It took a week of near constant travel before they reached anything that could truly be called civilization. The land between Haywood and Catania – the next closest city – was scarcely populated apart from the occasional small farm. While the cost of living in a large city like Haywood or Catania was exorbitantly high, venturing too far from the city center was considered a much higher price to pay. Only the poor and desperate lived more than a day’s ride from either Haywood or Catania, where a Paladin, or at the very least a few knights, were stationed in the event of a demon attack. Those who took the risk of living beyond the Paladins’ reach were easy prey.

To Sam’s disappointment – for it certainly would have relieved the tedium of their travels – they had but a single demon attack the entire time they were on the road. It was a small, pathetic thing – a watermelon-sized ball of fur with shrunken vestigial wings. Hopping about on its one spindly limb, the demon was about as threatening as a one-legged chicken. Tristan made them use it for target practice. Sam almost felt bad for the creature, until it tried to take a bite out of her leg while she waited for Tristan to locate his bow and arrow.

Though a week’s journey was not overlong by most standards, Sam had never made it out to Catania before. The duke of Catania and his much younger duchess had visited Haywood a few times, but whether they would remember her face, even if it was fully healed, was dubious. She hadn’t seen a mirror in days, but her skin was no longer sensitive to the touch and she sensed she resembled her old self again. She doubted that Tristan would seek an audience with the duke, so it would likely be a nonissue regardless.

Considering their relative proximity, Sam was surprised by how different the two cities were. Perhaps the contrast was heightened by Haywood’s anticipation for the Grand Fair, but the people of Catania seemed downright downtrodden in comparison. At this time of year, the marketplace was supposed to be abuzz with excitement for the warm weather and display of new wares. The business district of Catania, however, was a somber place. As Sam peered into the shops’ display windows, the shopkeepers were alternately harried or sour faced, and the prospective buyers stared at their feet rather than their companions.

“Will we be staying in Catania long?” Sam asked Tristan.

“Just for the night. We’ll leave at first light tomorrow,” said Tristan, stopping to admire a leather pair of boots.

“Good.”

Tristan arched a brow. “Don’t think much of Catania, do you?”

“Everyone’s so gloomy. I’d grow depressed staying long in a place like this.”

Tristan looked around as if seeing the market-goers for the first time. “You know, it is rather dreary. I hadn’t noticed.”

“Is all of Catania like this?” Sam asked.

Tristan stroked the blond stubble on his chin. “I suppose I can’t fairly say. I know a few of the Paladins posted here, and they’re a raucous lot. I’d hardly characterize them as gloomy. We might run into them while we’re here – they frequent the Hog in Armor, where we’ll be staying the night.”

“The Hog in Armor? What kind of name is that for an inn?”

An apt one, as it turned out.

They arrived at the Hog in Armor just past sundown, after Tristan replenished their supplies and spent an inordinate amount of time examining a crossbow, which of course he did not buy. The innkeeper, a tiny man with delicate spectacles perched low on his nose, somehow managed to look down at them despite his small stature. “Can I help you?”

“Aye,” said Tristan. “We need a place to sleep for the night – three rooms, if you have them, but three pallets would do as well.”

The innkeeper took in their disheveled appearance, their clothes dusty and skin grimy from the road, and sniffed distastefully. “We’re full.”

Tristan snorted. The tavern area was only middling full at best; even the bar had unoccupied seats. “You might want to check your books again.”

The innkeeper frowned and adjusted his spectacles. “I’m afraid we can’t accommodate you and your men at this time, but there is another inn on the main thoroughfare that would be more than happy to take your business.”

Tristan ground his teeth and towered over the innkeeper menacingly. “I don’t know what the issue is, as you clearly have open rooms. I have stayed at this inn before and I intend to stay here again tonight.”

The innkeeper was unruffled. “You must have procured a room from my predecessor. The Hog in Armor is for men with refined tastes, and to be blunt, we don’t serve men of your ilk.”

“Men of my ilk? You listen to me, little man—“

“Lyons! That you?”

The innkeeper turned to the source of the new voice and blanched. “I-I did not see you there, Paladin. You know this man?"

The newcomer, a broad-shouldered, stocky fellow, let out a guffaw. “Know him? This here’s the finest swordsman in the kingdom, except for maybe the High Commander himself. And even I wouldn’t place any bets on that fight. You ever spar with the High Commander, Lyons?”

Tristan nodded in greeting. “Good to see you, Sagar. And I can’t say I have.”

Paladin Sagar tsked. “Shame, that. Would love to know who’d come out on top.” He jerked his thumb at the innkeeper. “Is Crompton here treating you right?”

“Actually, he was just telling us that all the rooms were full,” said Tristan.

The innkeeper – Crompton – dabbed at his forehead with a lace handkerchief. “My deepest regrets, Paladin Lyons. Had I known who you were—“

“Spare me the false apology. Do you have rooms available or do you not?”

