THE SCHOLAR TURNED UP THE NEXT DAY. The meeting at the guardkeep was not precisely auspicious.
Caliban, Brenner, and Slate walked to the guardkeep. Caliban was pleased that he could do so without a halt in his step. The flap of tarps in the marketplace elicited no more than a twitch.
He was pretty sure that Brenner still saw the twitch, mind you.
What Slate saw was anyone’s guess.
The guards, who had looked through him the last time, saw a Knight-Champion this time—out of armor, but carrying the sword. They saluted. Brenner snickered. Caliban discovered that his jaw was aching and had to consciously stop gritting his teeth.
The Captain of the Guard’s office was overcrowded, holding all three of them, the Captain, and the scholar.
The scholar was a young man with an open, thoughtful face. His current disagreeable expression did not sit well on it.
“Why are we bringing a woman?” he asked, peering down his nose at Slate. “I will not travel with one of their sex.”
Slate’s jaw dropped. The Captain put a hand over his eyes.
“Ibegyour pardon?” said Slate, clearly unable to believe what she had just heard.
“It is granted,” said the scholar, flicking his fingers outward in an abbreviated gesture of blessing. “Go forth and sin no more. Captain?” He turned away. “I believe I asked—”
Caliban and Brenner, acting with rare unity, reached out and grabbed one of Slate’s arms each, before anyone could learn what her sudden lunge in the scholar’s direction might mean.
“Let me go,” she hissed. “I’ll kill him. The tattoo can only eat me once.”
They exchanged looks over her head. Three days had not been enough for the men to establish more than an uneasy truce—the sparring had helped, but not much—but it seemed they’d just found another bit of common ground. Neither one let go.
“Err,” said the Captain. “Learned Edmund, this is Mistress Slate. She will be in charge of your mission.”
“What?” said the Learned Edmund, turning to look at Slate.
“Learned Edmund is a dedicate of the Many-Armed God,” said the Captain, making furious little head-jerk gestures at the man in question.
Ah. Of course.Caliban stifled a groan. The Many-Armed God was portrayed carrying six pens, one in each right hand, and six books, one in each left. His scholars lived rigidly monastic lives, copying out ancient libraries. They were breathtakingly brilliant men, one and all—the Many-Armed God simply didn’t take anyone who wasn’t a genius.
The key word, though, wasmen.
Unfortunately, their rigid lifestyles tended to leave them xenophobic, misogynistic, and anything else one could care to name—but very, very brilliant.
The sad thing,thought Caliban,is that he’s probably exactly the sortof scholar we need to get to the bottom of this. Not that it may matter…
Learned Edmund stared at Slate. Slate stared at Learned Edmund.
“Why am I not to lead this mission?” asked the dedicate, turning back to the Captain.
“The Dowager has placed Mistress Slate in charge, on the understanding that she is the most knowledgeable at orchestrating such…clandestine operations.”
Brenner’s probably at least as good, but I can’t imagine the Dowager spending thirty seconds in his presence. There’s me, of course, but what I know about breaking and entering can fit in a thimble.
“I am not comfortable with a member of the distaff sex leading us,” said Learned Edmund.
Slate’s arm twitched in Caliban’s grip. He was surprised her feet were still on the floor, and more surprised that people still used the phrase, “distaff sex.”
“And I don’t see why I am not in charge,” the scholar continued, oblivious. “These three are, after all, criminals, are they not?”
“I’m an assassin!” said Brenner brightly.
Caliban put his free hand over his mouth. The Captain suffered a sudden coughing fit.
