CHAPTER 13

Shouting and the distinct sound of ceramic shattering against stone snapped Tristan out of his reverie. He’d wanted a quiet moment alone to think and a cup of wine to quench his thirst, and the back room of Wanderer’s Tavern seemed as good a place as any to pass the evening in quietude.

Another object hit the wall with a clang, the shrill echo carrying throughout the entire tavern. A pewter plate or bowl, Tristan guessed. He sighed, sipping the last drop of wine from his tankard before pushing his stool back from the bar. Duty called.

He brushed past the velvet curtain that separated the back room from the main taproom, and swore. Chairs and tables were overturned, shoved into corners except for the occasional wooden chair leg that had separated from its seat, lying haphazardly on the floor like an overgrown rolling pin. The tavern’s patrons, thirsty for blood, formed a tight, writhing circle, jostling one another to get a better view, oblivious to the shards of broken crockery at their feet. They shouted and jeered, drinking in the violence as readily as they did their wine.

Tristan elbowed his way to the front of the crowd, ignoring the curses hurled at his back. Two men, beaten and bloody beyond recognition, circled each other warily, chests heaving with exertion. Tristan had never before seen such a pair of mismatched fighters. One of the men, whose face would never be called handsome even if it weren’t bashed in, was a large, powerful giant, standing nearly a head taller than Tristan. Small, dull eyes, made smaller by swollen cheekbones, stared unintelligently at his opponent.

The giant’s opponent was a scrawny thing, as short as he was tall. His topknot hung low and crooked on his head, and wet clumps of hair were glued with sweat and blood to his forehead. The man—no, the boy—couldn’t have been more than fifteen.

“That boy is going to get himself killed,” Tristan hissed.

“Oh, no,” said an excited voice beside him. “I would’ve thought so myself, but the little fellow is holding his own. Those shiners on Jack are his doing. I haven’t seen such a good fight since ol’ Turner caught George Bishop with his daughter in the stables.”

“Why hasn’t anyone tried to break up the fight?” Tristan demanded.

The man beside him laughed merrily. “The little fellow is crazy. You couldn’t pay me to get within two feet of him.”

“You’re only three feet from him now,” Tristan pointed out.

“And I am grateful for every one of those twelve inches. The boy has a death wish. He came in here and immediately started insulting Jack. Said Big Jack was the unwanted get of a whore.” The man laughed again, admiration in his eyes. “He told Jack his mother tried to pay him to tup her.”

“So the boy provoked the fight?”

“Aye, Jack was just sitting there, minding his own business and drinking his ale. Though I can’t say he didn’t deserve it. Jack’s not the nicest of men, but most are afraid to confront him, seeing as he’s so large. Like I said, the boy’s got a death wish. Never seen the —” The man’s voice was interrupted by a thunderous roar from Big Jack, who charged at the boy headfirst like an enraged bull.

Despite his visible injuries, Jack’s opponent easily sidestepped the attack. Somehow, the boy had the peace of mind to worm one hand around the giant’s forearm while his other hand gripped Jack’s lapel. With a certain sense of inevitability, Tristan watched as the boy expertly angled his knee to help gravity take its course. Jack landed on his back with a grunt.

The boy was on him before he had a chance to react. The small fellow straddled Jack’s chest and boxed him in both ears, hard. His next swing broke Jack’s jaw with an audible crunch.

“Alright, lad, that’s enough,” Tristan said, stepping into the informal arena. The boy ignored him, raining blows up and down the man’s torso.

“I said, that’s enough.” Tristan grabbed the boy by his shoulders and hauled him off Jack, who made a feeble-sounding gurgle. “You don’t want to kill him.”

The boy muttered darkly under his breath. “What was that?” Tristan asked sharply, spinning the boy around to face him. He blanched, and a hot combination of fury, concern and shock spread through his body like wildfire. “Gods damn it, Sam!”

***

Tristan exploded the second they walked into Sam’s room in the Courtier. “By the teeth of the seven gods, what did you do to your face?!” he bellowed

Sam winced, and then winced again at the pain the slight grimace had caused her. Good gods, her face hurt.

“What part of ‘the duke wants us to dine with him’ did you not understand? Or is it that you were hoping to impress him with some wild tale of your bravery in battle? How did you even get your eye socket to turn that unnatural shade of purple?” Tristan ranted, pacing the room back and forth like a caged animal. “You were supposed to look respectable, not like you got into a bar fight. Are you blushing? You did get into a bar fight, you stupid, stupid boy!”

“I’m sorry,” Sam said contritely, schooling her face into a meek expression. She hoped she at least sounded apologetic.

“Sorry isn’t good enough.” Tristan pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed deeply, twice. “The duke is a very important man to the Paladins, Sam. And he’s a very important man to me.”

“Why?” Sam blurted. Her father had always seemed more self-important than important to her, though she had to admit, he had kept her somewhat sheltered.

“My reasons don’t affect you. Needless to say, I wanted—I want to impress him. And I told you, did I not, that you are a reflection of me. Sam, have you seen your reflection lately? I swear, it’s like you mistook your face for your shield.”

Sam scuffed her foot against the carpet. “Sorry,” she repeated, meaning it this time. She hadn’t thought about what this dinner with the Duke meant for Tristan, for his career.

Tristan sighed, and stared at the ceiling. She thought he might be counting. She did that, sometimes, when she was trying to regain her patience. “Are you okay?” he asked finally. “If I were the man I ought to be, I would have asked that first.”

