direction of the main room. “Is she well?”
“That’s what I came to ask you about. I was…ah…” He put the sword down, and bending brought new muscles into prominent relief . Goddammit. “Do you think you could put on a shirt? Otherwise I’m going to stand here ogling your chest and losing my train of thought.”
Something flared in his eyes. For a moment, they were no longer the color of ice, but the blue of a very hot flame. Marguerite felt her pulse jump.
Then he took a half step back and the moment passed. She wasn’t sure if she was glad of that or not.
Shane reached for his shirt and pulled it over his head. Marguerite gazed at the wall, attempting to think virtuous thoughts and mostly failing.
“How may I be of service?” he said, once he’d gotten his arms through the proper holes.
“Wren’s miserable,” said Marguerite bluntly. “It’s barely been a week and we’re looking at potentially months of doing this. Am I going to break her just for the chance she hears some relevant gossip?”
Surprise flickered across his face. He opened his mouth as if to argue, then paused. “I don’t know,” he said, after a moment. “Wren is excellent on a battlefield. She has quite fine control over the battle tide. That’s what we call the, ah, berserker state. I would not have put her up against a demon otherwise.”