Crompton opened his bound ledger and flipped through the pages. “I have two rooms on the third floor. Will that suit the needs of you and your men?”

“My trainees. Paladin trainees,” Tristan clarified. “That will be fine.”

“Begging your pardon. I’ll take you to your rooms myself whenever you are ready.” Crompton looked back and forth between the two Paladins. “Will you be attending the party this evening?”

“Party?”

“Of course he’s going,” Sagar said, clapping Tristan on the back. “Lyons, bring your trainees, too. All the lads will want to say hello.” He lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “Don’t mind old Crompton, boys. He warms right up once he knows you’re a man of worth.”

“Hold up, Sagar,” said Tristan. “I haven’t any idea what you’re going on about. What is this about a party?”

“You came to the Hog in Armor on a good night, my friend. Over the past few years, we’ve all but taken over the inn – best lodgings you’ll find west of the Center, after all – so Crompton’s been so kind as to host monthly gatherings for the Paladins in the area. It usually ends up as a veritable who’s who of Catania since the aristocracy’s invited to attend as well. It’s good fun, I promise.”

“Perhaps,” said Tristan noncommittally.

“Come on, Lyons, I’ll be bereft if you don’t show. And your trainees no doubt deserve a break for putting up with your sorry hide. Terrible traveling companion, our Tristan,” Paladin Sagar said to Sam and Braeden with a wink. Sam didn’t know how to respond to the boisterous man, and Braeden’s heavy-lidded eyes were glued to the floor.

Tristan sighed. “I suppose we could stop by.” Braeden’s head shot up and dropped just as quickly.

“Excellent, Lyons, I’ll tell the others you’re coming. They’ll be thrilled to have a legend in their midst,” said Paladin Sagar. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a few quick errands to run before the night gets going. Crompton will take good care of you in the meantime, I’m sure. Grand to see you, Tristan, and your trainees, too. What are your lads’ names again?”

“We didn’t say,” said Sam. “It’s Sam of Haywood, Paladin.”

“Got a bit of a mouth on him, this one does. Don’t worry, we’ll train that out of you. And you, boy?”

“Braeden.”

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Sam of Haywood and Braeden with no surname. Fascinating eyes you got there, Braeden—sure there’s a story behind them. I’ll see you lot in an hour’s time.”

Sam and Braeden looked at Tristan, who shrugged his shoulders helplessly. “See you in an hour.”

After Paladin Sagar took his leave, Crompton led them to their rooms as promised, though not without obsequious apologies for his previous mistreatment. Naturally, Tristan had a room to himself, and Braeden and Sam were to share the adjacent room.

“Are we really going to this party?” asked Sam.

“Aye, once we no longer smell like horse manure,” Tristan replied.

Braeden fingered the brim of his hat. “All of us are going?” he asked. “I’m leery of causing a scene.”

“You’ll be with me, so you’ll be fine,” said Tristan. “Though I might suggest you eschew your robes in favor of something more conventional. You and I are of a height if you want to borrow clothes.”

Braeden and Sam’s room had a private bath, so the two of them took turns bathing. A servant had filled two tubs with hot water, but by the time Sam stepped into the water, the temperature was barely lukewarm. She scrubbed at her skin until it was pink and combed her fingers through knotted hair. A lukewarm bath was better than no bath at all, she told herself.

When she emerged from the bath, clean and fully dressed, Braeden was buttoning the top of a brocade doublet that accented his broad shoulders and tapered waist. Tight, tan breeches clung almost obscenely to the well-shaped muscles of his thighs and buttocks. Sam reminded herself that such clothes were the height of fashion and concentrated on forcing her eyes above his waist.

“I look ridiculous, I know.”

“No! You look…nice. Truly,” Sam said as Braeden struggled with the final button. “Here, let me.” Standing on her toes, she slipped the silver button through its thread loop, her fingers grazing Braeden’s neck. That strange frisson of energy shot up her arm again, and they both jumped at the contact. “Sorry,” she said, coloring furiously.

A knock came at the door that separated their room from Tristan’s, ending the weird interlude. “Let’s go,” Tristan said, pushing back a wet forelock from his temple.

Held in the private tavern at the back of the inn, the party was in full swing by the time they arrived. The primary bar was lined with people, pushing and shoving as they waited to be admitted. Crompton stood by the tavern door, granting and denying entry like a king passing judgment on his subjects.

Inside the tavern was a cacophony of sound. Men shouted over the gambling tables as cards traded hands and dice tumbled. Leathered feet stomped in tune to a minstrel’s bagpipe, and a few men whirled around the room with female partners.

It was hard not to notice the women in the room. All of them, even those who carried drinks, wore black partial masks that covered the forehead and nose but left the lower half of the face exposed.

“Why are the women wearing masks?” Sam asked Paladin Sagar after he’d greeted them, his face markedly redder than when they last saw him.

