Davith had a sudden suspicious coughing fit and Shane immediately looked even more inscrutable than usual.
“Some places have very specific rules about clothes,” Marguerite said. “So do we, frankly, we just don’t notice them. If you ever find yourself around the Hundred Houses, for example, they find bare feet absolutely scandalous.”
Wren clutched her forehead. “Feet? But people don’t have s—”
“Actually, some of them do,” Davith interrupted. When they all stared at him, he said, “Not me.
I’m just saying.” He paused. “Come to think of it, most of the fellows I knew who were very interested in a lady’s feet were from the Hundred Houses. Lure of the forbidden and all that.”
“How does that even work?” asked Wren, whose curiosity appeared to have briefly overcome her loathing of Davith.
“Well, I did know a fellow who always wanted to suck on his lady’s—"
Shane’s growl sounded like a volcano deciding whether or not it was quite dormant. Davith stopped in mid-sentence. “On second thought, that’s a very boring story.” He cleared his throat. “You know, perhaps I’ll scout ahead a little way. Our charming host last night said that there were bandits.”
“Do not think about running,” said Shane.
Davith rolled his eyes and gestured at the vast sweep of highlands. “Where am I going to run to, exactly?”
“The bandits must be able to hide somewhere,” Shane pointed out.
“Perhaps they’re under a sheep.”
“Or perhaps—”
“Both of you stop,” snapped Marguerite. “Look!”
A narrow ribbon of reddish-gray wound across the opposite hillside. “Is that a road?” Wren asked.
Cart-track might have been a more accurate term. It was narrow, deeply etched with wagon ruts, and had grass growing down the center. It was also possibly the most beautiful thing that Marguerite had ever seen in her life.
Roads go from one place to another. Roads join up to larger roads. Larger roads mean towns and towns mean inns and inns mean hot baths and beds that are not packed earth with a dog trying to burrow in next to you.
“Which way do we follow it?” Shane asked.
“Cambraith is north,” Marguerite said. “So we’ll go north and hope that the road isn’t squiggling around the hills until it ends up going south again.”
“It’s going downhill,” said Wren, sighting along her thumb. “All else being equal, larger towns will tend to be downslope.”
“The gods be praised,” said Davith. “If I had to hike across another mountain, I’d ask the big guy to just kill me and be done with it.”
“It would be my pleasure to assist you,” Shane said.
“I’m going to assume that was your idea of humor, paladin.”
“If you two don’t stop sniping at each other, I’m going to gag you both.”
There was a long silence, and then Wren leaned toward Shane and said, “She sounds just like Beartongue when she does that.”
“I’m beginning to understand how she feels!” Marguerite snapped, and stomped down the road in the direction, the gods willing, of their destination.
THIRTY-FIVE
THE ROAD DID INDEED TEND north and generally downhill. The hills became smaller, sprouted steep stone outcroppings, and immense boulders filled the landscape. There was even the occasional copse of trees.
The increased cover made Marguerite feel less exposed. Unfortunately, she wasn’t the only one.
They had just rounded a snakelike curve around the side of a hill when a voice called “Stand and deliver!” and Marguerite found herself gazing down a sword pointed very determinedly in her direction.
Oh for god’s sake. Really? Now? Really?
She looked up the length of the sword to the man holding it. His skin was so weathered that it looked like old leather and his hair had gone mostly gray, but he did not look the slightest bit frail.
Neither did the three bowmen standing at the edge of the road behind him.
Shane reached for his sword and one of the arrows moved very determinedly in his direction. “I wouldn’t do that,” the bandit said. “I fear that my associates are not known for their patience.”
“Don’t,” Marguerite snapped at Shane. To the bandit, she said, “We’re just travelers. We don’t have anything worth stealing.” Please, White Rat, if you’re listening, please let them not do something that makes Shane do something that makes them shoot him.
The bandit looked her over thoroughly. He had brown eyes the color of beer, and Marguerite had to admit that his gaze was less lascivious than calculating. “You’re lying,” he said pleasantly. “I understand why, of course, but this will be much easier if you don’t.”
“No, no,” Davith said helpfully. “We’re as poor as churchmice.”
“Then you are churchmice with chainmail and extremely good boots,” the bandit said. “Please hand over your valuables—and your boots—and we can be done with all this.”
“Oh no,” said Wren. “You are not getting my boots. This is the only comfortable pair I own.”
“Are they really worth your life?” asked the bandit, stepping toward her. His voice was pleasant and quite reasonable, the paladin’s voice on a shoestring budget.
“Is that a threat?” asked Shane, sounding not at all pleasant or reasonable.
The bandit looked at him, then at the three bowmen, then back at Shane. “Yes,” he said. “That was
a threat. Well done.”
Marguerite rubbed her temples. “Can I interest you in a token payment?” she asked. “Perhaps enough to…ah…offer a dozen prayers on our behalf?”
“Two dozen prayers, and I still want the boots.”
“Two dozen, and nobody takes off their boots.”
The bandit sighed. “Madam, I assure you that I am not stealing your boots merely for the fun of it.
Footwear is the first thing to go in this accursed land. Between the rocks and the mud and the ground-wights…” In the tones of a man making a great concession, he added, “You may all keep your socks.
We have plenty of socks. There is no shortage of wool locally.”
Shane leaned toward her and murmured, “Give the word and I will end this.”
“I am not letting you catch an arrow over boots!”
“You should listen to her,” said the bandit.
“There’s no glory in dying for footwear, paladin,” said Davith, already starting to unlace his boots.
The bandit froze. Dust motes danced in the air over the roadway. One of the archers slowly eased the tension on her bowstring, but the tension in the air drew agonizingly taut.
“Beg pardon,” the bandit said, sounding just slightly strained, “but did you say ‘paladin?’”
Marguerite winced internally. Of all the bandits in all the highlands, did we get one with a grudge against paladins? “No, of course not,” she said.
“Do you know, I’m fairly certain that he did?”
Marguerite speared Davith with a look. He coughed. “No, no. I said—err— pal. Of mine. We’re pals.” He inched across the road, laces trailing, and slung an arm around Shane. “Great pals.”
“…Pals. Yes.” Shane’s smile was mostly gritted teeth.
The bandit pinched the bridge of his nose. “I definitely heard paladin.”