The Queen's Assassin Page 20

  Shadow

  “YOU WILL GET HURT, IF you flirt, with Duchess Girt,” I sing to Cal after I fling the door open to let him inside my room. “Thought of that one last night. Couldn’t wait to sing it to you,” I say, with forced cheer. Without him around yesterday, I was able to clear my head. Whatever might have been between us is over—it has to be—and the strange conversation at yesterday’s breakfast was just the last part of it.

  Caledon Holt is the Queen’s Assassin and I am meant for the Guild. We are here to uncover a conspiracy and learn if Grand Prince Alast was working with our enemy kingdom against the Renovian throne. I cannot believe that he was a traitor in the first place, even though I saw him try to kill me with my own eyes.

  Maybe if I make light of our hostess, Cal will lose that intense look in his eyes whenever he catches mine. I can’t bear it anymore.

  “You are merry today,” he says as he shuts the door behind him.

  “Why shouldn’t I be? We are to meet King Hansen today; isn’t that what we’re here for?”

  Cal walks over to the window and leans on the sill. “It’s not as simple as that.”

  “No, I suppose not,” I admit. “It’s not as if he’ll let us into his confidence right away.”

  “He might,” Cal says slowly, as if something has just occurred to him. “Especially if he takes to you.”

  “Takes to me?”

  “You asked to be my apprentice. Seduction is part of the job,” he says with a shrug, as if he hasn’t just offered me up to the royal palate like a cut of fresh meat. “It is an easy way to gain trust.”

  “Like you and Duchess Girt, I presume?” My good mood sours.

  “Exactly.”

  “She is certainly quite taken by you,” I snap.

  He returns my gaze levelly and I break my promise not to look into those dark eyes of his. “It is an advantage, Shadow. And we use every advantage we have to fulfill the task at hand. It is what they teach us at the Guild. What you will learn if you are permitted entry.”

  “Then I will make certain to arouse the king’s ardor!” I cry. “If that’s what you want.”

  “What I want is immaterial; this is about the security of the kingdom,” he says.

  “Is that all you care about? Oh, why do I even ask!” I turn away, shaking.

  “Shadow!”

  “Just go away,” I tell him.

  Cal moves from the window so that he’s standing right in front of me, and I put up my hands to shield my face, just as he takes my wrists in his. He lowers them so he can look right into my eyes. His own look wild, desperate.

  “Shadow of Nir, Maiden of the Honey Glade,” he says, his voice low and husky. His hands are rough from the road, but his touch has always been gentle. My wound is gone; not even a scar remains. “Renovia does not claim all my heart.”

  “Caledon Holt,” I say. “What do you want from me?”

  “I want . . . ,” he begins to say, but he never finishes as there is a short rap on the door. He releases me so quickly that it catches my breath.

  A lady’s maid walks into the room. “The vizier is ready for you, milady, milord.”

  “We will be down shortly,” Cal tells her as I search around for my satin shoes. I find them near the bed. They’re awful, pinching my toes and rubbing against my heels until they’re raw, but it’s what’s expected. I am a lady of court now, and the irony that this would have been my life if I had stayed in Renovia doesn’t escape me.

  He doesn’t finish his sentence and I find I don’t care to discover what he meant to say. Cal is right, I am here as a spy and must employ every weapon in my arsenal, including, it seems, my femininity.

  We’re quiet for a moment while I check my hair in the mirror and straighten my borrowed gown. It was a little big in some spots and too tight in others but the duchess’s seamstress took care of it. I fret about the neckline, that it’s too low, and fuss with ribbons around the waist.

  “Ready?” asks Cal. He doesn’t say anything about my obvious discomfort in the gown nor does he finish what he began to say before the maid interrupted us.

  I nod. He has ordered me to catch the king’s fancy and I only mean to satisfy. I am his apprentice, and I learn from the best.

