33 Chapter 33

The spy's words had turned Tristan's blood to ice.

'… would not be missed.'

How dare he suppose that a knight's slave would not be missed?!

More importantly, the bastard had confessed to trying to kill her. How had she survived with naught but a split scalp?

All these and more questions raced through his mind as he slammed into Arthur's office. Kation looked up from the scroll she had been reading and her eyebrows rose in mild inquiry.

"Something wrong?"

He didn't bother to speak until he had caught her by the front of her tunic and hauled her out of the chair. She wasn't escaping this interrogation. But she read his intention in his face and, twisting from his grasp, leapt for the window, scrambling up and out onto the roof. Tristan grabbed her ankle and tried to tug her back, but she deftly kicked his fingers; he let go and she swiftly disappeared, silently flitting away along the rooftops.

Damn her. She was too quick.

Just as he was contemplating following her up and chasing her, he was interrupted by Lancelot and Arthur, and everyone went to work.

In truth, it was something of a relief. The task of labouring through reams of seemingly useless reports and records in Latin was a welcome distraction from his annoyance at her sudden disappearance.

She knew more than she had told them. Any of them. When they were alone he would demand the whole truth. If she was keeping secrets from him then how on earth could he protect her? Maybe he ought to explain it to her in that light. Perhaps she would understand.

Eventually, they broke for a light meal and when the sun set, Arthur announced that they had done enough for the day.

Lancelot fled before Arthur had even finished speaking and Tristan got to his feet in quiet relief. So far they had found out that apart from an under average yield from his farms during a particularly hard winter (hardly surprising) and an unexpected fondness for handsome young cup-bearers and boar-hunting, Baron Donatus did not appear to be the dissenter they now knew he was.

It was disappointing to say the least.

He wandered to the tavern and after a hearty meal with the other knights, he finally caught sight of Kation. She was hiding behind the counter with Brenna who was chatting animatedly. When she caught sight of him, she dropped him a wink before dragging Brenna away into the kitchens.

Disappeared again. And now she was enjoying their little game.

A travelling group of musicians had arrived in the village and Arthur had given them permits to play in the tavern. They were striking up a rousing tune and several knights were pulling girls into a dance. Tristan noticed the clench in his gut at the smiling sight. How could merriment continue while they were under such threats?

Gawain disappeared into the kitchens and retrieved Brenna who was blushing and struggling to get free. But the leonine knight cheerfully spun her about, smiling broadly in open good-humour and she relented with an eye-roll and a rueful grin.

Tristan turned his gaze back to the kitchens and saw Kation watching him from the shadows. With a grin, she disappeared once more and he followed, moving through the kitchens and out into the alley beyond.

"Kat," he said sternly to the darkness, "not another step."

She was nowhere to be seen, but he knew she was watching him. After all, if she hadn't wanted to be followed, she wouldn't have made her presence so obvious. The silence stretched out and weighed heavily on him.

"Kat…" he said, his temper wearing thin. "I did your share of the reading today – stop testing my patience."

She appeared over the lip of the roof of the adjacent building and propped her chin upon her hands. She looked positively impish in the moonlight as she studied him.

"You called?"

He repressed the urge to stoop, snatch up a handful of mud and hurl it at her. "Come down here immediately. I have to talk to you."

She duly moved down the edge of the roof, leaning far over the gutter so that she could hear his words. "Close enough?" she said tauntingly.

"No. Go back to my room and we shall speak there." He said curtly, turning to leave. He trusted her to find her own way across the rooftops.

"Wait a second!" she said, and with a soft scrabbling and a soft thump, she dropped to the ground and skipped over to him.

"What are you doing?"

"I wanted to see the others dancing. I know that we've got a really big, baronial problem right now, but we've never had musicians before – it will only take a moment." She walked around to the tavern and watched, fascinated, as the knights led the rest of the participants in a rousing group dance that involved skipping to and fro in circles, holding hands and breaking off to twirl and clap to the music. The firelight gave her sharp features a fierceness that did not totally belie her current state of health.

Tristan didn't recognise the dance, but then his had been one of the remotest of Sarmatian tribes.

A small cold hand brushed against his knuckles briefly. "Let's go, I am tired."

It was certainly understating her condition, but it was an admission of weakness nonetheless, so he followed her back to their room in silent agreement.

"What is it you have to say?" she asked quietly, not turning to look at him as she spoke but facing the window. Tristan didn't like the possibilities of her stance and walked past her to close and bolt the shutters. That would buy him enough time to catch her if she tried to run again.

"He tried to kill you, not knock you out. He confessed to it when Arthur questioned him." His voice had sunk to that velvety tone that boded ill for the spy in question.

Kation sucked in a surprised breath. "Oh."

"Indeed. So how is it a man with a knife, aiming to kill, managed to only lightly wound someone half his size?" Tristan said, turning an intense look on her.

"A terrible miracle," She said, not even trying to evade his stare. She met it squarely with one of frank weariness.

She was a riddle, a paradox. She didn't make a lot of sense either. Especially at times like this when she was pretending to be truthful.

