“I try never to underestimate an opponent.”
“I’d prefer you didn’t get in any duels.”
“I would also prefer that.” His eyes moved across the room, lingering briefly on a knot of chevaliers. “Do you know anything of their fighting style?”
“Not much,” admitted Marguerite. She was an encyclopedia of information on a great many topics, but armed combat was not one of them. “The duels I’ve seen all looked very fast and showy?”
“Mmm. Yes, with those swords, that would make sense.” He moved his elbow, brushing it against the scabbard across his back and the heavy sword there. Marguerite tried to picture a chevalier fighting a demon-possessed bull with a slender rapier and failed.
“Does that mean that you could beat one?”
“Not necessarily.” Shane’s eyes continued to scan the crowd. “I am very strong, but my weapon is not made to parry quickly. But by the same token, they could not parry my blade without breaking theirs. It would likely come down to endurance and luck. And the terrain, of course.”
The way that Shane said I am very strong struck her as amusing. It wasn’t boastful. So far as she could tell, the man would rather fall on his sword than boast. It was simply an unremarkable fact.
Squirrels exist. It is raining today. I am very strong.
She continued her survey of the room, pausing when she recognized a near-friend. “Interesting.”
Shane cocked an eyebrow at her. “I know him.”
“Who?”
“The handsome one charming the ladies over there. That’s Davith. He is in something of the same line of work I am.”
“Is he a threat?” Shane’s voice was pitched so low that she could feel the vibrations in his chest more clearly than his words. A shiver went down her spine and she told herself firmly to stop that.
“Possibly. He could also be very helpful, and he owes me a favor. I am going to go find out. You are going to stay here.”
“Am I?”
“Yes. You are going to lean against the wall like all the other chaperones and tame duelists are doing.”
“How am I supposed to protect you from the wall?”
“If you see anyone stab me, kill them.”
“I fail to see how that will help you.”
“Oh, it wouldn’t in the least. But knowing that you’re watching means that nobody’s likely to try.
If someone’s going to do me in, it’s going to be in a quiet hallway, not the middle of a ballroom.
Anyway, Davith would never stab anyone. It isn’t his style.”
He grunted again. Marguerite filed this grunt under “grudging acceptance” and went to go see her old friend and enemy.
DAVITH WAS that most fortunate of men, one whose boyish good looks were aging gracefully.
Marguerite had seen it happen the other way many times. A lad who was strikingly handsome at twenty would lose the glow of youth, acquire a few lines around their eyes and mouth, and suddenly look as if they’d spent their life in the worst sort of debauchery. Usually this happened just when their peers were reaching their prime, too. The good ones bore this with resigned humor. The bad ones became vain and terrified and lashed out at the world that suddenly no longer catered to their every whim. She’d known far too many of the latter, and was sneakingly glad that Davith was unlikely to go that way. The man was far too useful to lose to something so petty, and far too dangerous if he chose to lash out.
He still looked younger than he was—Marguerite knew for a fact that Davith was in his early thirties, even though no one would guess he was over twenty-five—but he had strong bones and the faint grooves at the corners of his eyes were clearly laugh lines. There was no trace of silver in his
hair, but that meant little enough. Marguerite knew at least three ways of covering grey hairs. She suspected that when Davith finally allowed it to show, it would involve an artistic touch of silver at the temples, just enough to set off the blackness of the rest, and the elegant amber of his skin.
It will be nearly impossible to see grey in Shane’s hair, she mused absently. It’s so pale already that a few white hairs will be invisible. Although they’d probably show up in that awful red beard.
There were four women gathered around her quarry. As she approached, she could hear Davith’s laugh, light and spontaneous and amused, encouraging the listeners to join in on the joke. It took an incredible amount of work to perfect a spontaneous laugh like that. I wonder which one of them he’s trying to seduce?
At a guess, it was the tall woman in pale green silk. She was standing a trifle farther back and her face was turned slightly away, as if she didn’t want to appear too eager. Marguerite assessed the woman’s clothes— moderately wealthy, probably a widow, that’s a respectable cut but not too respectable, very expensive shoes. Good choice.
She strolled up to the gathering and nudged Davith in the ribs with her elbow. “Why Davith, what a surprise! I didn’t expect to see you here, darling.”
He turned, clearly surprised. If he was unhappy to see her, he covered it too quickly for Marguerite to spot. There was an excellent chance that he was working for the Red Sail—among others—but she suspected that he didn’t know that his employers wanted her dead. Not that she wanted to be a target, but if he had known, that would have told her something. （That was always the problem with other spies. Sometimes it was almost as frustrating when they didn’t know enough as when they knew too much.）
“Marguerite!” He bowed to her. “How lovely to see you again. It has been quite some time, has it not?”
“Far too long,” she said, playing along. It would be quite rude to interfere with his work by calling him a liar, but Marguerite was not above a little gentle malice. “I have missed you terribly, you naughty man.” She turned to the other four women, who were watching her with interest.
“Whatever tales you’ve heard of this man, they don’t even begin to do justice to the truth.”
Three looked fascinated. The widow in green narrowed her eyes slightly.
And if I was feeling particularly unkind, I’d go on, but I would like his help. She therefore did not take his arm or wink saucily at his audience, but only tapped her finger against her lip. “You know, Davith, I’m selling here again this year, and I might have a business opportunity available, if you were interested.”
“I don’t know…business requires so much effort that might be better spent on pleasure…” He was looking at the woman in green when he said it, and she looked away quickly, then shot an edged look in Marguerite’s direction.
“Ah, well. If you change your mind, I’ll be…you know. Circulating.” She waved a hand in the air and patted his arm. “So good to see you again.”
It took about ten minutes before he caught up to her at a punchbowl in the next room over. This didn’t surprise her at all. Davith was perpetually broke and the notion of profit that didn’t come from warming someone’s bed was bound to be a draw.
“Marguerite,” he said, and this time kissed her cheek. “Thank you for not showing me up too badly.”
She chuckled. “Charming that lovely widow, are you?”