“Mmm.” Marguerite rubbed the back of her neck. “That’s a good question. They can certainly get that many people, and in short order, but I don’t know how many are deployed in the highlands right this minute. Probably not that many. It’s not a major market that they need to keep close tabs on, so few existing operatives, and if you have an army of strangers wandering around, you risk your quarry getting wind of it and relocating.”
She rubbed her fingers absently over the cup. The ceramic glaze was smooth on the inside, but the exterior had a rough texture, in accordance with the local style. It was a pleasing contrast, if unexpected. “I’ve been trying to think how to narrow it down. All I can come up with is that we need to find out which counties Maltrevor has ties to. Sufficient ties that he could tell someone to hide his pet artificer there and they’d do it. But that probably gets us back to finding out who this middleman is, which probably means more time with Maltrevor—yes, I know, don’t start—”
Shane was clearly going to start, no matter what she said, but before he’d gotten out more than two words, there was a knock at the door of the suite.
Saved at the last minute, Marguerite thought. She really wasn’t in the mood for a fight right now.
The paladin got up, put a hand on the hilt of his knife, and went to the door. A man’s voice spoke in low tones. Shane’s answer was deep and, unsurprisingly, suspicious.
I know that voice, Marguerite thought, setting down her cup.
Shane moved aside and let the man enter, though he didn’t take his hand off his knife. A familiar figure stepped into the room.
“Davith?” said Marguerite, at the exact moment that Wren said, “Ian?”
TWENTY-NINE
THERE ARE some moments that seem to hang in the air forever. Marguerite felt everything fall into place inside her skull, pieces rearranging into a pattern that she knew and understood and desperately hated. She could almost hear the echoes of her own voice saying, “I don’t know anyone named Ian…
no, that’s good, that means I don’t know anything bad about him.”
She was watching Davith and saw the moment that he realized that both women were there. Saw the flash of guilty understanding cross his face. Had he not known that they were all crammed into one suite? Had she not told him? Or had he simply hoped to arrive sometime when Wren was absent?
Now why do you assume he came to see you? Perhaps this is the next step in his seduction?
“Shane, Marguerite,” Wren began, sounding so pleased and nervous that Marguerite wanted to weep, “this is—”
“Davith,” Marguerite said crisply. This was a bandage that must be torn off as quickly as possible. Hesitation would be no kindness. “He is an operative of, among others, the Red Sail. He specializes in seducing women to obtain information from them.”
Davith winced, but did not argue. She did not dare look at Wren, because then she might try to strangle him with her bare hands.
“Ah,” said Wren, after a little silence. “I see. So I’ve been a fool, then.” She was trying to sound light and dry and amused, and almost, almost she succeeded, but there was the faintest tremor that betrayed her.
Because Marguerite was looking at Davith, she did not see Shane move until it was far too late.
Instead she saw Davith’s eyes suddenly widen and then Shane’s fist cracked into the side of his face and Davith went sprawling across the floor, taking out a chair on the way.
“Get up,” said Shane, so low and guttural that she almost didn’t recognize his voice.
“Shane, no.” Wren got between them, hands lifted to stop him. “He isn’t worth it.”
Shane stared down at her, his expression almost puzzled. “No,” he said simply. “He isn’t. But you are.”
Davith, very wisely, stayed on the floor.
Marguerite had, once or twice, had men fight over her, and thus remembered that, far from being
romantic, it was actually among the more humiliating experiences of her life. She grabbed Shane’s elbow and said, with all the command she could muster, “Stop it.”
“I’m going to kill him,” said Shane, almost conversationally.
So much for command. “You’re going to embarrass her,” Marguerite hissed. Wren was already turning scarlet and trying like hell to hide it. What had Beartongue said? Wren will never tell you if she is injured or overmatched.
Shane stared at his sister-in-arms as if he had never seen her before. “Ah,” he said. “I beg your pardon, Wren.”
“It’s fine,” she said. “It’s fine. Just…just don’t.”
“Before you kill me,” said Davith, from somewhere around ankle level, “you might want to hear what I have to say. Since I actually came here to save your life.”
Shane, with utmost courtesy, removed Marguerite’s hand from his elbow, stepped around Wren, and picked Davith up by the scruff of the neck like a kitten.
“Rrrgh…” The spy broke into a coughing fit as soon as Shane set him down in a chair. He rubbed his throat, looking up at the paladin, then around the room. Finding no sympathy whatsoever, he coughed again reproachfully.
“Talk,” said Marguerite. “And make it fast, because I’m not feeling particularly generous at the moment.”
Davith’s lip curled back. “I couldn’t have guessed. Fine, the fast version? The local Sail representative figured out that you’re not working for another branch and has decided to have you killed.”
“Define ‘you’ in this context,” said Marguerite.
“You.” Davith waved a hand at her. “Presumably the mountain of meat here, too.”
“Not Wren?”
He shook his head. “So far as they know, she’s just someone you’re using for cover. I imagine they’d kill her if she got in the way, but they aren’t targeting her specifically.” He glanced over at Wren, then looked away again. “I, uh, told them she wasn’t important.”
Wren made a sound that might have been “Heh!” or might simply have been a small explosion of breath.
Marguerite dropped into the chair opposite Davith, mind racing, and began absently running her fingertips over the woodgrain of the table. “Who’s the local representative?”
“Calls herself Fenella. Fabric-buyer from Baiir. At least that’s her cover.”
Dammit. Marguerite had spoken to Fenella a half-dozen times, and while she was nearly certain that she hadn’t spilled any damning information, she also hadn’t even considered that the other woman might be an operative. Getting old. Getting slow. Gods, what did we even talk about?
Trading, mostly. Maltrevor. Pretty bodyguards. All of it innocuous, or so she’d thought. There might have been a recognition phrase in there that she hadn’t responded correctly to. Then again, there
might not have been. I could have done everything right and still she’d have figured it out, if she could get word to the right people. Without knowing her chain of command…dammit, dammit, dammit.
All of which meant that the odds of her talking her way out of the situation were distinctly low.
Panic tried to rise in her throat and she fought it back. Yes, you’re afraid. You hate any situation that’s decided with steel instead of words. That’s why you’ve got bodyguards. Two rather unique bodyguards.
And what if one of them gets killed because someone on their side was smarter than you were?
Her gut clenched at the thought. This is what comes of caring for people in the business.