Guilt gnawed at her insides. “My face hurts a bit. Nothing time won’t heal.”

“Good, good. We’ll figure it out in the morning, when both our tempers have cooled.”

She nodded, her eyes trained to the floor. “Okay.”

“I’ll call for one of the maids to bring you some ice. It’ll help with the swelling.”

“Thank you.” She wished he’d go back to being angry with her.

“Good night, Sam,” he said, walking towards the door. “Oh, and Sam?”

“Yes?”

“Nice throw.” His grin was gone so fast she must have imagined it.



When Sam looked at her reflection in the mirror the next morning, she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Her nose, while unbroken, was red and twice its normal size. Bruised purple-black and puffy, her left eye was so swollen that only the tiniest sliver of eyeball peeked through the lids. Her bottom lip was split, and a diagonal gash ran just under her right nostril. Inflammation from multiple contusions rendered the sharp definition of her jawbone round and uneven. She was, for the first time in her life, painfully ugly.

It was pathetic. Here she was, gallivanting across the country disguised as a boy, yet this was the first time the face staring back at her in the mirror truly bothered her. She didn’t recognize this face.

Braeden was already several bites into his oats by the time she made it downstairs for breakfast. He assessed her coolly, registering her injuries with a stony face. Great, Braeden was angry with her, too.

“Please don’t make that face, Sam. Some of us are trying to eat,” Tristan said, buttering a piece of bread.

“I’m not making a fa—” Sam scowled at the jest. “Bounder.”

Tristan raised an eyebrow. “Watch yourself, trainee. You should be showering me with compliments in order to get back into my good graces.” Sam rolled her eyes. “Lovely. Well, you certainly can’t meet the duke looking as you do.”

A seed of hope took root in her chest. “Really?” she asked, forcing disappointment into her voice. “What a shame.” Braeden’s spoon paused halfway to his mouth, and a small snort escaped his nose.

“What?” she snapped. Braeden shrugged slightly, pointedly not looking at her.

Tristan looked back and forth between the two of them. “Trouble in paradise, eh? Braeden, I take it you didn’t condone Sam’s activities last night.”

“No, I did not,” said Braeden shortly.

“Well, what’s done is done. Right, Sam?”

“Why are you suddenly so cheerful about it?” she asked suspiciously.

Tristan grinned. “Because I’ve come up with a brilliant solution.”



Four hours later, Sam stared dubiously at the dozens of small pots and jars on the vanity. This was Tristan’s solution?

“Now, don’t you furrow your brow, Master Haywood. You’ll create wrinkles in your pretty skin.”

Sam scoffed. “Are you blind, Leona? I don’t think I need to be worrying about wrinkles in my ‘pretty skin’ right now.”

“Nonsense,” said Leona, her impressive bosom all but falling out of her dress as she bent over to pat cream across Sam’s abused cheeks. “I can tell you're right handsome under them bruises. Almost as pretty as a woman.”

Sam found herself blushing at the courtesan’s practiced words. “You probably say that to all your…customers.” Was that the proper word for it? Sam hadn’t spent much—well, any—time in the company of painted ladies.

Leona glared at her, and then glanced back at Tristan. “This one needs to learn how to accept praise.” She turned her heavily made-up face back to Sam. “And you aren’t a customer. I’m doing this as a favor for Paladin Lyons.”

“You are the best, Leo,” Tristan said flirtatiously. Sam wrinkled her nose.

“Don’t think very highly of me or mine, do you, Master Haywood?” asked Leona, narrowing her plucked eyebrows.

“It’s not that. It’s…” Sam floundered. “It’s all these cosmetics. I’m not used to wearing makeup, is all. It doesn’t seem very…manly.”

Leona seemed to accept that response, and resumed applying various ointments and powders to Sam’s face. “You’d be surprised how many men use a little o’ this and that now and again.”

“Really?”

Leona nodded. “Usually it’s to hide a love bite from the missus, but sometimes a man just wants to pretty himself up a bit.”

“Have you ever made up Tristan?” Sam asked curiously. Tristan squawked in protest.

Leona let out a husky laugh. “Some men don’t need any help looking pretty.”

“A high compliment from the loveliest lady in Haywood.” Tristan winked at the courtesan, who giggled in response. Sam’s stomach churned again. Gods, what was wrong with her?

“Alright, Master Haywood?” Leona asked, her mouth puckered in concern.

“Aye, I’m fine. Am I as pretty as Paladin Lyons yet?”

Leona chuckled. “Just about.” She took a fine paintbrush and dipped it in a thick green paste. “Helps with the redness,” she explained when she saw Sam’s skeptical gaze. She pressed a rounded horsetail brush into a white crystallized powder, and then mixed the substance into a small dish of rosewater. She painted Sam’s skin carefully, her touch quick, gentle. “All done,” Leona said finally. “Couldn’t do nothing about the swelling, but at least your face is all one color.”

Sam turned to face the mirror, and turned her head this way and that. Her skin was a uniform shade of porcelain, and Leona had even managed to hide the cuts at her mouth. Her eyes were still two different sizes, her jaw line swollen and her nose unusually bulbous, but that was good, necessary, to fool her father. She looked uninjured, but best of all, she didn’t look like herself. “You’re a genius, Leona,” she said, and hugged her impulsively. Leona seemed taken aback initially, but returned the hug after a moment’s hesitation.

“Good luck with the duke, Master Haywood. You too, Paladin Lyons. I think you’re going to need it.”