“It’s my job to protect him, even at the cost of my life—or yours.”
“Great,” I said. “Since there’s no reason our paths should cross again, it shouldn’t be a problem. He’ll need Sanj to take a look at his arm.”
Galen stopped and put a hand on my arm. “What’s wrong with his arm?”
“He was injured by one of the bandits’ swords. I cleaned it and bandaged it. He fell asleep. But a healer should look at it.”
“He fell asleep?” Galen asked.
“You dressed his wound?” Wren asked.
They asked the questions simultaneously, as if either of those things were impossibilities that required further questioning. I wasn’t in the mood for questions.
“Yes and yes. The point is, we didn’t ask for any of this. I saved him in the market. He asked us for help yesterday and today. We didn’t go searching for a prince. I’m sure he has plenty of women angling to join him in the palace anyway; there’s not enough coin in the realm to make me one of them.” But there was always a price, wasn’t there? “So tellhimto leaveusalone.”
I turned and started walking again.
“That won’t be a problem,” Galen said, echoing my petulant tone as we reached the manor’s gate. “Going forward, stay out of trouble.”
“It’s your prince’s trouble,” Wren said. “She just keeps getting dragged into it.”
Twelve
We stood outside the manor gate in the quiet for what felt like a very long time while I waited for Wren to say something.
“He seemed like one of us,” I finally said. “Not an arsehole. Just a person trying to do his job.”
“I think heistrying to do his job.”
I narrowed my eyes at her. “That’s not the furious commiseration I expected. His job is being rich and powerful.”
“I’m not defending him. He’s a Lys’Careth; he has an entire army for that. But you know the song, Fox. Staying alive is his job, no matter the cost. And no matter who he hurts.”
I grunted my agreement.
“At least he’s looking for the assassin himself. Plenty of princes would have stayed inside with their furs and coins and drink and courtesans and let the others do the work.”
“And?”
“And he’s a liar and an arsehole who should rot in Oblivion for eternity.”
“Thank you. Was that too much to ask?”
“No. It’s also honest. His wound?”
“Poured some sweetwine on it.” I held up the bottom of my tunic, which I’d now need to hem again. “Wrapped it with linen.”
“Hisbloodywound,” she said again.
“He was making a mess of the carriage. And it wasn’t a big deal. I looked at it as little as possible.” But I’d seen his face, would remember his fight against the pain.
“You didn’t pass out?”
“I’m not going to pass out in front of a damned prince. I don’t want to talk about him anymore.”
“Too bad. We have to go tell the Lady.”
“The prince,” I said when we were admitted into the Lady’s residence, “has a name. Cassander Ashketh Nikalos Lys’Careth.”