  * * *

  WE ARRIVE WITH THE duke and duchess for the king’s weekly audience. There are at least a hundred people in the great hall and almost as many armed guards as there are courtiers. Cal scans the room, reading and remembering each face. Is the Aphrasian conspirator here among these obsequious aristocrats? Or is it the king himself?

  King Hansen has already begun receiving visitors by the time we arrive. The senior guard bellows out names; once that person is announced, they approach the dais. I have no idea how the order is decided. One after the other, Montrice’s aristocrats are beckoned forward. I hear “Duchess Aysel,” whose name I recall from the vizier’s dinner party.

  Duchess Girt speaks close to me, pointing at one group or another: “Those two traveled a hundred miles to be here today and probably won’t be seen. They are putting on airs—but they lost everything, including the family seat, to gambling debt, yet they retain the title, so here they are. Over in the corner—now that’s a juicy one. The Earl of Neri’s second wife, the one with the horrible yellow gown? She’s been having an affair with the grand duke, the king’s uncle.” The lady in question turns sideways, her gown protruding in front of her. “The swollen belly? Well. You know where I’m going with this—but you didn’t hear that from me.” The duchess nudges me and winks, her enormous bouffant wig bobbing along with her head as she does.

  The senior guard stands at the top of the step again. “Lord Callum Holton of Backley Hold, and his sister, Lady Lila Holton.”

  The others watch as we walk toward the throne. Cal offers me his arm. It feels almost like we’re walking down the aisle at a wedding. My cheeks flame from the idea even though Cal can’t possibly know my thoughts. I wonder if he has the same one, though, because he seems to deliberately avoid glancing in my direction.

  When we reach the dais, the guard puts his staff across our path to stop us, then he steps sideways. Cal bows; I curtsy. “Your Majesty,” we both say.

  King Hansen, slouched in his padded silver throne, barely nods at us. He looks impossibly bored. Like his statue, he’s handsome. His hair is fair, as is his skin. He is nineteen years of age and came to the throne when his father died after a long illness. Hansen has the physique of someone who jousts and rides for sport. Or for the mirror. From his floral perfume and the gold entwined in his lace cuffs, he reeks of vanity and pompousness. I almost expect him to pick up a looking glass and gaze into it right in front of us.

  “The vizier tells me you’re visiting our great kingdom?” the king says.

  “Yes,” Cal answers. “We’re headed north into Stavin.”

  The king nods and says to Cal, “A lot of good hunting in Stavin.”

  Cal agrees.

  “Do you like fishing?” the king asks.

  “Fishing? Yes, I’ve done a bit of that lately,” says Cal, without looking in my direction.

  The king nods approvingly. “I spent quite a bit of time fishing at the summer palace last year. One of my larger lakes is there. Truly blissful. The trout were amazing. I’m quite looking forward to next year. I intend to spend the entire season, rather than just a month. Breeders are working on restocking the lake for me already. I want them nice and big by the time I get there. Otherwise, what’s the point?” He pauses.

  “There is none, Your Majesty,” agrees Cal, and I swear I can see an imperceptible lift in one of his eyebrows.

  The king nods to the vizier, who steps forward to usher us away. No! Wait, it can’t be over so soon.

  “Your fields and valleys are beautiful, Your Majesty,” I blurt. How am I supposed to get the king’s attention if I don’t even a
ddress him?

  “Have you seen much of the country?” The king looks in my direction as if noticing me for the first time. His eyes lazily take in the shape of my dress and wander over the low neckline of my gown. I am on display, and available for the plucking should he so desire.

  I smile. “Not as much as we would like.”

  The king considers that. “Do you plan to be in Montrice at the end of the week?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” says Cal, even though we have no idea if the Duke and Duchess of Girt would extend their hospitality to us for that long.

  “Excellent,” says King Hansen. “Then you will both join me on the royal hunt.”

  “We would be honored, Your Majesty,” I say as Cal agrees.

  King Hansen nods. We bow and curtsy again. The vizier steps forward and says, “Thank you, Your Majesty,” and leads us away.

