He was just wondering if he should try to reorganize it again when the door opened and he erupted out of the closet with his short sword in hand.
“We can come back if you’re busy,” said Marguerite, gazing down eighteen inches of steel.
“Sorry.” He let the point drop. “I…was…uh…”
“You were worrying,” said Wren, pushing past him. She glowered at him. “Don’t trust me to do my job?”
“I have absolute faith in you. It’s the rest of the world that I have concerns about.”
“Seems fair,” said Marguerite. Her black hair clung to her face in damp ringlets. “I’m going to bed. There is a featherbed calling my name.”
She vanished through one of the bedroom doors. Shane sat down, avoiding Wren’s eyes, but it was difficult to be the picture of relaxation while carrying a naked sword.
“You were absolutely worrying.”
“I was just going to sharpen this.”
“Where’s the whetstone?”
Shane muttered something under his breath—even he wasn’t sure what—and went to fetch a whetstone.
Wren flung herself into the chair opposite. “You like her.”
“I do not like her. I mean, I like her fine. I don’t dislike her.”
“Yes, but you like her.” Wren wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.
“What are we, twelve?” Shane rubbed his face. “I am an adult. I do not ‘ like’ people. I am attracted to them.”
“Oooh, so you are attracted to her!” Wren leaned over the arm of the chair, eyes shining. “I knew it.”
Shane stared at the ceiling. “She is very attractive. There is nothing strange about that.”
“Uh-huh.” Wren leaned in closer. “So are you gonna tell her?”
“No.” He hadn’t meant that to come out quite so vehemently. Wren sat back, grinning like a delighted shark. Shane cleared his throat and said, more quietly, “It’s not like that.”
Wren didn’t say anything, but her eyebrows were eloquent.
“It’s not.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“I’m attracted to lots of people.”
“Sure you are.”
“I am.”
“Name one.”
“Uh…” He floundered for a moment. “Errr…how about…Acolyte Melissa?”
“The temple healer’s apprentice?”
“Yes. She’s very attractive.”
“Her husband certainly thought so,” Wren said, “when he married her last year.”
Shane blinked.
“And then they moved to Aquila-on-Marsh. Six months ago.” Wren sat back.
“I said that I was attracted to her, not that I was paying attention to her whereabouts,” muttered Shane. “Anyway, it’s different. Just because Marguerite is an…an extremely attractive woman…”
“We’ve gone from very to extremely attractive,” Wren murmured.
Shane put his head in his hands. “Have you been taking lessons from Istvhan?”
Wren beamed. “Now that,” she said, “is possibly the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” She stood up and patted his shoulder. “I’m going to bed. You should too. Tomorrow is going to be quite a day.”
FOURTEEN
“I FEEL RIDICULOUS,” muttered Wren, adjusting the bodice of her dress for the fifth time. “Everyone will know that I don’t belong here.”
“You’ll be fine,” said Marguerite soothingly. She fixed Shane with a gimlet eye and jerked her head toward Wren’s back.
“You…uh…look quite nice, Wren.”
“You are just the worst liar. Do you know that you can’t fit an axe under these skirts? You’d think it would be easy, but no.”
Her skirts were a froth of petticoats. They had been the cutting edge of fashion two years ago. The Rat’s suppliers had done their best, but high fashion was where they fell short. The result made Wren look like a disembodied torso levitating over a particularly ornate cake.
As they entered the antechamber to the largest ballroom, Marguerite watched Wren steel herself.
“You are perfect,” said Marguerite softly. “You are supposed to be backward and provincial and on the hunt for amusement, and you are going to play that role magnificently.”
Wren flashed her a brief smile. “I’m not sure it’s a role.”
“It is. Don’t forget it.”
Shane bent his head and murmured in her ear. Wren laughed abruptly, straightened her shoulders, and lifted her chin. “Alright. Let’s do this.”
The door opened. The majordomo announced the Lady of Sedgemoor. A few heads turned. Wren snapped her fan open and strode forward into battle.
“What on earth did you say to her?” murmured Marguerite, as they waited their turn to be announced.
“I reminded her that she could kill anyone in the room if need be.”
“That might do it.” Marguerite watched Wren vanish into the crowd.
The majordomo announced Marguerite simply as “Marguerite Florian of Anuket City, merchant,”
and omitted Shane entirely. Three more merchants were announced in rapid succession, which, as far as she was concerned, was just fine. She was here to see, not to be seen. At least, not until necessary.
She scanned the room, picking out people she knew, people she liked, people she loathed. And,
much more rarely, people she feared. There weren’t many of the latter. One dead-eyed courtier that she knew to stay well away from. He’s no part of this, thank god. One old woman with a shaky smile and an entourage of giddy young things. Marguerite knew for a fact that her web of blackmail extended into three nations. Only concerned about seeing her granddaughters married off, even if she has to start wars to do it. Another operative who she didn’t fear, but who worked for a man that she did. Though my best information is that he is in Charlock right now, and the Red Sail does not concern him, so likely not a player in this particular game.
It was unlikely that any of them would pay much attention to her. Her cover as Marguerite, perfume merchant, was well-established.
Mostly, though, it was the usual swirl of people. Courtiers playing games of rank, merchants playing games of wealth, and scattered spies playing games of information. The three goals crossed and re-crossed, sometimes parallel, sometimes at odds. But as long as our interests do not overlap, we shall leave each other well alone.
Perhaps strangely, she felt herself begin to relax. This room felt—oh, not safe, exactly, but familiar. She had told Shane the truth. She was walking into a den of tigers, but she knew all the tigers by name and which ones she could step over and which she should avoid.
“Who are the men carrying arms?” asked Shane. “They do not appear to be guards or duelists.”
Marguerite followed his gaze. “Oh, those. They’re chevaliers. Ah…courtier knights.”
“Do they know how to use those swords?” asked Shane.
“They’re trained in dueling,” said Marguerite. Shane gave a noncommittal grunt.
She could understand his skepticism, assuming that grunt had been skepticism. The chevaliers mostly did not look like warriors. They wore silk and velvet and had elaborately plumed hats, and their peacebonded swords were narrow and often encrusted with jewels. “Don’t underestimate them,” she warned. “Some of them make a habit of calling other men out for fun.”