The stained axe blade lifted again, and Shane had no weapon in his hands. He lifted his arm, as if that might somehow stop an axe. He was going to die. Marguerite cursed herself for not being a warrior, for not having so much as a pen knife to her name, something that she could throw or maybe just hand to Shane or—
“Enough.”
It was the paladin’s voice like she had never heard. It was no longer trust and care and kindness.
This was the voice of a prophet, not a priest. It sank into Marguerite’s bones and demanded obedience from her very soul.
If she hadn’t already been on her knees, she might have fallen to them. Davith, who had been trying to rise, sagged back against the floor.
Wren blinked. Some of the flatness left her eyes, and she looked from Shane to Marguerite to Davith, then back again. “Oh,” she said, in a very small voice.
The axe fell to the floor. Shane stepped forward, wrapped his arms around his sister, and held her tight.
THIRTY-ONE
MARGUERITE FINISHED CHECKING the last man’s belt pouch and sat back on her heels. “Nothing,” she said, in response to Shane’s inquisitive glance. “Nothing useful, anyway. Not that I expected them to have signed orders from Fenella, but it might have been nice.”
He nodded and took up his post at the foot of the stairs.
Davith, meanwhile, was trying to pick the lock on the cellar door. He looked almost normal but his hands were shaking in a way that Marguerite had never seen.
It was hard to say which of the two was more upset, Wren or Davith. Davith hid it better, perhaps.
Wren, once Shane released her, picked up her axe and cleaned it, face blank and lifeless. Her eyes looked like holes in her skin.
Marguerite wanted to go to her, but cold practicality exerted itself. Getting the door open will keep us all alive.
“Davith,” Marguerite murmured. “Do you want me to try that?”
“What are they?” he asked in a clipped whisper, ignoring the question.
“What?”
“Them. Those aren’t ordinary bodyguards.” One of the picks bent and he pressed his lips together until they went white.
“No.” She thought about lying, but there didn’t seem to be much point now. She glanced over her shoulders. Shane had picked up his broken sword and was studying it. After a moment, he slid what was left of it back in its sheath. “They’re paladins of the Saint of Steel.”
“The Saint of…” Davith rested his forehead against the door and gave a single bark of laughter.
“Of course those would be your bodyguards. That’s almost brilliant, in a twisted sort of way.”
Marguerite did not feel particularly brilliant at the moment. “Move over,” she said. “Let me give the lock a try.”
He yielded. She worked the lock carefully. It wasn’t difficult, but the mechanism was heavy and required a sure hand. She realized that she was holding her breath, a lousy habit, and took a deep, deliberate breath, whereupon the lock popped open as if it had been waiting for an excuse.
“I loosened that jar lid for you,” muttered Davith.
“Sure you did,” she said, rising to her feet. “Come on. I can’t imagine they’ve got many more people to send after us, but I don’t want to find out that I’m wrong.”
Wren nodded mechanically and went through the door, her face still blank. Marguerite took a step after her, lifting a hand to touch her shoulder.
Shane caught her arm. His gauntlets were caked in gore, but Marguerite refused to flinch away.
This is what it looks like when men die. This is what the game you play costs. You don’t get to look away.
She looked from his mailed hand up to his face and waited for him to apologize for Wren, or for not stopping Wren, or maybe for not killing everyone even faster. He had that look that usually preceded an apology.
Instead he leaned forward, his lips almost at her ear, and said softly, “You asked me once what paladins knew of darkness.”
Marguerite’s breath went out in a long sigh and she felt unexpectedly ashamed. “I’m sorry,” she said, almost inaudibly. “I knew, but I didn’t understand.”
He nodded and released her. Marguerite moved to the front of the party and glanced back to see him guarding the back, as remote and unreachable as a star.
NO ONE TRIED to stop them on their way out. The door led to another storage room, and then another much larger one. There were several large elevators, apparently for moving supplies up from the docks, and several more sets of stairs. Laborers were working there by torchlight. Marguerite paused in the shadows, considering her options. Sneak past? All those stairs are in use, can’t imagine we’d make it. Pretend like we belong here? I’ve got two people covered in armor and other people’s blood.
“Right,” she said, turning back to the others. “We’re just going to brazen it out. You all with me?”
She met Wren’s eyes in particular. The other woman took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. Marguerite could actually see her take the horror and shove it away somewhere else, a trick she recognized because she had done it herself so many times.
“I’m with you,” Wren said. And then, to a space six inches to the right of Davith’s head, “I’m sorry about what happened earlier.”
Davith shrugged. “Eh,” he said, “I probably deserved it. Let’s just get out of here in one piece.”
Marguerite didn’t know if he genuinely meant it or if he was simply trying to appease someone who had come perilously close to putting an axe into his head. Probably it didn’t matter. People will remember that he was with us, so he’s a dead man walking if the Sail gets to him.
“Okay.” She looked over the two paladins, both of whom were splattered with other people’s blood. （Well, Shane was splattered. Wren looked as if she’d been bathing in it. It was something of an education in the difference between axe and sword fighting.） “Wren, take my cloak and try to hide
some of that blood. Shane, you’re going to be drunk. Davith, take one side of him. Wren, stick close behind us and look apologetic.”
For some reason she expected Shane to argue about pretending to be drunk, but he nodded, slung his arm over Davith’s shoulders, and leaned heavily on the smaller man.
“Ooof!” Davith said. “Are you a paladin or a side of beef?” Shane smiled and leaned harder.
Marguerite took Shane’s other arm and led him directly toward the widest set of stairs. “Pardon,”
she said to the first person who noticed them, “but can you point me to the fastest way outside? My friend here really needs some air.”
“M’fine,” mumbled Shane.
“Buddy, you are so far from fine that you can’t see fine from here,” Davith told him.
The laborer looked from Shane back to Marguerite, who gave her most winning and apologetic smile. “He’s had a bit much to drink.”
“Have not.”
“How did you even get down here?” the man wanted to know.
“Stairs,” said Davith grimly. “So many goddamn stairs. He refused to do the elevators, so I had to carry him—yes, I’m talking about you, you sod.”