The Queen's Assassin Page 16

  “No. Queen Lilianna did not send me to Baer. The truth is, I didn’t mean to be there at all.” Yet something had pulled me to the ruined castle, something deep in the earth had led me there. The visions choose the seer; that is what my aunts taught me.

  “So, you were out for a walk and just happened to end up there.”

  “Pretty much, not that it matters now.” I don’t appreciate his skepticism, but the truth is, I did lie to him to get where I am right now. “What matters is what happens next.”

  “Next is Montrice. We need to find a place to stay, and buy new clothes. If anyone asks, we’re brother and sister. Taverns are typically the best places to find information, particularly when you want to know who the criminals are. Or better yet, who the criminals work for.”

  “And if this discovery leads all the way up to King Hansen?” I ask.

  “Then he will be taken care of,” Cal says softly.

  I feel chills, and am suddenly nauseous with fear. Cal will protect Renovia at all costs. There is nothing he will not do for his kingdom when the time comes. Without fear and without regret.

  He is the Queen’s Assassin. And no one is safe from his blade.

  EXCERPT FROM THE SCROLL OF OMIN, 1.2:

  A Comprehensive History of Avantine

  On the Origins of Omin of Oylahn

  LONG AGO, WHEN ALL THE kingdoms of Avantine were one, the region of Renovia was a backwater, a swampland, a hopeless swath of fallow earth sparsely populated in most places and dominated by warring clans in others. The oldest child of the oldest child of the oldest family in the land was unlucky enough to lead the chaos, for however long they could until they were ousted—either by murder or fatigue—and replaced by the next oldest child in line, and so on. Clan leaders bribed or blackmailed the monarch in return for favor and to maintain control over their own territories.

  However, Avantine’s new queen, Alphonia, only thirteen years old, wasn’t satisfied with the struggling realm she inherited, especially since surrounding kingdoms had begun taking advantage of Renovia’s weaknesses and invading its outlying communities.

  Alphonia may have been a child, yet she was older than her sister had been when she was crowned at age ten but died soon after from consumption, and both were older at accession than their father had been before them, though he had lived to the ripe old age of twenty. And thirteen years, then as now, was old enough to know her own mind—and young enough not to know that maybe she really didn’t.

  So Alphonia, at just the right age and station to insist on having things exactly as she wanted them, and fortunate enough to possess the right temperament for the task, called for the smartest, wisest, strongest, and wittiest to join her at court.

  They arrived in droves: aristocrats, beggars, traders, thieves, alchemists, farmers, lutists, bakers, mapmakers, and all others you can imagine. From these the girl queen chose the best of the best of each, then gathered them together at a feast. She told the chosen that they were the founding members of the new court of Avantine, and gave them rooms in the castle.

  Quite pleased with herself, she then called for women from each clan, and gathered them together for a feast of their own. She told them about her sister, whom she missed very much, and her parents, whom she barely knew at all, and asked them about their loved ones. No one had ever asked them this before, so they didn’t know what to say, because killing and being killed was the way it was and always would be.

  “It doesn’t have to be this way,” the girl queen said. “Instead of fighting one another and scrambling for the leftover odds and ends, we can band together and thrive.”

  The clan mothers doubted the new queen, and went back to their lands, and back to the way things had always been.

  Except one thing had changed. They couldn’t stop thinking about what the queen said. They had been introduced to the idea of something different, and there is no putting back an idea.

  Meanwhile, Queen Alphonia had the best of the best at her disposal and not the faintest idea what to do with them after that.

  “Our talents are wasted here,” they said. “If something doesn’t happen soon, we’re going home.”

  The girl queen wasn’t sure what to do. It was her first official crisis as sovereign, and she had no one trustworthy to advise her.

  She was ready to give up. But before Queen Alphonia could dismiss the best of the best from her palace, there was a booming knock on the castle door.

