[log] to bury my head, full of pain, in your skirts rendolent of your perfume
Several weeks ago.
For some time now, Martel's been steadfastly ignoring the knowledge wallowing in the back of his mind, and as much as he knows he can't continue ignoring it forever he'd really like to try. Relegated to the same place as 'Sparhawk used the word reconcile without spitting on it', his understanding of what he's been told lies not ( Read more... )
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So he was used as a pawn. That, in particular, strikes her as objectionable--say what you will about Martel, but he has always been the type to make his own fortune.
"It does. But I really would like to go see your home world, if you think it's safe."
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"'Safe' is the last thing I'd call it," he says, smiling at her crookedly, with all the edges in it turned inward, "but I'll talk to Sparhawk again. Sober. And we'll see if we can't manage something. ...but it may have to wait. Ah...I haven't agreed to this yet-"
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"...what." She gestures at him, as though beckoning. "Out with it, caballero."
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At this point Martel perches himself half on the table that Candice is sitting at, leaning above her with his hands clasped loosely against his thigh. "Koleika's taking some of his men down to Treborea for a little war and he's prevailed on me to tag along and run interference with the lowland nobility. In a purely advisory capacity."
The innocence shines so magnificently that it can be nothing but misdirection.
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