I must say that I felt safe(ish) with Tristan standing guard while I slept. But when Tristan woke me, I hadn't realised a newfound confidence in my slumber. It would seem that I had gravitated to Tristan's warmth and pushed my frozen toes against his legs; and thus I opened my eyes and felt something warm on my leg.
Squirming, I sat up and looked around, blinking in the gloom. It was still before dawn and Tristan was watching me keenly.
"Time to go?" I asked. He nodded. "I'll go back to the evidence and guard it," I hopped off the bed (a little stiffly) and hunted about for my boots.
"I will go down to speak with the baron and tell him of Arthur's arrival." He said behind me. I saw flashes of the weapons being picked up and reattached to his person out of the corner of my eye. Smart move.
"Whistle through your fingers from the window if anyone tries to force their way into the room." He said sternly.
"And if it's you, you'll speak in Sarmatian as a safe-code," I said. He nodded and then handed me the large Sarmatian dagger again – it was almost as long as my forearm. The sight of the weapon prompted me to say something else. "Look, if anything happens to me—"
"Nothing will happen to you," he said fiercely, stepping closer to me.
"Just so," I said calmly as I re-tied my sash and buckled the belt over it, attaching the knife's sheath harness to my right hip. "But if something happens to me, I've hidden the documents in a large wooden trunk. It's got brass strapping and no lock. They're hidden underneath spare writing materials and some musty old cloaks and tunics."
He was now right in my personal space and grabbed my chin, forcing my face upwards. "Kat!" he said urgently, trying to communicate so much in that one word. I succumbed to temptation and reached up to touch the hand that was holding me steady.
"I'll be fine. And don't worry – I'll be on the roof and shrieking my head off before they manage to break the door down." I smiled, but it was strained. We both knew how much was at stake. Unwilling or unable to articulate the emotions blazing in his green eyes, he let his hand fall and he turned away, shoulders stiff with tension. I sighed and climbed out the window. If he couldn't say it, then I wouldn't force it out of him. The climb was uneventful and I was soon in the baron's 'office'. I was lucky that the fire had not completely died, and I was able to persuade the half-charred log to smoulder and catch as I puffed furiously. Soon enough, a small fire was blazing away and I was crouched by it, warming my frozen fingers. And as I watched from a gap in the shutters, dawn slowly came to the land – bathing everything in the pale grey light of a lightly overcast winter day. It was a profoundly boring wait – I was the wrong side of the property to see Arthur arrive. I barely heard them either.
So I had a long, hungry wait until someone knocked on the door. I went and stood by the frame, listening for even one word of Sarmatian.
Nothing. Just silence.
I backed away and drew my knife. It came free with a smooth, metallic hiss as I felt my blood crystallise in my veins. Finally, I'd have a fight on my hands.
It was exhilarating and also bloody terrifying.
The knocking came again; an insistent tapping that grew in strength. I backed away and stuck my head out of the window. Where was Tristan? He was supposed to fetch me and the documents! I was tempted to whistle, but that would alert the people outside the room that there was an intruder in their lord's private room.
So, keeping silent, I went back to the door and listened intently for any clue as to the person's identity.
Then more knocking—or rather, pushing and slamming of (undoubtedly broad) shoulders—against the heavy wood door. I knew the barricade would hold for a good while longer, but it wouldn't hurt to alert Tristan nonetheless. Surely they could spare someone to guard my door and documents? I went back to the window and stuck my head out to look for the troops.
Nothing. Not even a cohort.
Still, we came for evidence and to offer the scumbag a deal he couldn't refuse. And everything was happening without me! I know I wasn't the heroine of this piece – I was an embarrassing footnote. However this really was my brainchild – why couldn't I see it through personally? I was playing a very important part, nonetheless, so I stuck my thumb and forefinger in my mouth and let out a loud, piercing whistle for as long as I possibly could. It was a very good effort and I was insanely pleased that I had succeeded first time.
Mostly because I knew that my whistle would alert those outside the office that I was sending someone a signal. It came as no surprise when the shoving and pounding on the wood became even more powerful. I really wished that I'd thought to bring my bow and arrows with me.