  At the door stood the strangest, most beautiful being Alphonia had ever seen, a silver-haired mage with violet eyes, neither female nor male, but both, as all the most powerful mages are. They wore a long white tunic and an emerald gem around their neck.

  “I am Omin of Oylahn,” the mage said. “I heard you called for the best.”

  “I did,” said the queen. “But I’m afraid that time has passed.”

  “No,” Omin said. “The time has not even begun, because the time was not right, and now that I am here, it is.”

  And so it was that magic came to Avantine.

  It is said that mages came from the Oylahn, a land beyond the Montrician Mountains, an impassable landscape no Avantinian had ever crossed; however, the girl queen never asked of Omin’s origins, or if she did, that knowledge was never recorded.

  The women of the clans soon returned and agreed that they were tired of the way things were. Omin trained the group Alphonia had assembled and taught them the ways of Deia, which were already ancient even in the ancient time. As the years wore on, the Deian order served the kingdom well. The greatest scribes collected the wisdom of Omin and Alphonia and spent years handwriting the Sacred Texts of Deia, and the greatest artists illustrated them, and the greatest philosophers studied them, and the greatest teachers taught them, and the greatest students learned them.

  In time the queen and Omin married, and had a daughter, and that daughter was named Dellafiore, and Dellafiore had a son, and that son took his mother’s name in her honor, as the first of their new house.

  Thus began the story of the Dellafiore dynasty.

  — II —

  MONTRICE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Caledon

  BEYOND THE MOUNTAINS, MONT, THE capital city of the Kingdom of Montrice, rises to greet them. In the sun’s glare the city’s harsh gray structures look like part of the natural landscape, jutting up aggressively behind an intimidating stone wall that stretches miles in each direction. But as they ride closer, they can see the carved-out details in the buildings, deep-set windows, arrow loops and battlements on every roof in case of attack.

  “Not very welcoming, is it?” Shadow says.

  Cal nods. “Mont is a city accustomed to war.” Most windows that he can see, especially near the edges of the city, are gated with iron bars—decorative, but also functional. Armed guards patrol the perimeter, on horseback and on foot. A wide gated entrance at the north side of the city, usually open, is shut tight. Cal frowns. They’re not going to be able to walk right in after all.

  “What should we do? Find another way in?”

  “No,” Cal says. “Stealth is too risky at the moment.”

  Shadow looks down at her clothes and then at Cal. She’s still wearing her stable-hand uniform, except the shirt no longer has sleeves thanks to the incident with the Aphrasians, and Cal has been wearing the same clothes since he left to see the queen. They have been washed in the river, but are ragged and worn from their journey out of Deersia and into the black woods. “Except we don’t look like we belong here. We look like nothing but trouble.”

  “We look as well as we are going to look,” says Cal.

  “Do I still look like a boy?” she asks.

  He shakes his head emphatically. “No one would mistake you as male. Your deception was successful at Deersia only because people see what they expect to see.”

  They approach the gate.
A man stands inside the guard tower. Cal clears his throat. “Gates were open last time I was here,” Cal says to him, using the neutral dialect of Avantine.

  The man replies, “Times have changed, especially concerning Renovians. Beware of them, shady folk.”

  Cal nods. “Horrible city, Serrone, full of barbarians,” he says.

  “From where do you hail?”

  “My sister and I are from Argonia,” he tells the guard. “Just passing through Mont on the way to our grandfather’s estate in Stavin.”

  The guard narrows his eyes.

  “Of course, we have coin to spare,” adds Cal, and Shadow takes her cue to bring out the pouch full of gold.

  “Much coin,” Shadow says, smiling slyly.

  * * *

  THEIR PASSAGE INTO THE city secured, they ride into town. People everywhere stop to stare at them, even pausing mid-conversation to watch them go by. Their dirty, plain clothes mark them as poor or foreign or both, especially compared with the elaborate dress around them. Behind Mont’s impenetrable fortress walls lies a city of vanity and finery.

