Knightswrath (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 2) by Michael Meyerhofer

and saw the guards change position, stationing themselves right outside the inn’s front door. Unusual guests, indeed, he thought, then resolved to get good and drunk.

Chapter Seven
    The Iron Sister

    H aesha felt her purse. She’d left Hesod with a bag of coins taken off a slain Dhargothi officer, but after buying wine, she had only a few coins left—not enough for a room at an inn. Still, an inn was where she was going, as soon as possible. After several days in the company of the priests and pilgrims, she doubted she would be welcome at the temples of Tier’Gothma and Armahg, where they—and their loose tongues—had already taken refuge. She glanced down at the emblem of a goblet and a crescent moon pinned to her cloak. She had no intention of seeking out the temple dedicated to Dyoni, claiming to actually be an adherent, and begging for assistance. Besides, temples of Dyoni were practically brothels anyway, and she’d had quite enough of that life when she was younger.
    Then someone caught her eye. A pudgy man in expensive silk was heading in her direction. His haughty demeanor confirmed his life of privilege every bit as much as his clothing and glinting rings did.
    Haesha placed herself in the merchant’s path, opened her cloak, and batted her eyelashes. “Which way to the temple, love?”
    The merchant did not even try to meet her gaze. “Plenty of temples around here. Even one for Maelmohr down the street, if you feel like smelling sulfur and getting a lecture on hard work.”
    She pouted and adjusted her clothing, affording him an even better view. “Not quite what I had in mind.” She sidled closer and touched his chin. It was cold with sweat, but she winked anyway.
    “How much?”
    She feigned insult. “I am no whore!” She gestured to the emblem on her cloak. “I merely seek to bring greater happiness to those around me.”
    The merchant grinned. His breath smelled of mead and fish. “Indeed.” He put his hand on her waist.
    Resisting the impulse to drive the heel of her palm into his nose, she moved closer and kissed his cheek. As she was doing so, her nimble fingers drew the coin purse from his belt. She slithered away when the merchant’s hands began to explore her body even more freely.
    She whispered, “Temple of Armahg in half an hour. Meet me by the steps. I’ll be the one who looks like this.” She winked playfully and walked away, wiggling her backside so the merchant would be sure not to notice the coin purse in her hand.
    She took two more coin purses from the crowd, then bumped into a Noshan guard and stole his dagger while distracting him with a well-rehearsed apology. By sundown, she had stolen enough to afford to stay at Atheion’s finest inn for a month. But first, she bought new clothes. It was only a matter of time before embarrassed merchants fed her description to the guards. Though the new clothes were too conservative for her tastes, her plan was to take on the identity of a wayward merchant’s daughter, overly sheltered and lost in the world. The story would make securing a benefactor much easier.
    She stopped at a temple dedicated to Maelmohr, wherein an old cleric was angrily pontificating on the dangers of lust and material excess. Haesha pretended to listen, sidled close to a white-haired worshipper who’d fallen asleep. She spotted Maelmohr’s burning fist pinned to his tunic. She took the pin. As an afterthought, she left the emblem of Dyoni—a smirking hermaphrodite—in its place.
    Back on the street again, she wondered what to do about her hair. She could do nothing for the striking color unless she bought a wig or those foul-smelling dyes used by Ivairian noblewomen. Then again, she might be able to turn her hair to her advantage. Rich men liked unusual things, and red hair did not appear to be common in the midlands. She just had to make sure none of the people she’d robbed recognized her. Her new clothes and the sigil of Maelmohr would help. Besides,