Sagar pinched the bottom of a nearby barmaid, who hopped and let out a little squeal. He watched appreciatively as she flounced away. “Some fine women in here tonight,” he said, more to himself than anyone in particular. “What was it you were saying, boy? Oh yes, the masks. It’s a new tradition we started. Affords the women a bit of privacy for our little gatherings.”

“Privacy? What do they need privacy from?”

“Why, their fathers and husbands, of course. This isn’t the sort of party a respectable lady should attend.”

“Then why do the women come?” asked Sam.

Paladin Sagar chuckled. “Because it isn’t the sort of party a respectable lady should attend.”

“I see,” said Sam, not seeing at all. She watched as a woman in a hooded red dress flirted with two men at once, stroking one’s cheek while caressing the forearm of the other.

Paladin Sagar slapped his knee. “By the gods, lad, if you could see your own face right now. Lyons, you need to do your duty by your trainees, man. The boy’s as innocent as my own sister.”

Sam and Braeden traded glances. Tristan had yet to ask her about the brothel, and she hoped he didn’t start now. “Not so,” said Sam, thinking quickly. “How about a drink and a game of Hazard?”

“Good lad,” said Paladin Sagar approvingly.

Three drinks and four rounds of dice later, Sam had grown thoroughly disgusted with the whole affair. The men with whom she was playing – three Paladins and an earl’s second son – wagered increasing bets until the pile of gold in front of them threatened to spill over the table. She couldn’t help but think of the Catanians she’d seen in the marketplace earlier in the day, most of whom wore secondhand clothing, well-made but clearly stitched together from other cast-offs. She wondered what they would do with such a large sum of money.

As the night wore on and the general level of inebriation grew, so did the impropriety of the revelers. The earl’s son pulled an elegantly clothed girl onto his lap and kissed her neck as she giggled, while the Paladins she’d gambled with had found women of their own and were in varying stages of intimacy in less-than-discreet corners.

At some point during the night, she’d also lost track of Tristan. He had disappeared into a crowd of Paladins, all of whom wanted to be regaled with the stories of his latest triumphs and updates from the Center.

“Let’s stroll around the room,” she said to Braeden. He nodded and stood up from the table.

It didn’t take Sam long to spot Tristan. He leaned against the tavern wall, the hooded woman in the red dress curling around him like a snake. She threw back her head with a husky laugh, allowing her strawberry blonde waves to escape the confines of her hood.

“Who is that woman with Tristan?” Sam asked.

“Why, jealous?”

“What? No! No, I think I recognize her,” she said. She squinted, studying the woman’s pert mouth and the classic lines of her face. Her eyes widened. “I do recognize her!”

“Oh?”

“She’s the duchess of Catania!” Sam hissed. “I’m sure of it.”

“Forgive me if this is an ignorant question, but so what? Will she recognize you?”

“No, I don’t think so. She hasn’t seen me since I was seven, and I was too far beneath her to warrant much attention, anyway. But Braeden, she’s married. To the duke!”

Braeden sighed. “Tristan’s a grown man. He can make his own decisions. And besides, she’s hardly the only married woman here tonight.”

“It’s not about Tristan, Braeden, truly. I don’t care what Paladin Sagar said about the masks – if I can recognize her, surely the Catanians will see through her disguise as well.” Sam shook her head, appalled. “Everyone knows my father has taken his pleasures outside the marriage bed, but he would never flout it in public like this. And with the Paladins no less! It reflects badly on both her and us.”

Braeden halted in his tracks. “You know, Lady Sam, you can be a little condescending sometimes.”

“Don’t call me that!” she snapped. “And what do you mean?”

“So your father slept with women who couldn’t say no to him any more than they could say no to paying their taxes. But yet you feel that their plight is less shameful than fraternizing with the high and mighty Paladins?” Braeden shrugged. “Seems a bit arrogant to me.”

Sam flushed. “You’ll be a Paladin one day, Braeden, so you better not let them hear you speak that way. And say what you will about my father, but I think there’s something to be said for discretion.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

“Oh, give it a rest, Braeden! Look, it’s not just about Tristan and the duchess. This whole party—“ Sam said, spreading her arms. “It’s dishonorable!”

At her last word – dishonorable – Tristan dropped his hand from the duchess’s right hip and gently pushed her to an arm’s length distance. Though Sam stood halfway across the tavern, and there was no way he could hear her over the din, his gaze somehow found hers, his eyes tinged with sadness.

“You know, Sam, he thinks you’re dead.”

“I know,” she said quietly.

Tristan disengaged from the duchess and allowed himself to be drawn away by Paladin Sagar. She didn’t want to watch anymore. “Braeden?”

“Yes, Sam?”

“Let’s get out of here.”

A/N: The awesome artwork on the side is from Percikingdawn aka Harshita. I lurve it.