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"I have you to thank," she says. Mistress Merreth does not turn around as I sit down a few feet from her. She looks out over the Milderdort harbour. The small Temple plaza is perched on a hill and affords her an excellent view. The day is unseasonably warm; dories and skiffs and yachts scuttle across the bay like excited water beetles.
"Yes." I am polite. I am also nervous, like a guilty child before a stern parent. A breeze rustles through the trees surrounding the plaza, chilling me more than it should. "How did you know?"
"Footsteps, both their weight and cadence, told me you're a man. Likely only one man would come see me this morning." Her voice is flat, leaden, the words dropping like stones into mud.
"Mistress Merreth, why were you, ah, where you were last night?" I ask the question as carefully, as neutrally as I can. Priestess Wrenn should be asking this question, and whatever ones might follow. I think my station is too humble to be making impertinent inquiries of my betters, but the Priestess thinks otherwise in this case.
"Lady!" she snaps, then, more quietly, "Lady Merreth."
My eyes drift to the coiled whip at her hip. It marks her. Heir primary to her house. Mistress Merreth. But I do not argue.
"Getting drunk," she adds.
She leaves out much. Another few seconds and the tavern would have looked like a slaughterhouse. Three, possibly four, fishermen dead or severely maimed. Goddess knows how that mess would have been dealt with. The constables subdued her with more luck than skill. A quick rap on the head from behind – something that everyone in the tavern carefully pretended to not see – and Lady Merreth collapsed. My mouth turns dry as dust. Assaulting a noble ...
She turns to face me, one hand rubbing the back of her head. "You brought me to the Temple?" The breeze flicks strands of rich mahogany coloured hair around her face. Light olive skin, brown eyes, a mouth long out of the practice of smiling. I nod. Her scent carries to my nose. Musky, sweaty, earthy. I hear the creak of her leathers as she moves. Vest, breeches, boots, gloves, all black. Stitched, scuffed, worn; these aren't a noble's finery.
Her sword and scabbard lie on the Temple bench beside her. The sight jars me. Nobles don't go armed in Milderdort. Her other weapon is close at hand as well, leaning against the bench. I'm not sure what it is. I've seen matchlocks in Freeport. Heavy club-like things. Merreth's weapon is smaller, serpentine, sinister. Its stock is scuffed, her sword hilt worn. Her tools see use. "You had passed out," I say. This sounds better than 'were clubbed senseless'. Likely safer too.
"You don't lie very well, Templeman."
Her eyes hold mine. Fox and rabbit, and I can't drop my gaze, can't look away from her. My heart thuds heavily in my chest. "I've not had much practice. It's not a skill the Temple encourages."
