“Wrong place at the wrong time,” said Marguerite. “It was nothing you did.” Shane was still looking murderous. She and Wren shared a look.
“Did you learn stuff?” asked Wren, clearly trying to change the subject. “I mean, useful stuff?”
“I did not magically learn the location of our artificer, but I did rule out a few people as being involved with the Sail.” Marguerite grimaced. “Which is extremely useful, in that it lets us
concentrate our efforts, but is not as satisfying as providing an actual target. Still, it helps to narrow things down.”
Wren sighed. “I wish Ian had been able to come.”
“Ian?”
“The man I…err…met. It would be nice if you could meet him too.”
“Hmmm. I don’t know anyone here named Ian…” And then, when Wren looked suddenly worried,
“No, that’s good, that means I don’t know anything bad about him.”
Shane muttered something that neither of them could make out. Marguerite thought that was probably for the best.
“Right,” said Wren, getting up. “I just waited up until you got in to make sure that I didn’t need to search the halls for your bodies. Night, all.”
Marguerite leaned back in the chair with a sigh. Now that her feet hurt less, her scalp was beginning to complain. She cursed the fashion that had turned against hats in the last few years. She’d liked hats. They covered a multitude of sins in the hair department.
She began pulling out combs. Shane watched in silence, then finally said, “No click, then?”
“No click.” She sighed heavily and yanked a comb out with a bit more force than necessary. It came out, trailing several dark strands.
“Perhaps it’s still too early,” he offered.
“Probably. I was hoping, though.” More than I’m willing to admit, actually. In her heart of hearts, she’d been hoping to swoop in, have the critical information fall into her lap, and go out after the artificer while the Sail was still trying to figure out if she was the person from the wanted posters.
The longer it took, the more danger that the operatives at Court would actually communicate with one of the branches of the Sail that wanted her dead. Not to mention the chance that they’ll locate the artificer and have them quietly shoved off a cliff, which would be extremely detrimental to both their health and my plans.
One of the combs didn’t want to come out. She pulled harder on it, annoyed.
“Here, let me,” said Shane behind her. She hadn’t heard him move. “It’s caught up on a hairpin.”
Gods above and below, he was using the voice. Marguerite let her hands drop as the words poured over her, soothing as warm honey.
If I could bottle that, I would make so much money.
“Just a bit of a tangle,” he murmured, coaxing the pin loose. “I don’t want to take half your hair out with it.”
“That’s fine,” said Marguerite, with only a vague idea what she was agreeing to. His fingers were very deft and she felt a shiver going through her as he worked. Oh yeah. That’s the stuff, right there.
If I was a cat, I’d be purring.
He removed the offending comb and then carefully began to pluck out the remaining ones. Her hair fell down across her neck, and she shivered again.
When the last one was out, Shane rested his hands on the back of her chair. She tilted her head back slightly, looking up at him, wondering if he was going to do anything, or she was.
If he’d kissed her then, she would have dragged him into the bedroom, never mind how tired she was or what Wren might think of the noises.
But he did not, and the moment stretched long enough for Marguerite to remember that he did not approve of her, and also for her feet to remember that they ached. She sighed and patted one of his hands as if she were an old lady. And at the moment I feel like one. “Tomorrow,” she said wearily.
She got to her feet, wincing. “And maybe we’ll be lucky and out of the blue, there’ll be a click.”
“May the gods will it so,” said Shane politely. Marguerite felt his eyes following her as she went to the bedroom, but he didn’t say anything more, and neither did she.
TWENTY-FIVE
THREE DAYS LATER, Marguerite’s feet hurt and her back hurt and she was tired. Again. Story of my life, really. Although usually my feet aren’t in quite this bad a shape.
She had spent most of the evening at a ball thrown in honor of somebody powerful by somebody even more powerful. （She had notes somewhere, but had filed the people involved as not currently my problem.） Normally mere merchants wouldn’t dance at such an event, but unfortunately the honoree actually was a merchant, so the entire event had been arranged to allow nobles and bourgeoisie to intermingle. Marguerite had only danced when asked by someone that she either wanted to cultivate or didn’t want to offend, but unfortunately that was a rather large number of people, and two of them had stepped on her feet.
She envied Shane. He was on an upper balcony, alongside the wallflowers and pet duelists.
Nobody stepped on his feet.
That’s got to be enough dancing, she thought, as she let an eager young puppy escort her from the floor. No one had spilled any immediately relevant information, although she’d picked up the latest scandal from one dance partner and was fairly certain, by the way that one of the others had been staring at another woman over her shoulder, that he was trying to make someone jealous, which was worth filing away for later use.
He’d been one of the ones who stepped on her foot. Several of her toes felt as if they were permanently flattened.
She limped up the steps to the balcony, looking for Shane. He was never hard to find, but this time, it was particularly easy, because everyone around him had drawn back and a chevalier was gesticulating furiously at him.
Oh gods of my mothers, what now?
She recognized the chevalier immediately as Sir Lawrence of Elked. Too hot-headed for his own good, and far too old for that to be cute any longer. Aching feet forgotten, she rushed forward to save her paladin.
She arrived within earshot just in time to hear Sir Lawrence say loudly, “I demand that you give me satisfaction, sir!”
Light sparkled on the rows of earrings in both ears as he turned slightly, making sure that the crowd heard him. His rapier handle was encrusted with tiny gems and the scabbard was inlaid with a dozen brilliant colors.
Shane said, in halting Dailian, “Your pardon, sir, I do not understand what you ask.”
“You have offended my lady’s honor!” Sir Lawrence informed him. “I demand satisfaction!”
The third person in this little drama stood off to one side, wringing her hands. She could not have been more than eighteen and looked as if she wanted to sink into the floor, die, and then have her body shipped somewhere very far away.
Shane’s eyes lit up with relief when he saw Marguerite. Possibly the first time he’s ever been genuinely glad to see me. “Thank the Saint,” he said. “This man keeps asking me for something, but I don’t know the word.”
“Satisfaction,” she translated.
His eyebrows lifted. “I don’t know how to satisfy men. It’s never come up.”
Marguerite coughed to cover up the giggle that threatened to escape. “Vocabulary issue,” she said, while the chevalier scowled at them both. “He’s asking you for a duel.”