Page 11 of The Assassin's Bride

She turned to face the wall as she ate. “I'd think recognizability would hinder our travels, the first time someone catches a glimpse of what you're carrying. Perhaps you could make him wear that atrocious mask and protect his identity.”

Gil snorted in amusement. “I'll consider it.”

For a time, she chewed in silence and stared at the walls. The shack was more solid than she'd first assumed, every gap between boards filled. Whoever had prepared it for winter, they'd done a good job. Or maybe it had been constructed well to begin with. Kentorian craftsmen excelled in a number of ways; those without magic were forced to perform at a level few others could. From what she understood, other countries were not as accepting of artisan magics. Her abilities would not be appreciated everywhere. A seamstress could still make a good living without being a Threadmancer, but she would never likely know comfort again on the level she once had.

Some tool he wielded made an unpleasant sound.

She decided to cover it with conversation. “Do you know if mages are welcome in Ranor?”

“Is that where you intend to go?”

“Perhaps. If I have to settle somewhere new, I want it to be where I can earn the most from my work.” Selfish, she knew, but after all this, wasn't she allowed to be a little selfish? If the world was open to her, she'd settle in the best place.

He made a thoughtful sound. “They face tighter regulations than mages here. Most artisan mages who ply their craft in Ranor do so in service to the crown.”

“Does Ranor change rulers as often as Kentoria?”

“No one changes rulers as often as Kentoria. When Ranor crowns a new ruler, it's with much deliberation and ceremony, and it's never anyone so young as the Kentorian kings.”

Hungry as she was, Thea's appetite evaporated after only a quarter of the cake. It was too rich, she told herself. Not proper to eat on an empty stomach, better saved for a treat after a savory meal. She folded the paper closed. “And now Kentoria won't have a king at all.”

“I doubt that. There's no shortage of nobles to set upon a throne. The more likely scenario is a great deal of infighting while they try to determine who is best equipped to take over, now that the throne is vacant. Though I suppose it's always possible you might end up with a queen.” His nonchalance shouldn't have been surprising, but Thea found herself glaring over her shoulder all the same.

“Do you truly care so little for the turmoil you've caused? For the trouble you've caused my country?”

“On the contrary, I've done what I've done because of how it will aid Kentoria.”

Thea snorted. “How is killing our leader supposed to help us?”

“I don't expect you to understand.” He paused in the midst of whatever it was he was doing, a pensive sort of look claiming his face. “Though I... I admit that I wonder what sort of person he was. If perhaps he thought he was helping the kingdom, too.”

She crossed her arms and lowered her eyes to her sewing basket. Tired as she was, she knew she needed to begin. There wouldn't be many quiet moments in which she could sit and sew. She could hardly afford to waste one now. “He was awful.”

Gil looked up. “What makes you say this?”

“He was a Rothalan king. The first was all right, but the rest of them weren't, and everyone said Gaius was the worst. Heartless, merciless, and cruel. A hard and hateful man who cared nothing for his people.” Yet he hadn't been the one to take her brother's head. She tried not to let the opinions of others color her own perceptions, but no one in Samara had liked Gaius. It seemed unlikely he might have defied her expectations.

“Hm.” He regarded his work with a deep frown. “Then perhaps I've done Kentoria a greater favor than I thought.”

“Kentoria, maybe, but you certainly haven't helped me.” Thea dragged a piece of cloth from her basket, evaluated the weight, then chose another. It would do.

“Oh, yes,” he intoned dramatically. “Your taxes. I suppose an argument could be made that I did help you. It's not as if you'll have to worry about paying them now.”

Instead of arguing, she scowled and set to work. She knew her own measurements by heart and could mark a perfect seam allowance freehand, though she now regretted that she hadn't packed any yardsticks by which she might draw a straight line. A few sweeps of her hand smoothed wrinkles from the folded fabric on the ground, then she found her measuring tape. A few swipes of the chalk blocked out the length of her legs and the width of her hips. She'd want something comfortable, something that gave her plenty of room to flex. Yet she'd want a close ankle, something that would fit inside her boots to deter pests without bunching or chafing. She added extra space for ease and drew a waistband that wouldn't restrict or rub if she had to bend or sit in awkward positions.

“Add more pockets,” Gil said. “They're always useful.”

“I put pockets in all my garments. I wouldn't dare short myself.” She'd already drawn the opening and marked pieces for the lining.

He paused then, studying the shapes she'd drawn. “What are you making?”

“Trousers. For myself,” she added firmly before he could ask.

“Yourself? It's far more urgent that you make something for me.”

“And I'll make you something soon enough, but I'll travel much faster if I don't keep tripping over this Light-blasted skirt.” She double-checked each measurement before she drew her shears from the basket and cut out her fabric. Front, back, pockets, and waistband. They would be simple and utilitarian, but they would do.

Gil made no argument, so she pulled out her thread and the packet of needles. Now was when the hard part began.

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