Chosen (The Warrior Chronicles #1)(15)

Shanti kept her tone level, deflecting his curiosity as subtly as possible. “I thank you for your help, but it’s probably best for all involved if I carry on. Business, such that it is, isn’t something to chat about idly. I’m sure you can agree, no doubt being in possession of your own trade secrets.”

A small flame kindled in crystalized blue eyes. “Trade. I see.”

She batted her eyelashes. Couldn’t hurt. She was in the ridiculous green frock no intelligent woman would agree to—possibly stupidity is what they expected in their women.

“What’s your name?” the Captain asked next.

“You can call me whatever you wish, though something long and hard to pronounce would match my personality.” She smiled, communicating the joke.

His stern expression didn’t soften. “Where are you from?”

She thought of her homeland along the beautiful western coast of the land. Surrounding forests, not unlike those around this city, enabled her people to live off the land for most of their needs. She missed it keenly. Missed the sea breeze from the ocean not far away, and the lazy evenings when all the work and training was done when her people could all share meals and laughter. She found the ache of home a constant companion.

But she couldn’t tell him any of that. She couldn’t let him pinpoint her on a map, or the pieces would start falling into place for anyone that paid attention. Keeping her business to herself was not only safest for her, it was safest for this city, too. They didn’t need the Graygual’s interest. No one did, if they could help it.

To that end, she said, “A distant place, but I’m afraid I’d just as soon keep it at that. In fact, I would love to be on my way if at all possible...”

He leaned forward on the desk, his large arms bracing, revealing defined biceps to match those muscular shoulders. A tinge of uncertainty pinched her heart as a strange flutter sparked in her stomach. She would’ve much preferred a fat and lazy Captain who would grow tired of exerting energy over foreign things. Or movement.

Instead she faced a man, probably in his early thirties, with an intelligent and intense sparkle to his eyes, and an upper body to make the Elders take notice. Should things go sour, this did not bode well for her survival. All she could hope was that his size meant he was slow.

“You speak our language well,” he continued, “though it’s not your native tongue. Your accent is… hard to place…”

“Hard to place, yes. I’ve traveled far, but I have a ways to go. I must have a collection of sounds in my speech by now. But please, I would just as soon cause you no more trouble and be on my way.”

In a quick movement, almost faster than her eye, and certainly unexpected, the Captain snatched something off the floor and put it on the desk to his right. Two things went through her head: One, her bag was now fifteen steps away. Two, the Captain was lightning fast. For an arm so big attached to a torso of his size, it was…unnerving.

“We’ll cut to the chase, shall we?” The Captain’s voice got a shade deeper. All the young men squirmed where they stood, traces of fear floating at the edges of her awareness. The older men didn’t move, but wariness poured off them.

The Captain’s large hands snapped the bag open. Without preamble, he hauled out her sword, ripping off the scabbard with a practiced hand and laying it at the top of the surface in front of him. Almost like he dared her to reach for it. Next came her throwing knives, followed by their leg harness. A belt, a bow, a quiver long emptied of arrows—she was an excellent shot, but with more enemies than arrows, retrieving them from dead bodies was impossible. The last of the larger objects was a neatly folded stack of clothing she recognized as her undergarments for colder climates, soiled and holey from travel.

The Captain paused for a second, his eyes meeting hers. “This is quite an arsenal. Care to explain how you came to possess it?”

The way he asked almost made her wonder at his ignorance of women fighting. It sounded like he was accusing her of stealing. Which was fantastic, because that meant he’d not heard of her, her abilities, the Shamas—her people—or her plight. It also meant he hadn’t talked to the Graygual.

The answer was, therefore, easy. “It was a fantastic find.”

He picked up the sword by the hilt, holding it in front of his eyes and analyzing the blade. “They are well taken care of. Expertly crafted, oiled, polished—someone put great care into this weapon, both to make it, and to keep it.”

She allowed a smile she didn’t feel. “Yes. I am an expert scavenger, it seems.”

His blue gaze back on hers, he put the sword down gently, handling it like he’d owned it all his life. “The knives are of excellent quality, also. Balanced. They were made with care by an expert at his craft. And used—there’s a speck of blood near the hilt only a month or two old, if I had to guess.”

Good guess. And a detailed observation. He knew his weapons and their uses. It wasn’t theoretical, either. He was a fighter, and judging by the muscle tone, the width of those massive shoulders, and his surety of even the smallest movement, a good one. The rumors on that score seemed true.

Blast the Elders their jokes! Filthy beggars! she swore to herself.

She adopted a smile she didn’t feel. “I am a woman with some world knowledge—however little. My kind tend to have an eye for shiny things…”