Marguerite slept late the next morning, only waking up when the maid came to clean. She tumbled out of her room to let the woman work, and found the other two already awake and polishing off breakfast.
“Shane says you got something!” whispered Wren, bouncing in her chair.
Marguerite glanced over her shoulder, but it seemed unlikely that Ammy could hear her over the thumping sounds of the bed linens being changed. She nodded to Wren. “He had a letter from whoever he delegated handling the artificer to.”
“So we need to find that person?”
“Thankfully, no.” She gratefully accepted the mug of tea that Shane handed her. “We know where she went, so we can just go straight there.”
“I can be ready within the hour,” Shane said immediately.
Wren’s excited expression faded so quickly that it might as well have been lopped off with a knife. “Oh,” she said. “So we’re going, then?”
It did not take the skills of a spymaster to guess the reason behind Wren’s dismay. “I can help you write him a note,” said Marguerite gently. “There’s no reason you can’t see him again when this is all over.”
“I haven’t exactly mentioned what I do,” said Wren glumly. “And he probably doesn’t think of me that way.” She rubbed her forehead. “How long do we have?”
Marguerite shrugged. “Not long, I don’t think. The letter said ‘sent to the Nallans at the ford.’” She heard the maid approaching the door and hastened to finish up. “We just need to find the Nallan family and we’re golden.”
“Sorry, ma’am?” asked Ammy, popping her head into the room.
“Nothing, Ammy.”
The woman frowned. “Thought I heard my name. Though no, of course you weren’t calling me—you said Nallan and I haven’t been a Nallan in thirty years.”
Marguerite raised both eyebrows. “Nallan?” she asked. Hope mingled with suspicion. It couldn’t possibly be this easy, could it?
“Aye, that was my maiden name. One of the Snowpeak Nallans, I was.” She thumped her chest.
Shane caught her intention without having to be asked. “Where is Snowpeak?” he asked. “I don’t know the highlands at all, I fear.”
Ammy sniffed. “Fair distance from here. I don’t get back as often as I’d like. In summer I’m working for you lot, and in winter—well, nobody goes to Snowpeak in winter.”
“That’s a shame,” he said, with what seemed like genuine sympathy. “I’m sorry you can’t get back to your family. The Nallans, you said?”
Marguerite’s hopes soared. It was almost too convenient, but sometimes you did get lucky in this business. And even if Ammy was an enemy operative and trying to throw them off the scent, this sort of thing could be checked, although perhaps not until they were closer to Snowpeak.
“Oh, aye,” said Ammy. “O’ course, there’s Nallans all over, you ken.”
Soaring hope faltered. “There are?” Shane asked.
“Bless you, of course there are.” Ammy swatted playfully at him with her dustcloth. “Comes from the old word for warrior, they say, which is why there’s so many of us. Can’t scarcely throw a pot of piss out the window without hitting one.” She sniffed again, while Marguerite felt her hopes crash to earth. “’Course I wouldn’t trust half the people who call themselves that. No better than lowlanders, some of ’em. No offense to yourself.”
“No,” said Shane, in his grave voice, as hope picked up a shovel and began to dig downward. “None taken.”
“Not anybody’s fault where they’re born,” Ammy continued magnanimously. “But there’s Nallans everywhere you go. Why, I daresay we’re in every county in the highlands!”
“I suppose I could seduce Maltrevor again,” said Marguerite glumly, after the maid had left and they were all draped over chairs, nursing their disappointment. “Look for more letters, if there are any.”
Shane looked up sharply. “I don’t think that would be wise.”
Irritation sparked. She knew that she was angry because their lead had proved so much less worthwhile than she’d hoped, but she couldn’t keep the annoyance out of her voice. “Why? Because you don’t approve?”
He might have been a statue carved in marble. “It is not my place to approve or disapprove.”
Perversely, that made her angrier. Damn him for not giving me a fight, even when I want one. She took a deep breath. Stop. It’s not his fault that the lead dissolved. A good commander does not take her disappointment out on her people.
“I am afraid that Maltrevor may be dangerous,” said Shane. “There’s a darkness in him. More than in a normal man.”
Marguerite rolled her eyes. “And what do paladins know about darkness? Brothels are full of perfectly normal men who happen to like to spank their lovers or tie them up or whatever.” She turned to Wren for backup, and met wide-eyed astonishment.