  Mont’s women, and some of the men, wear dramatic, garish makeup and huge hooped gowns of ornately embroidered fabrics with headdresses so large that the streets feel even more crowded than they already are. It’s difficult to see around them, even on horseback. One woman’s headdress is so big that it requires wire supports from her shoulders. The men and women wear similar fabrics, but rather than wide, swishing gowns, most of the men have long, narrow tunics over tight pants and heavy boots. Over their tunics, they wear chest armor, and all are carrying weapons, as if they’re ready to go into battle at any moment. Cal notices that even the women in the grandest gowns have daggers sheathed at their hips as well. The Montricians have become far more fearful since he was here last, though that was some time ago—two years? And he was only in the city a day or two, picking up a message from one of the queen’s operatives.

  “Try not to stare; it’s considered rude,” Shadow says out the side of her mouth. “You really should read Crumpets and Cravats.”

  He’s about to retort when he realizes she’s only teasing him.

  They pass a marketplace, where vendors are selling imported produce at shockingly high prices. In the town square, skinny, barefoot children in linen shifts throw copper coins into a huge fountain. An old man sits hunched on the edge of it. A ten-foot-tall statue looms over them. “King Hansen himself.” The man nods when he sees them staring.

  The statue depicts a generically handsome young man wearing a crown and fur-lined royal cape, one arm raising a sword, the other holding a shield. He looks about the same age as Cal, nineteen or so.

  “It’s good luck to make offerings to him,” the old man adds, motioning to the children. Shadow scrunches her nose in disapproval. Cal doesn’t like it either. There’s something . . . lacking about this place. Shallow. Elaborate statues celebrate an unaccomplished young king while children use what little coin they have gambling on fountain wishes. Coin that will surely end up in the king’s pocket.

  “You’re not from here, I take it,” the old man says.

  “No, sir, we’re looking for an inn,” Cal says. “Do you know where we can find one?” Shadow hands the man a silver coin.

  “Follow me.” He gets up slowly, straightening out his back. Cal can almost hear it creaking and cracking. The man begins walking on the road, shuffling his feet.

  “May I offer you my horse?” Cal asks. The old man waves him off.

  He leads them a few streets away, stopping in front of a two-story wood-and-brick building in a more modest neighborhood. The sign out front reads: STARLIGHT INN, LINDEN GARBANKLE, PROPRIETOR.

  They dismount on the side, where there are low-walled stalls to keep the horses overnight. The old man holds out his hand as if to shake Cal’s. “Well. I suppose this is where I leave you.”

  “We appreciate it,” Cal says. The old man reaches out and grabs his forearm to shake it.

  “Don’t worry about a thing,” he says. He looks pointedly at their clothing. “Garbankle’ll take good care of you. Best place in all Montrice for a couple of ruffians to stay undetected.”

  “Not sure what you mean,” Shadow says. “We’re—”

  “Garbankle has no love for the authorities but a great love of money, you understand? I know you’ll think of a way to improve diplomatic relations between our two fine kingdoms.”

  Cal shakes his head, his courtly Argonian accent impeccable. “But I told you, we’re not—”

  “Bah!” He waves his hand at him. “I been around long enough to know a crook when I see one. And you gave me a Renovian coin.” He winks.

  Shadow stammers, trying to protest, but the old man says, “Don’t worry about me. I lose no sleep over law and order. The crown, it comes and goes. Or the one wearin’ it does.” He begins shuffling away.

  “Can I give you a ride back to . . . ?” Back to the fountain? Home? Cal doesn’t know what to say, but he wants to offer the man some kindness in return for his aid. “A ride back?”

  The old man just waves his hand behind him again. A few seconds later, he rounds the corner, out of sight.

  They tie up their horses and prepare to enter the inn. If Shadow is nervous, she hides it.

  “Let’s get our story in order,” Cal says.

  “I know what to do,” Shadow says. “Follow my lead.” Without waiting for him to respond, she walks inside.

