hands were empty; that was reassuring. Most assassins, especially the sort of amateur most tempted by the Dragon Society's offers, would be brandishing daggers or winding garrotes by this point. The exceptionally stupid might be uncorking poisons, unaware that dragonhearts were immune to virtually all natural toxins.
This woman, whoever she was, had her hands raised, fingers spread, as if to help her balance. If she was an assassin, she was a subtle one.
Whoever she was, she was also either cold or nervous—he could see that she was trembling.
By the time she reached the side of the cot Arlian had both his hands out of the entangling blankets, ready to grab for either the woman or a weapon, but had not otherwise moved.
"Lord Obsidian?" she said, in a nervous, high-pitched whisper. "Are you awake?"
Arlian sighed, and rolled over on his back, no longer feigning sleep.
"What is it?" he asked. "Who are you?"
"I'm called Wren," she said. Her voice was unsteady. "I'm sorry to trouble you, my lord, but I wondered whether I might sleep here tonight"
Arlian considered that, and as he did he reached up, without looking, and closed his hand on the first hilt his fingers encountered.
Watching the woman as best he could in the darkness, he drew the blade and sat up, aware by the feel that he held his swordbreaker—probably the most practical weapon in this situation, really. The swordbreaker was a heavy knife with a leather-wrapped hilt and a blade slightly over a foot in length; the crosspiece between hilt and blade was curved into a U, its two arms paralleling the blade for almost half its length and ending in sharp points, giving the overall weapon almost the shape of a three-tined fork. It was designed to be held in the left hand when dueling, where it could be used to stab, to parry, or to catch the blade of an opponent's sword. With luck and skill a sword could be trapped between the swordbreaker's blade and one of the side pieces, and a twist of the wrist would then snap it off short—or at the very least, bend it into uselessness.
This woman had no sword to break, but the swordbreaker was
handier in confined spaces than the sword, and less likely to chip or shatter than the brittle obsidian dagger.
"Who are you?" he repeated.
"Wren. I'm . . . I . . ." Her voice trailed off.
Arlian adjusted his grip on the swordbreaker, making sure she had seen it.
"Lord Rolinor threw me out," she said, on the verge of tears. "And I can't go to any of the other tents, because they . . . they would want to share, and I don't . . . I thought you . . ."
She did not need to complete her explanation; Arlian understood.
Of the hundred men in camp, only three slept alone—himself and Lord Rolinor in their respective pavilions, and Black in Arlian's personal wagon. This woman clearly had only one form of payment to offer for lodging, and did not care to degrade herself further by compensating multiple landlords; Rolinor had evicted her, Black was a married man of uncertain temperament, and that left Arlian as her best prospect to avoid freezing to death in the open.
One important question remained, however. "Why did Rolinor send you away?" he asked. "Surely, if he had simply wearied of you, he would allow you to stay until morning."
" I . . . He was in a foul temper tonight, my lord. I don't know why.
It seemed to worsen when we heard that you would be returning to Manfort, rather than continuing northward."
"Hmm." That was interesting. While the reason for his initial ill temper was obvious, why would it worsen? Had Rolinor perhaps hoped to fill another bottle of venom, and been disappointed to learn he would not have a chance to do so?
Or had he taken the change in plans as an indication that Arlian did not trust him?
"I tried to cheer him," Wren said, "but it didn't help. He was . . . It didn't help. It just made things worse." That required no further explanation. "I just want somewhere to sleep, my lord—I will not trouble
This woman, whoever she was, had her hands raised, fingers spread, as if to help her balance. If she was an assassin, she was a subtle one.
Whoever she was, she was also either cold or nervous—he could see that she was trembling.
By the time she reached the side of the cot Arlian had both his hands out of the entangling blankets, ready to grab for either the woman or a weapon, but had not otherwise moved.
"Lord Obsidian?" she said, in a nervous, high-pitched whisper. "Are you awake?"
Arlian sighed, and rolled over on his back, no longer feigning sleep.
"What is it?" he asked. "Who are you?"
"I'm called Wren," she said. Her voice was unsteady. "I'm sorry to trouble you, my lord, but I wondered whether I might sleep here tonight"
Arlian considered that, and as he did he reached up, without looking, and closed his hand on the first hilt his fingers encountered.
Watching the woman as best he could in the darkness, he drew the blade and sat up, aware by the feel that he held his swordbreaker—probably the most practical weapon in this situation, really. The swordbreaker was a heavy knife with a leather-wrapped hilt and a blade slightly over a foot in length; the crosspiece between hilt and blade was curved into a U, its two arms paralleling the blade for almost half its length and ending in sharp points, giving the overall weapon almost the shape of a three-tined fork. It was designed to be held in the left hand when dueling, where it could be used to stab, to parry, or to catch the blade of an opponent's sword. With luck and skill a sword could be trapped between the swordbreaker's blade and one of the side pieces, and a twist of the wrist would then snap it off short—or at the very least, bend it into uselessness.
This woman had no sword to break, but the swordbreaker was
handier in confined spaces than the sword, and less likely to chip or shatter than the brittle obsidian dagger.
"Who are you?" he repeated.
"Wren. I'm . . . I . . ." Her voice trailed off.
Arlian adjusted his grip on the swordbreaker, making sure she had seen it.
"Lord Rolinor threw me out," she said, on the verge of tears. "And I can't go to any of the other tents, because they . . . they would want to share, and I don't . . . I thought you . . ."
She did not need to complete her explanation; Arlian understood.
Of the hundred men in camp, only three slept alone—himself and Lord Rolinor in their respective pavilions, and Black in Arlian's personal wagon. This woman clearly had only one form of payment to offer for lodging, and did not care to degrade herself further by compensating multiple landlords; Rolinor had evicted her, Black was a married man of uncertain temperament, and that left Arlian as her best prospect to avoid freezing to death in the open.
One important question remained, however. "Why did Rolinor send you away?" he asked. "Surely, if he had simply wearied of you, he would allow you to stay until morning."
" I . . . He was in a foul temper tonight, my lord. I don't know why.
It seemed to worsen when we heard that you would be returning to Manfort, rather than continuing northward."
"Hmm." That was interesting. While the reason for his initial ill temper was obvious, why would it worsen? Had Rolinor perhaps hoped to fill another bottle of venom, and been disappointed to learn he would not have a chance to do so?
Or had he taken the change in plans as an indication that Arlian did not trust him?
"I tried to cheer him," Wren said, "but it didn't help. He was . . . It didn't help. It just made things worse." That required no further explanation. "I just want somewhere to sleep, my lord—I will not trouble
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