direction of the highlands. “You take the mountain road then.”
“Bad season for it,” said a man at the next table, turning. Marguerite stifled a sigh. Speed was more important than stealth, but she’d hoped not to have the entire tavern involved in the conversation.
Not that they wouldn’t notice Shane anyway. The paladin stood out like a well-armed turkey in a hen house.
“Trail’s still a mess from the spring thaw,” the newcomer said. “Might be some bits washed out.”
This just gets better and better. “Where does the trail start?”
The man shrugged. “Can’t really miss it. There’s a stable right there, handles the pack mules.”
Before Marguerite could ask, he added, “They won’t sell you one now, in case you’re trying to get around the strike.”
She looked at Shane, who, predictably, grunted.
“Thanks for your help,” she said to the two men. “I’ll stand you a round. Guess I’ll be heading downstream instead.”
They both solemnly agreed that this was wise, and drank to her health. Marguerite and Shane went back outside, where Wren and Davith were watching each other with all the friendly feeling of a blood feud.
“Right,” Marguerite said. “We’re going to have to go through the mountains. Wren, I’m sorry.
There’s a trail, at least?” She decided not to mention it possibly being washed out, because there wasn’t a damn thing anyone could do about it if it was.
Wren took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “It has to be done. I just…won’t look down, I guess.”
Davith looked from one to the other. “Wait…Let me get this straight. You’re named after a bird, and you’re afraid of heights?”
Wren glared at him. “My parents weren’t exactly warned in advance about that, all right? So that they could have named me for something suitably earthbound, like a toad.”
Davith opened his mouth and Marguerite truly did not know if he was going to say something sardonic or actually apologize. Shane stepped between them. Davith closed his mouth again.
“It can’t be that far,” said Marguerite. “The other side of the lake is right there.”
Wren rubbed the back of her neck. “That’s not necessarily true. If the trail has to make a detour around a bit that’s unclimbable, say…” She shook her head. “Even in my hills, the road’s the best way, not the shortest way.”
“Well,” said Marguerite grimly, “I suppose we’re about to find out.”
THIRTY-TWO
“THAT IS NOT A TRAIL,” said Davith. “That is a goat track. For suicidal goats.”
Privately, Marguerite thought that he was correct, but she wasn’t going to show it. The trail wasn’t even flat, but had a distinct sideways tilt, as if it might spill people off the side at any moment. “They take mules on it, so it can’t be that bad.”
Wren came to her aid. “I’ve seen worse. They’ve shored parts of it up, so somebody’s repairing it. That’s good.”
“That it needs repair?” asked Davith.
“That it’s in use, which means it’s unlikely to run out or become impassable.” She did not actually add you asshole to the end of the sentence, but it was strongly implied.
“Right,” said Marguerite. “Let’s go.”
Shane insisted on going first to test the trail. Marguerite frowned at him. “Why you?”
“Because I’m the heaviest. If it will hold my weight, it will hold the rest of you. If it won’t hold my weight, you’ll find out before anyone else plunges to their death.”
“I’d really prefer no one plunged to their death,” she informed him tartly.
Shane shrugged, possibly indicating that plunging to one’s death was a personal decision best left to the individual. Marguerite put her hands on her hips.
“I assure you, I will do everything in my power to avoid it,” he promised her.
“You do that.”
His eyes were the same color as the cold sky as he looked down at her, but then they shifted to something a little past her and softened. He’s looking at Wren, she told herself. It isn’t you he cares about.
Still, her heart twinged a little as he bent toward her. Stupid heart.
“Wren would be the logical one,” he murmured. “She grew up in hill country, after all. But she cannot do it, and I do not trust Davith. That leaves you and I, and you are the one required for our mission to succeed. So I will go first.”
He was right, and she knew he was right, but she glared at his broad back anyway as he led the way.
The trail was not so bad as all that…mostly. In places it was quite serviceable. But it seemed like every time they reached a switchback, the outer edge of the turn was crumbling away and dropped pebbles. Sometimes the entire turn was simply gone, and they had to scramble from the lower trail to the higher, up four or five feet of steep rock. It was not such a difficult proposition for Shane or Davith, but Marguerite was feeling her lack of height severely.
（Wren, despite her clear discomfort with heights, did significantly better, possibly because she was so much stronger. Given a good handhold, the younger paladin could simply pull herself up.
Marguerite, who could not have done a single push-up even if her breasts hadn’t rendered the issue largely moot, tried not to feel bitter envy.）
“What happened to this trail?” she grumbled, as Shane reached down, took both her hands, and pulled her up to the next switchback.
“People steal the bracing timbers,” said Wren. She was pressed as far back from the edge as she could be, back firmly against the stone, and was staring up at the sky. “Same thing used to happen back home.”
“They don’t like having a path through the mountains?” Marguerite hazarded, wondering exactly what had happened to give Wren her fear of heights, and if it had to do with the trails in her homeland.
Wren glanced in her direction and managed a smile. “The trees up here are all pine,” she said.
“Softwood. These timbers are brought in from the lowlands, and they’re much sturdier than anything up here. People take them to build their own homes, or to brace up paths where they drive their animals to pasture.”
“Seems short-sighted,” said Marguerite, pushing away from the wall and following Shane upward again.
“Not really. They know that the clan lord will replace these eventually.”
“The clan lord doesn’t seem to know that,” said Davith sourly.
Wren shrugged. “Maybe they’ve got a lousy clan lord.”
“Judging by the map, this path is no longer regularly used,” Shane called back. “Perhaps it is simply no longer worth the effort to keep it up.” He paused for a moment, testing the ground in front of him. “The edge up ahead is crumbling. I suggest we keep hard to the wall. Wren…”
“I’m fine.”
Davith straightened and looked at Shane over Marguerite’s head. “I’ll go after her,” he offered.
“I don’t need your help,” Wren snapped.
“Nobody’s helping you. I just would rather not have my back to you in a spot where accidents would be so convenient.”