But even if he didn’t arrange it, if he’s sending her regular payments, he’s got to be sending them somewhere. Even if someone else is picking those up, we just have to find that person and track them back to Magnus.”
“You mean we might be close?” asked Wren.
“We’re about a thousand times closer than we were yesterday.”
Shane frowned. “How do you mean to extract this information from the Baron?”
“He’s already invited me to come see his collection of…yes, actually it was clockwork baubles, now that I think of it.” Although those are very common as novelties for the wealthy, so I can’t blame myself for not jumping to assume that Magnus was responsible. “I could hardly ask for a better opening. He’ll name a time, I’ll go to his quarters and try to steer the conversation in that direction.”
“It’s too dangerous,” said Shane immediately.
“What?”
Shane took a deep breath. “Maltrevor is…not a good man. He might…attempt to take liberties.”
Over the paladin’s shoulder, Marguerite saw Wren cover her eyes and turn away.
“…Liberties,” said Marguerite, not quite certain she’d heard correctly.
“Yes.”
“Sexual liberties, you mean?”
Shane, to give him what credit she could muster, met her eyes squarely. “Yes. I am sorry to say, it seems likely.”
“Good heavens,” said Marguerite. “I was just going to suck his cock, then drug his wine, but if you think he might take liberties…”
The paladin’s face became so expressionless that for a moment, Marguerite was afraid he might keel over in a dead faint. Wren sat down and put her face in her hands, shoulders shaking.
“…Ah,” said Shane. “I see. I am a fool. I apologize, Mistress Marguerite, for having misunderstood the situation.” He bowed his head, but not before Marguerite saw a flush spread across his cheeks.
“Out of curiosity,” Wren piped up, “wouldn’t it be easier to drug his wine first, and skip the rest all together?”
“You’d think that, wouldn’t you? But it’s only a little poppy milk and valerian. Much stronger than that and they figure out they’ve been drugged. You have to use a light touch or they get suspicious.
Plus it makes some men unable to—ah—perform, and the dangerous ones are likely to get violent if that happens.”
Shane made a wordless sound of protest. She took pity on him. “The job is the job, Shane. We need that information. And you’ve a job of your own, since you’ll be accompanying me as far as the door.”
The blush fled and was replaced with stark white. He stared at her, the ice blue of his eyes almost swallowed up by black, and then he straightened and put his shoulders back. “Yes. Of course. If there is a chance that you will be in danger, I must be nearby.”
“Within shouting distance, anyway.” She rose to her feet. “But you’ll have another job. While I’m keeping him busy, you’re going to be investigating his papers so I know what and what not to bother with.”
“Of course. Anything you require. Just tell me what you need me to do.”
SEDUCING Maltrevor was so easy that you could hardly call it seduction. He not only did all the work, he made it seem like his idea. Marguerite found the Baron at one of the endless gatherings, arranged to bump into him, and he brought up his clockwork collection without so much as a leading question.
“Oh, the most marvelous things,” he said. “A golden grasshopper that hops about, and a beetle that flies on its own. Even a dog that rolls over when you snap your fingers.” He squeezed her hand tightly.
“I do like things that roll over when I snap my fingers,” murmured Marguerite.
“Naughty girl!” He waved a finger at her. “But truly this is something extraordinary. Clockwork animals are nothing new, of course—though I fancy these are particularly fine—but ones that respond to sound! That is quite out of the ordinary way.”
“It really is.” That wasn’t even a lie. Having grown up in Anuket City, Marguerite was familiar with many clockwork creations, not to mention all the ways that they could go horribly wrong.
（Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, it was an explosion. The hundredth time, it ran amok and stabbed innocent bystanders, and the artificer would be left standing there saying, “But I had to put blades on it, or how would it rake the leaves?” while the gutters filled up with blood.） Little clockwork creatures were one of the more commercially viable things to come out of the Artificer’s District. Marguerite had brokered more than one shipping deal involving them, and sabotaged more than one as well. But she’d never heard of any that responded to sound. Clearly there had been significant advances since she’d fled the city. Hmm, if Magnus is responsible for that, there may be another opportunity there as well…I wonder what price they would fetch, and if Magnus has a dedicated agent yet?
“I would love to see this clockwork,” she told Maltrevor, with perfect honesty.
Baron Maltrevor licked his lips, and didn’t even bother to hide the look he tipped down her
cleavage. Marguerite resigned herself to an evening of being pawed and pretending to enjoy it. All in a good cause.
“Well, my dear,” he said, patting her hand again, “I’m sure that can be arranged.”
WREN WAS in an excellent mood that evening, which was good, because Shane looked as if he had swallowed a live porcupine and the spines were starting to work their way outward. At least someone’s happy.
Marguerite herself looked forward to the evening in much the same way that one might look forward to digging a new pit for the outhouse—hard work, not exactly fun, possibly with some mildly disgusting bits. But, much like digging the pit, worthwhile in the end.
Wren twisted in the chair, put her feet up, and gazed into the middle distance with a vague, silly smile on her face.
“Seen your young man again?” asked Marguerite, amused.
Wren flushed. “He’s not my young man,” she said. “He’s not…I mean…we haven’t…”
A growl from the corner seemed to indicate that Shane’s porcupine was not agreeing with him.
“But he has sought you out? Repeatedly?” Marguerite asked.
Wren nodded, the smile still on her lips. “He always finds me.”
“Well, I can’t speak to his background, but in the Court, that’s certainly considered meaningful.”
Among a group like the Hundred Houses, that would be tantamount to a proposal, but without knowing where this Ian was from, Marguerite couldn’t be sure.
“He might just be friendly,” Wren said, apparently determined to bring herself back down to earth.
“I mean, it’s hard to make friends here, and I’m not very threatening. He could just want to talk.”
“Uh-huh,” said Marguerite. There were certainly young men in the world who simply wanted a friendly chat with a young woman. She had met at least five of them. The other three or four hundred, on the other hand… “Does he kiss your hand? Lingering looks? You glance over at him and he’s looking straight at you?”