“—absolutely right,” Shane said hurriedly. “Right. Yes. Absolutely.”
Marguerite stifled a sigh. Beartongue had warned her that Shane was a terrible liar, and she hadn’t been wrong. I assume that was going to be “Wren, you’re in charge. Make sure no one stabs Marguerite before I get back.” Which is not the sort of thing you say to a lady about a member of her entourage.
“Of course I’m right,” said Wren, slightly quicker on the uptake. “Always. Enjoy your meeting.”
She waved.
Shane belted his sword around his hips and went into his room briefly, then emerged. “Lead the way,” he told the page. The door shut behind them.
“Huh,” said Marguerite, putting her chin in her hand. “Now that’s interesting. Is our broody friend getting laid, do you think?”
“Shane? No, I…huh.” Wren wrinkled her nose. “Er. I suppose it’s possible?”
“He’s a very handsome man,” said Marguerite, amused by the dismay in Wren’s voice. “Some women might notice.”
“I guess.” Wren sounded very much like a little sister forced to contemplate her brother’s love life. “Huh. I almost wish he was. He hasn’t really been interested in anyone since…”
Marguerite lifted her eyebrows. “Since?” There was an odd feeling in her gut. She examined it dispassionately and realized that it felt almost like jealousy.
Now you’re just being ridiculous.
“When the Saint died…” Wren spread her hands. “Women were always interested in him before.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“Yeah. They probably still would have been afterward, but it’s like he stopped caring very much.
And then he grew that beard.”
“Oh god, the beard.” No, women probably hadn’t been lining up to fight their way through that.
Wren shook her head. “Anyway,” she said, after a moment, “it took a couple of us that way.
Stephen…well, you know Stephen.”
Marguerite nodded, thinking of Grace’s somber paladin. “I imagine it was very hard.”
Wren shrugged one shoulder, clearly unwilling to get into details. “Yeah. But it’s been what, almost six years now? We move on or we don’t.”
“Yes, of course.” Marguerite bade Wren a pleasant night and retired to her bed. Well. That’s interesting.
And none of my business. Shane is probably still in mourning for his god. I don’t have the time, the energy, or the patience to compete with a ghost.
And while my ego is extremely well-developed, I also don’t know if I can compete with a god.
She thought about this for a few moments, then snorted into the darkness. If he keeps being
adorable and companionable, though, I might be tempted to give it a try.
TWENTY-TWO
LADY SILVER’S quarters were on another floor of the palace, and Shane was perilously close to lost by the time he got there. The page took him up two flights, then down another one, apparently to save time, but then they plunged into a labyrinth of corridors, some of them clearly older, the walls covered in threadbare tapestries when they were covered at all. A sign of disfavor? Shane wondered.
Is Lady Silver disliked? Or does it have something to do with her people—perhaps they are at loggerheads with high-ranked members of the court?
The Bishop would probably know, but it was the Bishop’s job to know. Shane just stood around and listened and looked menacing. Still he made a mental note to ask her, when they finally returned to Archenhold.
It finally occurred to him, as they turned down yet another corridor, just who Lady Silver reminded him of: Judith. Strange, enigmatic Judith, oddest of the seven surviving paladins, yet no less loved for all that. Something about the way that both of them moved, just a hairsbreadth too considered, as if, though fluent, human body language was not their native tongue.
Which, for Lady Silver, it wasn’t. For Judith, the explanation was doubtless deeper, but Judith never ever talked about her past, and no one was cruel enough or fool enough to dig for it. It didn’t matter. She’d saved his life any number of times, and he’d saved hers, often enough that neither of them bothered keeping score.
When she’d left after Piper’s revelation of the Saint’s death, Shane hadn’t been surprised, or even particularly worried. It was like her to simply go, with neither explanations nor farewells. Whatever she was looking for, he hoped that she found it. If she did, she’d probably turn up again at the temple as if no time had passed, and look vaguely surprised that anyone had missed her.
He was startled out of his woolgathering when the page stopped at a door, rapped sharply three times, then opened it without waiting. Shane went in.
This suite of rooms was substantially larger than the one that Marguerite had secured, though the ceilings were lower. Bookshelves lined the walls of the main room, while a small brazier provided heat and a strong, pungent scent that reminded Shane vaguely of creosote. A large oak desk dominated the room, covered in papers, but a long side table held a forest of glassware that Shane recognized,
surprised, as distillation equipment.
“Ah, Lorrrd Shane,” said Lady Silver, straightening from where she bent over the equipment. She nodded to the page, who retreated from the room. “A pleasurrre to see you again.”
“And you, madam,” said Shane, bowing slightly. “Though I fear that I am not actually a lord.
Merely a knight.”
“Serrr Shane, then.” She smiled, canines just visible, and came toward him. “I must beg yourrr pardon,” she said. “I was rrrude earlierr, when you deliverrred your message. It was interrresting, you see, and I have learrrned not to appearr too interrested in things in this place.” She lifted a blunt-clawed hand and gestured toward the walls and ceiling, as if encompassing the entire Court of Smoke.
“I can well believe it,” said Shane. “I took no offense.”
“Good, good.” Another toothy smile. “I am a diplomatic guest herrre, and thus am allowed a cerrrtain leeway, but I do not fool myself that I am immune to all that goes on arrround me.” Her ears, Shane noted, were eased slightly back as she spoke.
“That seems wise,” he offered. “I know that I’m missing most of the undercurrents here, and I don’t have diplomatic relations riding on what I do.”
“Exactly.” Silver nodded to him, her ears coming forward again.
It occurred to Shane, somewhat belatedly, that relations between the White Rat and the city of Morstone might actually be affected by what he did here. But that is Marguerite and Beartongue’s concern, not mine.
“One moment,” Lady Silver said, turning off the heat under a flask. “Let me just finish up herrre…”
Shane glanced at the distillation equipment again with interest. It looked very much like the sort found in his friend Grace’s workshop. “Forgive my curiosity, but is this for perfume-making?”
Lady Silver’s eyebrow patches shot up. “It is, indeed.”