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"That you're focusing on something that doesn't matter," she shot back, fire suddenly flashing in her eyes. "We need to think about how to deal with Donatus, not bicker about a fortunate accident."

"Donatus is Arthur's problem – he was the target, not us."

"Do not pretend to be so stupid!" she gasped incredulously. "What affects Arthur affects us all!"

She had a knack for seeing right through dramatic statements. Tristan fully understood the ramifications of the situation, but he had hoped that she would be able to stop worrying about it for five minutes and think of other things. But he couldn't really say as much. She would be bound to misinterpret such words.

"So what do you suggest?" he growled. If all they could talk about was work, then they might as well get it over with.

"We must have someone spy on Donatus." She said promptly. Clearly she couldn't think about anything else.

"What?"

"It's the only way to discover what he is planning," she explained patiently. "And I have an idea of who might be a candidate."

Tristan couldn't see where this was going. "Explain." He said flatly.

"We secretly capture one of Donatus' other spies – there's bound to be more than one – and make them work for us, while still pretending to work for Donatus. They will give Donatus false information, provided by us, and we will see what the baron does with it. The spy will also observe Donatus and find out what he is really planning."

This sort of twisted, complicated idea was too much for him to handle. Why on earth had he asked to talk to her tonight? What did he want to ask her again? Suddenly Tristan felt very tired indeed, his mind already too muzzy with wine and food to start criticising the details of such a plan. "Explain it again in the morning," he grunted, sitting on the bed to begin struggling out of his boots.

Kation took the hint and began to also prepare for sleep. Once finished with brushing her teeth, she reflexively reached for the comb Tristan had bought her. She realised her mistake almost immediately, and she raised a trembling hand to touch the shorn locks before hastily putting the comb down again and clenching her hands by her sides. Her eyes, wide before, were now huge in her face in a rare show of vulnerability, glimmering as her feelings betrayed themselves.

Women. Their vanity for such things was unbelievable and ultimately pointless.

With a soft huff of private derision, he flopped back onto the bed and pondered the idea of getting the girl her own bed. She'd asked for it enough times, certainly. And the thought of being able to stretch out with a willing wench in blissful abandon was also very appealing. But it was no buxom tart that blew out the lamps and joined him a moment later, sliding under the blankets with a shiver. It was considerably colder these days and was only going to get worse. At least it hadn't started snowing yet. And suddenly the thought struck him: what on earth would he do with her if he did decide to spend the night with a real woman?

No. He'd deal with that problem if it ever occurred – not waste time worrying about it now. But another thing was nagging at him.

"Hey," he said softly.

"Mm?"

"What are you thinking about?" he whispered.

She paused and then took a deep breath. "It's not important," she muttered. "Just how we might secretly catch one of Donatus' spies."

Honestly, did the girl never quit?

Suddenly, he felt the urge to return to the tavern and pick up a woman. He was far too tense, and the girl's single-mindedness only served to strengthen his own anxieties about her involvement. He needed to forget – even just for a few moments. But not tonight. He would beg a favour off Gawain or Kahedin and arrange for the girl to sleep in their room. Or perhaps the hayloft in the stables… "Just go to sleep," he sighed, without any bite in his voice.

"Good night then," she said softly. And with that, the conversation was over.

He was woken the next morning by a warmth against his side. A pair of slender, smooth arms wrapped around his waist and arm and soft puffs of slightly cool breath tickled the skin over his collarbone. The feeling was quite nice.

Opening one eye a fraction, he saw it was the girl. Odd. He was entirely unsure about his feelings on the situation. No one had turned to him like this. Ever. Even the whores he had used knew better than to hang around and cuddle him after they had done their job. What should he do? Go back to sleep? Kick her out of bed? How could he sleep when someone was (albeit unconsciously) seeking comfortfrom him of all people? This was not his area of expertise.

He lay like that for what felt like a small eternity, trapped between the unexpectedly pleasant sensation and a more practical urge to carefully roll out of her grasp and then flee the island.

Just as he was entertaining this thought, pale grey eyes snapped open and she instantly realised what she was doing. With a startled yelp, she jerked away and rolled off the bed. "Ow…"

Suppressing his amusement, Tristan rolled to the edge and peered down at her. "Good morning," he had never wished anyone a 'good morning' before – but in this case he was willing to make an exception.

"Fuck off."

Never mind how the rest of the day turned out – this was payment enough for what he had been forced to endure before she woke up.

But as she slowly pushed herself up, off the cold floor, she didn't look particularly angry. She looked embarrassed, her eyes darting to anywhere but the bed. She also looked, if possible, even more tired than she had last night. "Get up – we have much to do." She said, her voice clipped and slightly higher than normal.

He didn't respond verbally, but did indeed climb out of bed, stretching and yawning.

"So… what now, oh mistress of conspiracy?" he asked sarcastically – as if this was all somehow Kation's spy-hunt, rather than Arthur's mission.

"Oh ha-ha… very amusing." She said flatly. "If you must know, I think I have a way to catch our spy."

"Oh?"

She gave him a sly smile, her earlier chagrin forgotten. "I'll explain it on the way to breakfast."

Tristan really didn't like that expression, in fact, he was swiftly learning to dread it.