“Really?” said Wren. “I mean…that’s a thing? Really?”
Oh gods above and below. Marguerite put her face in her hands. This is what comes of having six older brothers who kill people for a living. She briefly contemplated explaining recreational sadomasochism to Wren, then contemplated throwing herself from the battlements instead.
Though it might be worth it just to see if Shane expires of embarrassment on the spot…
And just like that, her anger and disappointment cracked apart, replaced by hilarity. Marguerite felt a laugh rising inescapably in her throat. “It’s a thing,” she assured Wren. “And some of those perfectly normal men will happily pay money to be the ones tied up and spanked. People are complicated.”
“Wow.” Wren’s eyes were as big as saucers. Shane stared fixedly at the ceiling, his face so absolutely blank that Marguerite was afraid that he was going to faint.
“Look,” said Marguerite, standing up, “the thought of going back into the Court right now makes me want to tear my hair out. Let’s go have a soak and I’ll tell you all about it.”
Shane reached out a hand as if to stop her, paused, and pulled it back. He looked from Wren to Marguerite, fraternal horror etched in every line.
“I’ll be gentle,” Marguerite assured him.
“But…”
“It’ll be fine.” She slid her arm through Wren’s. “C’mon, let’s get a bottle of wine sent over. It’s noon somewhere, right?”
“Definitely.”
She shut the door on the sight of Shane dropping his head onto his folded arms in utter despair.
They sat around the room that evening, making further inroads on another bottle of wine. The soak in hot water had been relaxing enough, but despite hours of heavy thinking (and another hour of heavy drinking) Marguerite was no closer to a solution.
“Maybe there aren’t really that many Nallans?” Wren suggested hopefully.
“If anything, there are more,” said Shane. “I visited the library.”
Marguerite raised her glass in his direction. “Anything good?”
“Most of the recent novels were checked out before we got here, so I can’t speak to the collection.” A rueful smile flickered across his face. “Apparently nobility does not respect a waiting list.”
“They wouldn’t.”
“However,” the paladin continued, “it has a great many books on peerage and genealogy.”
Marguerite nodded. “No surprise there. This is one of the biggest marriage marts around. You’d want a quick way to check up on any prospects and make sure they were who you thought they were.”
Shane nodded. “The highland groups are not nearly so well-documented, I fear, but looking through what information there was, I found Nallans listed in nine separate counties. And that was just those that had attained ranks of minor nobility.”
“Saint’s balls,” muttered Wren.
Marguerite poured the last of the wine into her cup. She was still depressingly sober. “Without knowing what county to start in, we’re stuck checking every single ford. We’d practically have to go from door to door, convincing people to talk to us. It would take months.” She snorted. “Mind you, the Sail won’t have it any easier, it’s just that they can field the manpower to knock on a lot more doors.”
“Can they?” asked Shane. “Do they have the people?”
“Mmm.” Marguerite rubbed the back of her neck. “That’s a good question. They can certainly get that many people, and in short order, but I don’t know how many are deployed in the highlands right this minute. Probably not that many. It’s not a major market that they need to keep close tabs on, so few existing operatives, and if you have an army of strangers wandering around, you risk your quarry getting wind of it and relocating.”
She rubbed her fingers absently over the cup. The ceramic glaze was smooth on the inside, but the exterior had a rough texture, in accordance with the local style. It was a pleasing contrast, if unexpected. “I’ve been trying to think how to narrow it down. All I can come up with is that we need to find out which counties Maltrevor has ties to. Sufficient ties that he could tell someone to hide his pet artificer there and they’d do it. But that probably gets us back to finding out who this middleman is, which probably means more time with Maltrevor—yes, I know, don’t start—”
Shane was clearly going to start, no matter what she said, but before he’d gotten out more than two words, there was a knock at the door of the suite.
Saved at the last minute, Marguerite thought. She really wasn’t in the mood for a fight right now.
The paladin got up, put a hand on the hilt of his knife, and went to the door. A man’s voice spoke in low tones. Shane’s answer was deep and, unsurprisingly, suspicious.
I know that voice, Marguerite thought, setting down her cup.
Shane moved aside and let the man enter, though he didn’t take his hand off his knife. A familiar figure stepped into the room.
“Davith?” said Marguerite, at the exact moment that Wren said, “Ian?”