There was a long silence, broken only by the innkeeper rattling mugs.
“Can I go second?” asked Wren meekly.
“Yes. Yes, you may.” Marguerite nodded to the group as if they were business associates, then turned and stalked back to the innkeeper. Shane watched her go, his eyes dropped to the shape of her hips through the concealing fabric. Even now, the memory of how they’d felt under his hands made his mouth go dry.
This was ridiculous. He knew how desire worked. You lusted after someone and then, assuming it was mutual, you fell into bed together and that took the edge off. Even if it was good…very, very good…your thirst was temporarily slaked.
And fantasy never quite lived up to reality.
And wanting was always more powerful than having.
Except now that he knew exactly what bedding Marguerite was like, he wanted her so badly that his back teeth ached. He took a long drink of his ale, which tasted much better than anything called The Happy Slug had any right to.
Marguerite finished her discussion with the innkeeper. He handed her a towel. She stalked out the door without so much as glancing in their direction. Wren followed hastily, either to keep potential enemies at bay or to make certain she got the second place in line.
“As a friendly bit of advice,” Davith said, once she was gone, “if you don’t stop ogling her like a piece of meat, she’s eventually going to get annoyed.”
Shane blinked at him, not sure whether to be angry or appalled at how easily the man had read his thoughts. “It is not your business,” he said.
“Actually, it is very literally what I do for a living. Seeing someone doing it so badly offends my notion of craftsmanship.” He lounged back in his chair, looking cool and amused and very much in need of a mailed fist to the face.
Lacking any better reply, Shane growled at him.
“Don’t bother, paladin, I know you won’t try to murder me in the middle of a pub. You know she’d be upset if you got us thrown out before she was done with her bath.”
The fact that he was right did nothing to endear him to Shane.
“You don’t like me very much, do you?” asked Davith.
“No.”
He snorted. “Fine, I know I deserve that. But this is what I do. I’d ask you if I needed to know how to chop someone in half. ”
“I do not require the advice of a degenerate,” Shane informed him.
He clutched his chest in mock anguish. “You wound me. Come now. It’s no different than Marguerite cozying up to lords to raid their desks.”
“It is,” said Shane. “You do it to women.”
“Are you saying women are somehow inferior?” asked Davith, raising both eyebrows. “Because I’d say Wren has more than proved that wrong.”
Even knowing better, Shane put his hand on the hilt of his sword. Davith shook his head. “Don’t bother,” he said. “You could kill me in a heartbeat. So could she. I’m not going to fight back.”
“That is,” said Shane, “the safest thing you could do.”
“Why do you think I’m doing it?” Davith leaned back on his stool and folded his arms. “I realize that we’re never going to be friends, but we seem to be stuck with each other for a little while. If it helps any, I took no pleasure in deceiving Wren.”
Shane thought about cutting out his heart and reluctantly dismissed it as impractical. “Your pleasure is no concern of mine.”
“Damn, I can feel my nose hairs freezing up when you talk.” Davith snorted. “Ask Marguerite if
you don’t believe me. We really are in the same line of work, she and I.”
Shane gazed at him levelly. “Are you done?”
Davith sighed and his shoulders slumped a little, and suddenly he looked older and more tired. He took a swig of ale and set it down. “She can’t love you, you know.”
Shane blinked at him.
“Marguerite,” Davith said. “She can’t love you.”
“I do not wish to listen to insults,” said Shane, keeping his voice even despite the voice in his head screaming at him to pick the man up, turn him upside down, and shove him headfirst into the ground like a degenerate turnip.
“It’s not an insult.” Davith shook his head. “Look. You’re a good man. Even I can see that. And you saved my life, so I’m telling you outright. When you do this sort of thing for a living—when manipulating people is your profession—you lose the ability. You can’t. If you loved people, they’d be used against you, or you’d be too afraid to send them off into danger. She can’t love you. All you can ever be to her is a weapon that she can use.”
Shane met his eyes. “Then I am honored to be the weapon in her hand.”
“Shit,” said Davith softly, “you’ve got it bad.” He got up and went to the bar, while Shane stared at his back and wondered if the man was actually right.
THIRTY-SIX
IN THE MORNING, clean, fed, and having slept somewhere better than the floor, the four set out in the general direction of Cambraith. They had not bought horses, though their packs were much heavier with food, and Marguerite had finally acquired a map.
“Fortunately we can go from town to town,” she said, consulting it. “We shouldn’t have to sleep rough again, thank all the little gods.”
“This would be faster with horses,” said Davith.
“Yes, but then we’d have to take care of horses.”
“I thought you were in a hurry.”
“I am. That’s why I don’t want to deal with horses. I suspect we may be able to pay someone with a wagon to cut down on our travel time, and there’s a river here,”—she traced a line with her fingertip—"where I’m told we can be ferried across by a riverman, unless we’ve got livestock, in which case we’d have to go a full day south to Wherryford to find someone with a raft.”
“You’re in charge,” said Davith with a shrug. “I’m just a prisoner.”
“He talks a lot for a prisoner,” Shane observed, to no one in particular.
“I’d noticed that,” Wren answered.
Marguerite pinched the bridge of her nose, stowed the map, and started walking.
The first few days were uneventful. The landscape was green and rolling, rolling and green. It was beautiful at first, then became monotonous. Occasionally it broke out in boulders, sheep, or small villages.
The villages were spaced several hours of brisk walking apart, roughly the distance that a laden wagon could make in half a day. They usually pressed on past the first one, and once or twice they did encounter someone with a wagon who was willing to take a coin to give them a ride somewhere. The inns were small but usually had at least two rooms available, even if the mattresses were of questionable quality. Marguerite asked indirectly about the Sail at every stop, but so far had turned up nothing suspicious.
“Are we ahead of them?” Shane asked.
She bit her lower lip thoughtfully. It was not meant seductively, Shane knew. Knowing that was
surprisingly little help. He stared over her head at a distant hillside and reminded himself of the Lay of Sir Afrim, who had been walled up alive by his enemies and survived for fourteen days, being brought food and sips of water by a flock of sparrows. That would be much worse than this. I have got to stop complaining.