Wren chuckled. Shane’s beard looked martyred.
The door closed behind the paladins. Marguerite transferred her gaze to Beartongue, who had the fond look of a teacher whose pupils have performed well. “I think they’ll do fine,” she said. Better than fine. I might actually be able to sleep if I know those two are on guard. “But tell me, Your Grace, is there anything I should know about them in advance, to make this all go more smoothly?”
Beartongue steepled her fingers. “Not a great deal. They’re both superb fighters, of course, but you presumably know enough about the Saint of Steel to know that once the battle tide takes them, you won’t get them back easily. So don’t point them at anything you don’t want turned into mince.”
Marguerite thought of Stephen, the gloomy but good-natured paladin that her dear friend Grace had fallen madly in love with. “I’m familiar with the type, yes.”
“Then as to specifics…Wren will never tell you if she is injured or overmatched. If you ask her to fight an army singlehandedly, she’ll salute and march out to do it. Shane will tell you if he thinks she’s suffering, but that is probably the only thing he will volunteer information about. He is actually a far keener observer than he gives himself credit for, but he will not offer his opinion unless you ask.” The Bishop tilted one hand back and forth. “He is polite, self-effacing, apologetic, and you’ll probably want to throttle him before too long.”
“Oof.” Marguerite rubbed her eyes. “Well, good to know. But decent court manners, you say?”
“Impeccable, and he keeps his mouth shut. Like a very polite shadow. Although he’s a terrible liar, so do not put him in a situation where he has to flatter someone.” She grimaced. “I learned that one the hard way.”
“Oh dear.”
“Other than that…well, they’re both loyal unto death, but that goes with the territory. They cannot be bought, they cannot be intimidated, and I assume that’s why you wanted them in the first place.”
Marguerite traced a circle on the polished wood of the desk, feeling the smooth gloss under her fingers. “If you were up against an enemy who could meet almost anyone’s price, who would you want to watch your back?”
“Precisely. That said, you will have to pull rank if you want to do something…ah…expedient…in front of them. They will argue with you, but they will probably obey.”
“Probably?”
“There are some things that a wise woman doesn’t ask a paladin to do,” said Beartongue. The Bishop held her gaze and Marguerite had the feeling that they understood each other very well indeed.
FOUR
“SO THAT WAS THE FAMOUS MARGUERITE,” said Wren, as she and Shane descended the stairs to the courtyard.
“So it seems.” Insomuch as Shane had ever thought of the woman who had saved all seven of the Saint of Steel’s paladins a few years earlier, he had pictured someone rather like the Bishop, a tall, spare, civil-servant type. He had been very wrong.
Well, no surprise there, is it?
This time, though, it was a pleasant surprise. Marguerite had tawny skin and dark, blue-black hair, and to say that she had curves was an understatement that bordered on a venial sin. Her breasts were nearly the size of his head. Individually. He wondered if she frequently found herself having to repeat things to men two or three times, or if people often walked into walls and doorframes when she was around.
The less-pleasant surprise had been how nervous she was. Perhaps it had been Shane’s imagination, but when the door had opened, her eyes had shot to it like a woman expecting armed warriors to pour through. Which, in fairness, we did, but she knew that we were coming.
It was odd. The legend of Marguerite, who had locked horns with the Bishop and gotten away with it, did not quite mesh with his first impression.
Though my impression is more likely to be wrong than not, Dreaming God knows.
“Wonder why we’re trying to track down this artificer,” mused Wren.
“I imagine we’ll be told the reason in private. Or as much of the reason as the Bishop thinks we need to know.”
“Probably.” Wren rubbed the back of her neck. “I can’t believe I’m going to have to wear a dress again.”
“I can’t believe I’m going to have to shave.”
Wren grinned. “It’s been so long since I saw you without that starving badger attached to your face that I may not recognize you.”
Shane sighed deeply. “Why does no one like my beard?”
“Do you really want me to answer that?”
“…no.”
Wren hooked her arm through his. “Between my skirts and your bare face, we’ll take the court by storm. You’ll see.”
Shane knew that neither he or Wren was the sort to take a court by storm—unless charging in with blades flashing counted—but thinking back to Marguerite and the lazy gleam of assurance in her eyes, he suspected that there might be one brewing nonetheless.
And I am no longer the man to hold back the storm. Possibly I never was. Perhaps I should go to Beartongue and ask her to assign someone else. Someone who is not so unreliable.
He doubted that she’d let him get out of it, but fear of failure churned in his gut. He had not yet failed the White Rat, as he had failed two gods before Him, but perhaps it was only a matter of time.
I can ask. And when she tells me no, I will respect her judgment.
It is bound to be superior to my own.
MARGUERITE BIT HER LIP. She was, for the first time that day, nervous.
If the audience with Beartongue had gone badly, she would have been annoyed, frustrated, and facing a great deal of extra work. If the Bishop had been in the pay of the Red Sail, she would have been downright terrified. But neither one of those things would have hurt.
If this meeting went badly, though…
It’s been three years. And you didn’t come to her trial, even though you tried to make it right.
She’d had to leave. It wasn’t safe. The memory of what had happened to her patron had been too fresh. She’d made herself too obvious, and if she didn’t cut and run, it was only a matter of time until someone realized who she really was. At the time, she hadn’t known that the Red Sail was behind the attack on her patron, and the world had been full of faceless enemies. Then it had turned out that having a face to put on the enemy didn’t help. I had to go. There was too much danger to Grace if I stayed.
Guilt stabbed at her. She bowed her head.
This is what comes of caring too much for people who aren’t in the game. Either they become targets or you cut them off because you know what happens to targets. Her patron had taught her that lesson and its corollary: that you must care for your own operatives and use them ruthlessly nonetheless. She had broken the first rule three years ago, and it haunted her still.
The door to the room opened, and Grace stepped through, her head turned to speak to someone over her shoulder. “Fine, I’m going, but this better be important. I was in the middle of a distillation and…”
“Well,” said Marguerite, “if you’re in the middle of distillation, I can always come back later.”
Grace’s head snapped around so fast that Marguerite heard vertebrae crackle. “Marguerite?!”