“They got my niece last month,” said Erlick quietly. “She’s fourteen. I don’t know if she’s still alive.”
Shane exhaled slowly. Not so different at all, it seemed. “Very well,” he said. “I’d rather not bring anyone with me. If I die, they won’t know where I’m from, but they might recognize one of your people.”
Erlick scowled. “I don’t say you’re wrong, but I’m coming with you. I’ll stay back in the woods, right enough, but I’ve got a score to settle with these bastards myself. And I’m the best archer we’ve got.”
“But—"
“I’ll use the arrows those Sail fellas brought. They won’t trace the fletching back to us. I’ll dress in the Sail’s clothes, too. If I die, they’ll think I’m from somewhere else.”
Shane grunted. “And if they capture you?”
“They won’t,” Erlick said, patting his dagger. “Not alive, anyhow.”
I should probably talk him out of this, but I don’t think I can. And I’m not sure I should. There was a light in Erlick’s eyes, or perhaps an absence of light, that said a great deal. Erlick did not plan to live a great deal longer, but he meant to do a great deal of damage to the enemy before he died.
“Right,” said Shane. “Then here’s what we’ll do…”
“I’M sorry that we are meeting under such circumstances,” said Jorge. “I don’t blame you for being annoyed with us. We are…um…single-minded about demons.”
“I noticed,” said Marguerite. She thought about saying, “It’s fine,” then thought there was no damn reason to let him off the hook, then thought, I do not want to antagonize these people, I want their help, and said it anyway.
Marguerite was riding double with Jorge, and Davith was with one of the others. Wren had joined Ashes in the dogcart, since the paladins’ horses had made it abundantly clear that they did not like Wren, would never like Wren, and would prefer that Wren was somewhere far away, preferably with a hoofprint on the back of her head. Wren had been philosophical, and the shaggy pony that pulled the dogcart appeared almost embarrassed for its brethren’s behavior.
“It’s not fine,” said Jorge with a sigh, “but it’s what we are. Though we usually manage to be slightly more tactful about it. I apologize. The hospitality of the temple will be open to you, and though it is not lavish, I trust that you will find it better than either the ground or a jail cell.”
He was using the voice, Marguerite realized. He was good at it, though not so good as Shane. She told herself to stop being soothed. Her traitorous nerves relaxed anyway.
The temple, when they finally reached it, was a utilitarian-looking building, and Marguerite expected everything else about it to be utilitarian as well. The décor certainly didn’t change her opinion—plastered stone, plain white with only a small line of decorative paint near the floor. She was just thinking, Paladins! with a certain amount of smugness when they reached the baths, and then her opinion underwent a dramatic reversal.
It wasn’t ostentatiously luxurious, the way that the Court of Smoke’s baths had been, but soap and hot water was plentiful, and afterward there were deep pools for soaking. Judging by the mineral smell, the water was piped from another of the region’s hot springs. Marguerite settled with a groan somewhere between bliss and agony.
“Tell me about it,” said Davith. The baths were not divided by sex, though he’d taken his own pool in deference to modesty. Wren’s modesty, specifically, I bet…
She felt guilty wallowing in such pleasure when Shane was undoubtedly suffering. But not wallowing isn’t going to help him in the slightest. You don’t get to package up your virtuous forbearance and send it to him. And possibly it will be important later that my back isn’t permanently kinked.
Ashes required a hand into the water, but then sank down to her chin. “The artificers keep trying to do this in Anuket City,” she said, eyes closed. “But none of us can ever agree on how to run the boilers. It’s come to blows, and once, a murder attempt.”
“Was it a serious attempt?” asked Marguerite, after digesting this for a moment.
“There was a hammer involved.”
“I see.”
“And a small explosion, although that may not have been deliberate.”
“Ah.”
When they had soaked long enough that Marguerite’s fingers were starting to prune, they hauled themselves out of the water and were led to the main hall. Jorge was waiting, along with three other people, one of which was clearly a paladin and the other two of which looked like priests. They were all significantly older than he was, and had a look of seniority about them.
“If you can talk while you eat, we can make this as quick as possible,” said Jorge, giving the other three a sharp glance.
“No need to glare, Jorge,” said one of the priests, an older woman with dark skin and her hair worked into dozens of tiny braids. “We can see that they’re about done in. We won’t keep them answering questions until they drop.”
And answer questions they did. Most of the interrogation was directed at Wren, who confirmed that it was definitely a demon, that she had felt it herself, and that it was far and away the most powerful one that she had encountered.
Marguerite listened and interjected occasionally, but this seemed like a case where specialized vocabulary was called for, which Wren had and she didn’t. The food was simple—bread, cheese, and spiced meat—but the quality was very high. The Dreaming God’s people clearly favored simplicity, but not necessarily austerity.
She was almost lulled into complacency by the food and the bath and the hum of conversation when the senior paladin asked, “How difficult will it be to kill this man?”
Marguerite’s head snapped up. “Whoa! Wait a minute, now!”
“We must plan for the worst,” the senior paladin said.
“Obviously this isn’t knowledge that any of us wish to use,” said the priestess, giving her colleague a quelling glare. “But it is important to know.”