~oOo~
Tristan heard Kation's shrill whistle and felt all the hairs stand up on the back of his neck as his fellow knights turned to glare at him in the gloom of the stables. If looks could kill, Dagonet's alone would have skewered him like a pig on a spit. And Gawain's was too terrifying to describe. Without a word, they all sprinted back to the courtyard. Tristan went on into the villa with Kahedin at his heels, as Gawain and Dagonet stayed by Arthur.
"I'm going to murder them, I'll throttle the brat and then I'm going to eviscerate you!" Kahedin growled at his back. Tristan ignored his mutterings and redoubled his pace, taking the steps two—three at a time. He heard a pounding from deep in the house, filling him with dread, and he drew a knife as it would be too narrow in the corridor to wield his sword. They skidded around the final corner to see three men trying to open the door, but they seemed to be having some difficulty and it was only open a hand's span. When they saw the knights, two of them brandished their knives and leapt forward, not hesitating in their attack.
Tristan caught the first one's charge with his usual deft skill. Stepping in close, he dodged the knife being swung at his face, caught the man's wrist and then drove his own blade up under the man's chin, almost through his throat. The man gurgled and immediately went limp as blood poured from the wound. The knife was slippery in his grasp, but Tristan felt it was safe to let the man fall. No one could survive that.
Kahedin had dispatched with his own opponent in a similarly efficient (if messier) fashion and gave a shout as the third man wriggled through the door. But as they had forced their way inside, the third man was stumbling back with Tristan's long-knife in his shoulder. Tristan dove after him and stabbed him in the throat. Once he was sure the man wouldn't get up again, he turned to stare at the would-be murderess, who standing across the room. She looked altogether too pleased with herself.
"I would never have said that knife was good for flinging at someone." She said with a rather feral grin, walking over to them and completely ignoring the dying man. Tristan caught her by the shoulders and stared down into her face.
"Are you alright?" he said quietly.
"I'm really hungry," she admitted, looking a bit embarrassed. He felt a smile tugging at his lips, but the scowl won the battle and he shook her.
"I thought you said you'd climb onto the roof again," he said accusingly.
She looked away guiltily and then caught sight of Kahedin who let out an animal growl.
"You!" he stomped over to them and violently shoving Tristan away so he could engulf her in a tight hug. "Don't you ever, ever run off with that abominable man again! I mean it, we're going to have serious words—no girl of mine will go gallivanting about the country suppressing insurgency the way you do—!"
She cut him off by freeing one arm just enough to clap it over his mouth. "I'm not your girl," she said with mirth clear in her face. "And if you make it back to Sarmatia you'll probably live in the greater fear of Lancelot's sons seducing your daughters."
Kahedin gave a little choked laugh and hugged her to him again. "Oh Kitten – I can't tell you how worried I've been," he exclaimed. "This is not something a maiden should be involved in!"
She squirmed out of his hold with a smile that was considerably more grim. "Honestly, Kahedin; this is what I am good at. This is what I do." She said simply. Tristan, meanwhile, had been expecting hysterics, tears and screams as she realised the full horror of putting a blade into someone. If that had been the case, she would have clung to Kahedin or himself for reassurance. But from this casual admission, it was obvious to surmise that she had done some fighting before; perhaps on more than one occasion. Then she said something to break him from his momentary reverie.
"Well, since you're here I suggest we secure the chest and take it to Arthur," she said. "And where are the troops? This is serious, Kahedin – we need a lot more men." She exchanged a look of weary exasperation with Tristan. It really was ridiculous.
"Why? I thought we didn't want to alert the Prefect."
"We don't, but when it comes to Woads, you don't take changes." Tristan explained.
Kahedin looked thoroughly bewildered. "What have Woads got to do with it?"
Kation, who had retrieved the knife and was cleaning it on a corner of the dead man's tunic, snarled and spat a word that could only have been a curse, but neither Sarmatian understood it. "You haven't told them?"
Tristan shook his head. "There was no time between their arrival, stabling the horses and your signal," he said.
"Fine," she sighed and flung open one of the chests. Then she began to pull out some cloaks and writing equipment until she uncovered a pile of records and correspondence. With a single, satisfied glance, she slammed the lid shut again and got to her feet. "Sufficed to say that the baron has been conspiring with two very different sorts of people recently," she kicked the trunk. "And this is the proof which we need to take to Arthur – he'll need all the help he can get."
