The small woman has a grip like a barnacle.
She hauls me toward the tavern door with both hands wrapped around my wrist, weaving between overturned chairs and groaning bodies like she's done this before. She hasn't. Her pulse hammers against my skin, rabbit-fast, and her breathing comes in short bursts that signal elevated cortisol and inadequate cardiovascular preparation for a combat zone.
But she doesn't stop.
Noted.
"Wait." I plant my boots. She lurches backward, almost bouncing off me. "I need my equipment."
"Your equipment." She says this like the words taste sour.
"My weapons."
"You're going to a wedding, not a siege."
"Every wedding is a siege. Some just have better floral arrangements."
I return to my corner booth. Beneath the table, bolted to the underside with iron clasps I installed myself three months ago when I claimed this booth as a permanent tactical position, hangs my primary loadout bag. Black leather, reinforced stitching, forty-seven pounds without ammunition.
I unbolt it. Drop it on the table. The wood cracks down the center.
Magnolia stares at the bag. Then at the crack. Then at me.
I open the bag and begin inventory. Two short swords, blacksteel, freshly oiled. One hand axe, single bit, hickory handle wrapped in boar leather. Six throwing knives in a chest harness. One garrote, braided wire, mother-of-pearl handles because a professional has standards.
"Is that agarrote?"
"Decorative."
"It has handles."
"Decorative handles."
I strap the short swords across my back in their X-harness. The throwing knives go under the vest. Hand axe clips to my belt. Garrote slides into the inner pocket. Finally, I tap my right boot to confirm the weight of the tiny derringer tucked against my ankle—a last-resort piece I’ve carried for eleven years, completely hidden and strictly for emergencies.
Magnolia's mouth opens and closes three times without producing sound. Progress. Most clients take longer to reach the speechless phase.
I crouch down and pull the second item from under the booth. My round shield, twenty-inch diameter, dwarven steel with a leather-wrapped grip. Took it off a dead captain in the Kelmoor campaign. Good balance. Decent heft. Eighteen pounds.
I hold it out to Magnolia.
"Carry this."
She looks at the shield. Looks at me. Looks at the shield again.
"Why?"
"Field assessment."
"Field assessment ofwhat?"
"You."
Her brown eyes narrow. Flour still clings to her left cheekbone. A small crescent of it, white against warm skin, like someone pressed a thumbnail into fresh dough. She hasn't noticed it. She probably never notices it.
"I'm not carrying your shield through the streets at ten o'clock at night."
"Fifteen minutes to Hawthorn Street at standard pace. Eighteen pounds distributed across one arm. If you can't manage that, you lack the physical fortitude for a three-day sustained social engagement with hostile targets, and I'll need to adjust my protection parameters."
