Arvin hesitated. Karrell’s answers to his questions had been short and evasive. What if she was a spy, or even an assassin? Even if she was exactly what she claimed to be, he could think of a dozen reasons to say no. Dmetrio didn’t know about Arvin’s mission—to him, Arvin would be nothing more than a “rope merchant’s agent” that he was to introduce to Baron Foesmasher. This would give Arvin an excuse to chat informally with Dmetrio, to find out—with a little prompting, in the form of a psionic manifestation—if Dmetrio knew anything about Glisena’s disappearance. Dmetrio had been courting Glisena for several months; there was a chance that her disappearance was part of an illicit elopement. If it was, the alliance between Sespech and Hlondeth would unravel as quickly as a frayed rope.
Arvin didn’t need a stranger hanging about while he asked Dmetrio delicate questions. Nor did he want her tagging along behind him in Ormpetarr. The next thing he knew, she’d be asking for an introduction to Baron Foesmasher and a tour of the palace.
On the other hand, Karrell was the most beautiful woman Arvin had ever met. And the touch of her hand on his knee—even through the thick wool blanket—was sending a welcome flush of warmth through him.
Karrell raised her free hand to her chest, making a brief, imploring gesture that reminded Arvin of the silent speech. She leaned closer still, whispering a plea in her own language, and Arvin caught a whiff of the scented oil she must have combed into her hair to make it shine so. She smelled of the exotic flowers of the south, of orchids underlaid with a hint of musk. A snowflake landed at the corner of her upper lip, and Arvin was filled with an urge to kiss it away.
“Please,” she breathed. “It would mean so much to me to meet Ambassador Extaminos, to share my sketches with someone who appreciates the subject as much as I do.”
Arvin swallowed. “I’d like to see your sketches, too.”
Karrell’s dark eyes shone. “So you’ll introduce me?”
Arvin tugged at the neck of his cloak, loosening it. The snow was still falling thick and fast, and the air had chilled as the sun went down, but he was suddenly very warm. “I….”
The wagon jerked to a halt. “We’re here,” the dwarf grunted—the first words he’d spoken since their journey began. “Riverboat Landing. The Eelgrass Inn.” Bells tinkled as the horses shook their heads, taking advantage of the slack reins.
Arvin glanced around. The wagon had pulled up beside the largest of the half dozen inns that lined the bank of the Lower Nagaflow. Several piers splayed out into the river like fingers. Tied up to them were the riverboats—wide-hulled sailboats with tall masts, canvas sails furled tight against their yards. Snow had blown into drifts on the decks of most, but one had been swept clean. Aboard it, two men were fitting a repeating crossbow to the port rail amidships. A second repeating crossbow was already mounted on the starboard rail.
Arvin caught the eye of the dwarf, who had climbed down to tie the reins of the horses to a hitching post. “Why the crossbows?” he asked. “Are they expecting trouble?”
The dwarf’s feet crunched in the snow as he walked back to open the door of the wagon. “Slavers,” he said as Arvin climbed down from the wagon. “From Nimpeth.” He pointed across the river at the far shore. “They have their own boats. Sleek and fast.”
Arvin caught Karrell’s eye as she rose and gathered up her bag. “Don’t worry,” he assured her. “If the slavers do attack, there will be more than just crossbows to stop them. I’m armed with a magical weapon—and I’m very capable in a fight.”
Karrell gave him a bemused glance. She swept back her cloak, revealing an ironwood club, with a knobbed, fist-sized ball at one end, that hung from her belt. “So am I.”
Arvin’s eyebrows rose. “But you’re—”
She stared down at him, eyes narrowed. “A woman?”
“No,” Arvin said quickly. “I mean yes. You’re clearly a woman.” He realized he was staring not at her weapon, but at the curves the drawn-back cloak had revealed—at weapons of a different sort. “And there are lots of women in the Guil—” He caught himself just in time and took a deep breath. “I meant that you’re… an artist,” he finished lamely.
“And you, so you say, are a rope merchant’s agent,” she said, giving the final word a slight emphasis, as if to imply she thought he was an agent of a different sort.
Arvin swore to himself. What had he been thinking, bragging to this woman? To a complete stranger. She might have been anyone—even a spy from Chondath. She seemed to have guessed that he was more than he was pretending to be, but then, so was she. Arvin glanced at her bag. It didn’t look big enough to hold an artist’s ink pots, quills, and scroll tubes. Even so, he had a feeling he could trust her.
