Page 107 of Paladin's Faith
Shane frowned. “Is it just me, or has he been quite…errr…caustic toward Wren? I have been wondering if I should step in.”
“Yes, he has, and no, you shouldn’t.” Marguerite got to her feet. “It’s the kindest thing he could do under the circumstances.”
Shane looked blank. Marguerite sighed. “She fell in love with him, right?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Yes. And now he is trying very hard to make sure that any feelings she had for him are gone. It’s much easier to get over a total jackass than it is someone who’s kind and decent and noble and…” She closed her mouth before she started describing Shane instead of Davith.
“Oh.” The paladin digested this. “That is…yes. All right.” He nodded. “I won’t break him in half, then.”
“I appreciate that,” said Marguerite, and then, because he was still sitting down and thus was just about the right height, she leaned in and kissed him.
He said “Mmmf!”
It was a good kiss. It started to deepen into a great one, but Marguerite tore herself away. This won’t make anything easier, unless you want him to take you right now on this bench, which, actually—
No. You’ve left Davith and Wren alone long enough. It’s like that riddle with the goose and the fox and the corn, and if you don’t stop now, you’re going to find that the goose has beaten the fox to death with the corn.
“Think about it,” she said. “Sooner or later we’re bound to have separate bedrooms. Or we can just shove Davith in a locked closet for a night.”
“I assure you,” said Shane dryly, “I will be thinking about nothing else for days.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
“Well,” said Marguerite, looking at the map, then across the landscape, “apparently this is Cambraith.”
It looked exactly like everywhere else they had been. A river snaked across the rolling hills, and the endless green shaded toward blue to the north, where the hills turned into mountains.
“Just this valley?” asked Shane.
“This one, and the next one, and…” Marguerite consulted the map. “The next three after that.”
They looked toward the hills. There were certainly a lot of them. Presumably they weren’t quite so identical when you got up close, but Marguerite wouldn’t swear to it.
“Maybe we should ask for directions,” said Davith.
“So that the Sail can come up behind us and know exactly where we’re going?” asked Wren.
“If the alternative is walking around knocking on doors asking if anyone’s seen the artificer, yes.”
“We’ll have to ask someone,” Marguerite said, “but we’ll attempt to be subtle and unmemorable.” She paused, studying the other three. “Which…ah…is easier said than done, I suppose. Wren, can you put your axe away long enough to come into an inn and look respectable with me?”
“Sure.”
“I can look respectable,” said Shane.
“No, you can’t.” Marguerite put the map away. “You look noble, which isn’t the same thing. Respectable is subtle and boring. Noble isn’t boring. Davith, don’t start.”
“Aww…”
“Right,” said Marguerite an hour later, making sure that her hair was covered and adjusting her clothing. “We are traders of small valuable goods who are looking to finish our business as soon as possible and go back to the lowlands. Got it?”
“Got it,” said Wren, who had handed her axes over to Shane at the outskirts of the village. It was a sizeable enough place, in that it had both an inn and a store. She pushed the door to the inn open, did a quick scan for assassins—none, unless they were disguised as chairs—and let Marguerite enter first.
Marguerite strolled up to the bar, which was manned by a middle-aged man with hair that had thinned considerably in front, but made up for it by descending over his bare shoulders. He wore an apron and the impersonally friendly expression of innkeepers everywhere.
“Can I help you?” he asked.