"Then we must hide these," Tristan gestured to the bodies. They quickly dragged the other corpses into the room, and shut the door again. Then Kahedin and Kation carried the trunk back to the courtyard, where Arthur was talking privately to the baron while Dagonet and Gawain stared forbiddingly at Donatus' men. Upon seeing the scouts' return with slave and luggage, Dagonet looked puzzled – the tinge of relief in his eyes telling Tristan that the negotiations hadn't been as smooth as they would have liked. But when Gawain saw them, his face contorted in a silent snarl and he charged Tristan once more. Tristan didn't draw his sword (much as he'd have liked to), but braced himself for the impact – doubtless Gawain would knock him to the ground before landing a few solid punches. But it was not to be, for the destruction-bent knight was stopped in his headlong charge by Kation tackling him to the ground. They collapsed in a tangle of limbs, but Gawain was driven by an extraordinary rage, and climbed back onto his feet, dragging the girl up with him by her collar.
"Don't you ever do that again!" he snarled in Sarmatian, shaking her violently. "You are taking stupid risks and I won't have it! You could have been killed! What's more… oh Gods Kat, you're like a sister to me – how can I give my blessing if you choose to throw your lot in with him?!" he jabbed a finger at Tristan, who felt a little insulted. Despite not being entirely sure of what Gawain was ranting about, he had a good idea that it involved some sort of romantic delusion.
Kation, whose grasp of Sarmatian was suspiciously good (Tristan suspected she knew more than she let on), looked only momentarily confused. Then she glanced between Kahedin and Gawain (both wearing identical glares) before sighing. "Enough," she whispered. "I was never in danger – I am perfectly capable of looking after myself. What's more, Tristan and I are—" But exactly what she was going to say they'd never know, because at that precise moment, Arthur called Dagonet over to guard the seething baron while he consulted Tristan. The other knights resumed their previous stance – acting as a buffer between the baron's surly men and their leader. Only Kation remained by him, and even she moved away to sit on the trunk of evidence.
"Well?" Arthur said, stepping close. Tristan sighed and wondered where to begin. What would make sense? Kation overhearing the conspirators, he supposed. But Arthur needed the facts as they stood. So he just spoke in an undertone. Little, easy to remember phrases.
"The baron's conspiring with the Prefect – over what exactly I don't know. Kation might. What makes this complicated is that he is also aiding the Woads in their resistance. Again, the details are not clear. It is all in the documents in that trunk," he pointed to the girl's improvised seat. Arthur let his eyes flicker to the trunk for a second, his face carefully expressionless. But those green-grey were like a stormy sea that promised doom for those who had crossed him. Tristan wasn't worried; Arthur's idea of retribution was a light flogging followed by much penitent reflection of the soul in a very uncomfortable jail cell. Where Tristan came from, such misdeeds would have earned the conspirators nothing more than a swift execution. He could almost hear Arthur thinking. "We offer him a deal," Tristan prompted. Kation had been very emphatic about that. "He will work exclusively for you and cease all sincere commitment to the Prefect and Woads. But he will still pretend to feed them false information and report their plots to us."
Arthur nodded and walked back to the baron to present his offer: loyalty or a public scandal followed by confiscation of all his property and assets. Meanwhile, Tristan sidled over to the girl, who had drawn one leg up to her chest and resting her chin on her arms which she had folded atop her knee.
"I am ready to fall asleep right here," she murmured, not looking at him but instead keeping her eyes fixed on the stand-off between the knights and the baron's men. "How much longer are we going to be waiting?"
"No idea. Depends if the baron's feeling reasonable," Tristan grunted, edging close enough to lay a hand on the girl's shoulder. "That was a very impressive thing you did in the room," he added softly. "Weren't you afraid?"
"Absolutely," she said. "I was terrified it wouldn't work."
"I'm glad it did." And he meant it. She had become a large part of his life in a very short space of time.
"So am I," she sighed, and succumbed to a small yawn. He was tempted to rest his hand on her head and ruffle her (already thoroughly dishevelled) hair, but held back. It was far too soon after their little act behind the tavern and he strongly suspected that she was armed with more than just his long knife. And so they waited while Arthur and the baron talked in quiet measured tones that prevented anyone from overhearing their conversation.
Eventually, the baron nodded and gripped Arthur's forearm; upon seeing it, both sides let out sighs of relief. Everyone had become bored of standing around glaring at each other.