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Gil walked only a few paces farther before he stopped. “We will go upstairs. Clean our things and ourselves. Then we will continue out of the city.”
It was all so anticlimactic that she didn't know what to say. She turned her dagger point down and bowed her head as she followed him to the inn's front door.
It did not budge when he tried to push it open.
“You did tell them to barricade,” Thea murmured.
“Indeed.” He knocked instead and cleared his throat. “Your men live and your raiders are dealt with.”
A rustle and scrape on the other side made them both lean closer to the door. “Identify yourself. Who's out there, and how do we know?”
Gil blinked. Had he not considered that? “The traveler in green,” he replied, fingering the edge of the cloak. It bore several dark spatters Thea knew were not mud. “I believe I will need a change of clothing. I trust nobody moved the bags my wife left beside the door?”
A low murmur of discussion followed, then a few grunts and thumps as whatever blocked the way was moved. The innkeeper opened the door a crack and peered out at them, his face less ashen but his hair more disheveled. “By the One,” he muttered as he looked them up and down.
Thea tried to smile. “Water and a washbasin would be much appreciated.”
“No doubt,” the man mused. “Come inside. I'll send it up to your room.”
Gil offered his arm as the door opened and Thea took it with a subdued smile. Just inside the doorway, their bags and the sewing basket still sat.
They scooped up everything and someone—the innkeeper's wife, Thea assumed—shuffled up the stairs ahead of them to deliver a basin and towels. “Warm water will be right up,” the woman said as she left it all on the tiny table near their room's door.
“Cold water too, please,” Thea said. “It's better for washing out stains.”
“Of course, Miss.” The woman bobbed her head and disappeared into the hall.
Gil deposited their bags on the bed, then inspected his clothing. The black of his shirt and pants hid much, but with how spattered his cloak was, Thea had no doubt the rest of him was covered in blood.
“I don't suppose that shirt is close to being done?” he asked.
“It is. I need to try it on you and mark where the buttons should go, but I should be able to finish fast. If you let me.” She found herself grateful only her hands were sullied. The only other garment she had was the dress Gil had helped her cut in two.
“Good.” He started to remove his cloak, then thought better of it and stopped. He removed his boots first, something that could come off without revealing his true face.
Thea waited by the basin until the innkeeper's wife returned with two earthenware pitchers. One steamed pleasantly and she took both with a murmured thank-you. She started with the warm water as the woman excused herself and closed the door. A sliver of soap waited in the bottom of the basin. Thea moved it before she poured the warm water into the bowl.
While she scrubbed her hands and arms, the soft rustle of fabric reached her ears and a warm blush colored her cheeks. She would not look while Gil was changing. She wouldn't even think about him. She picked every bit of dirt from underneath and around her nails, then rinsed and dried her hands. “All yours,” she announced when it had grown sufficiently quiet.
“Good. Mark this, please, and see if you can finish it while I wash my things.” Gil wore the finished trousers and half-finished shirt, she saw when she turned. He held the front closed, but the illusion was already effective. The dirty cloak lay on the floor and his appearance remained as it had been; that of an exceptionally ordinary man.
She made herself smile as she crossed to the sewing basket to take her glass-headed sewing pins. They'd be more visible against the fabric than the pale chalk had been. The faint markings had made her nervous, but the shirt fit well. It hung loose to his hips, granting plenty of space for him to tuck it in beneath his belt. The sleeves were loose, too, but fitted at the cuffs, and the collar folded in a fashion similar to the coat collars she'd seen about the village. It was a good style, a quality blend between what was popular in Samara and what she'd observed of Ranor. Something new, with plenty of opportunity to be successful. The idea of designing a new trend was appealing.
“I'll be quick,” she said as she straightened the meeting of the two halves of the shirt's front. She pinned the layers together first, then marked placement for buttons at regular intervals. Long hours of practice had given her an accurate eye, but she'd still double-check with her measuring tape before she attached anything. “Just the loops to make and buttons to sew on. Here, there will be buttons on the cuffs, too.”
Gil raised his arm obligingly so she could mark where they needed to go.
She adjusted the placement of them on the first sleeve several times before she was satisfied. “While you're stuck here, I must ask something.”
“I doubt that's true, but you're welcome to take advantage of the delay,” he replied playfully.
She gave his arm a gentle swat before she moved to the other sleeve. “You had no interest in helping the village defense. Why did you change your mind?”
He hesitated.
“I know you probably don't care if these people live or die,” she added. “And I know you've probably seen this before. They seemed to have practice and the bells mean they're used to this sort of thing, but you were ready to leave. Then you stayed. Not only stayed, but you smiled about it.”
His arm turned, ever so slightly, giving her better access to the unfinished cuff. “There are two reasons. One is that I feel partly to blame. I've been through Post—this village—many times in my life. You're right in that they deal with this on a somewhat regular basis, but the majority of the rangers who ferret brigands out of the hills are Kentorian. I fear these sort of attacks may grow more common in the coming weeks.”