  * * *

  “SO SORRY ABOUT THAT, Mister Garbunkle . . . erm, -bankle. Don’t mind my brother. If he seems out of sorts, it’s only that we’re dreadfully road-weary! My brother can’t control his temper, that boy! Again, my apologies. I agree you said nothing wrong whatsoever—I would’ve assumed the very same if I saw two people like us walk into my place of business.” Shadow smiles widely at the suspicious-looking innkeeper, who leans over the bar to take a better look at them.

  Garbankle squints at her, but doesn’t respond.

  Shadow continues. “You see, we’ve come all the way from Argonia. Dressed as beggars, as you can tell, to repel thieves. As one does. It was so dire out there, I was even forced to cut my hair to disguise myself. What a trial that has been! We’re simply traveling through Mont on our way to Stavin, thought we might pay a visit to the vizier while we’re here, if possible, pay our respects . . .”

  Cal nudges her. She realizes her mistake immediately. Why did she say “pay our respects”? To whom would they do that? She’s lost hold of her story.

  “Pay our respects to the vizier’s father. Who . . . knew our grandfather. You see, we’ve inherited my grandfather’s estate, so we must hurry on to Stavin. Backley Hold. Is what it’s called. The house, that is. I assume you know it?”

  Cal closes his eyes. She’s repeating the plot of an old Renovian fable. He hopes the man doesn’t know it.

  The innkeeper shakes his head from behind the weathered wood counter. He opens his mouth as if to speak, but Shadow just continues talking. “Well now. That’s quite surprising. It’s home to one of the largest vineyards in the triangular kingdoms. Maybe you’ll recognize our name, instead?” She glances to a vase of white lilies on the counter. “Mine is Lady Lily . . . I mean Lady Lila Holton. This is my brother, Lord Callum.” She blinks, waiting.

  Cal gives the man a curt bow and then sticks his nose in the air, trying to look haughty. The innkeeper shakes his head again. Shadow looks to Cal and follows his lead, lifting her nose a little higher in the air. “Hmm, where was I? Oh yes. The, um, Holtons, our family, are always happy to pay our bill in advance. In fact, we insist upon it.” She roots around in her money pouch and pulls out a gold coin. “I imagine such a fine establishment charges . . . fifty a night for room and board and stabling of our two fine horses? We only carry Renovian currency, as we just came from there. But this should cover two. And a half. Please, keep the half. On b
e-half of the Holtons!”

  Cal almost chokes. Fifty a night? For this? More like fifty a month, at best!

  “Imagine that, got it right on the first try!” the innkeeper says, snatching the coin from her hand. “You do know your room and board. Must be a frequent traveler.”

  She smiles politely. “Mm-hmm.”

  “Lucky for you I got one room I save just for special noble guests like yourselves. You and your, uh, brother here can take room seven. I’ll go ahead and show you up.” He grabs a key from the wall behind the counter and walks ahead of them. Shadow turns to Cal and flashes him a self-satisfied smile. He won’t deny that she’s a decent storyteller, but he also knows the innkeeper never would’ve bought that ridiculous yarn if she hadn’t grossly overpaid him.

  They follow him up a few well-worn stairs and down a dusty hallway. There are no sounds from any of the other rooms. They must be the only guests.

  He stops in front of a door. “As you two are flesh and blood, there won’t be any impropriety, right?” he says, sticking the key in the lock.

  “Well, I never!” Shadow says, feigning outrage.

  “You’d be surprised,” the innkeeper says. “Or maybe you wouldn’t.” The door swings open. “Make yourselves at home,” he says, before handing the key over to Cal and shuffling back down the hall toward the front desk. On his way he calls over his shoulder: “Washtub’s out back.”

  Inside the room there’s a small round table with one chair and a single bed. Cal wipes his hand across the table and leaves a long smear in the dust. Shadow sticks her head out the door into the hallway and calls out, “Excuse me, Mister Gorfinkle. I believe there’s been a mistake.”

  “No mistake,” he yells back over his shoulder. “Take it or leave it.”