“Lady,” Walegrin said uneasily. “It’s the middle of the night. Your man said it was of the direst importance that you speak with me, that I come dressed thus out of uniform. Because you are Lord Molin’s niece I hastened, but the morning-“
She cut him off with a curt gesture. “If you came only because of Uncle Molin,
Commander, then you may leave again.” She looked him straight in the eye, not at all intimidated by his towering height. “If you came, though, to enhance your own career or to do good service to your prince, then stay and hear me out.”
His eyes grew wide in the moonlight, but she turned her back on him and spoke to
Dismas. “There’s a sectarius of red wine on a peg in the stables. Bring it.”
A sudden din from the stables interrupted her. They all looked toward the building. There came a crashing and cracking of wood, the challenging cry of the
Tros horse, the lamentation of the mare. There was cursing from Gestus, and
Rashan’s shouted prayers soared over the whole.
“Bring the wine,” she repeated, touching Dismas’s arm in comradely fashion.
“There’s parchment and ink there as well. Bring them along, too.”
She turned back to Walegrin when they were alone. “You command the garrison in this garbage pit,” she said, folding her arms over her chest, regarding him evenly. “And the closest thing to a police force in Sanctuary is your men. I’m not going to hold it against you that you’ve been keeping company with that scheming uncle of mine. We all seek advancement by the fastest means, after all.”