  He is even more excited than we are. “Such a great compliment!” he exclaims. “A royal hunt! And guests of mine—this is good for us all. One must always be concerned with staying in the king’s favor.” He titters nervously. “Excellent job, Lady Lila. Your charms made quite an impression on His Majesty. Did you see how he looked at you?”

  I certainly did, and it was unnerving.

  “The king is rumored to marry soon, after turning down many suitable maidens, which makes this all the more fascinating, don’t you think?” asks the vizier.

  In my opinion, fascinating is not the word.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Caledon

  ANOTHER HUNT, AND SHADOW IS invited this time. The royal hunt, as is customary, has provisions for the ladies to participate. Duchess Girt spent all morning after the meeting with King Hansen instructing us on proper etiquette. Demanding a guest slaughter the prey is noticeably absent from her lessons, but Cal doesn’t say anything about how the duke behaved at the last one. The other day, he told Shadow what he’d overheard among the Montrician lords during the hunt. The lords are certain that war is coming to their lands—but when? And how?

  For now, Duchess Girt is preoccupied with outfitting both of them. Because they are her houseguests, the duchess has taken a special interest in their appearance. The way Cal and Shadow look reflects directly on her and the quality of the company she keeps.

  And the way the duchess feels about Cal and Shadow directly affects their ability to fulfill his task in Montrice.

  That’s how Caledon finds himself back in a tailor shop. Being measured and draped in one fabric after another, all indistinguishable to him. Duchess Girt takes it upon herself to monitor the situation this time, though, which he welcomes since her presence prevents the tailor from asking too many questions. The basic story about Lord and Lady Holton worked the first couple of times, but now that they’ve run out of things to discuss, the nosy little man is starting to probe further.

  “I want him to have the most traditional Montrician hunting attire,” the duchess tells the tailor. “But perhaps with just a touch of Argonian flavor. What do you say, Lord Holton? What sort of details do you miss from home?” She looks at him expectantly.

  Thankfully, Cal is up to the task. “Well, Argonian hunting jackets always include a small green rose on the lapel, typically embroidered, to represent the defeat of the Stavinish invasion that ended the Twenty Years’ War.”

  “Would you require a green rose on the lapel, then?” the tailor asks.

  “Certainly,” Cal answers. “And one for Lady Holton as well. But the women never wear a green rose. Make certain it is a yellow one.”

  “You are so sweet to be concerned about your sister,” says the duchess as she leans back against the chaise and fans herself, watching him.

  * * *

  BACK AT THE GIRT estate, the duchess presides over dinner that evening with the kind of giddiness Cal had previously seen only in children eagerly awaiting a much-desired gift.

  “The Vicar of Rivefont will attend, though he is staying at the vice minister’s house, as usual, and the vizier, naturally, and . . .” She rattles off a long list of names. Cal’s thoughts begin to wander as he watches one of her dogs wrestle with a stray chicken bone at her feet. Then she says, “And Ambassador Nhicol of Renovia will attend with his husband, Mathieu . . .”

  Shadow kicks Cal under the table.

  The duchess continues talking. “They will stay here, of course, since their country house is a bit away, and we have the room.”

  “Did you say the Ambassador of Renovia is staying here?” Cal asks.

  “Yes, he was home in his own country but just returned to Montrice for—what was it—a missing piece of art? Something valuable.” She looks at the duke.

  He startles and looks up from the book he’s reading. “What was that?”

  “Oh, never mind. What do you think the ambassador is looking for, Lord Holton?” She bats her eyelashes at him.

  Cal has no idea. But he does know he must keep away from the ambassador, who is sure to recognize him as the lowly blacksmith who killed the grand prince and escaped from Deersia.

  “Who can say?” says Cal. “But are you wise to host the Renovians? I think only of your safety, Your Grace.”

  “Oh! You are too sweet. Worrying about me. There is still peace between the two kingdoms, is there not? Besides, we are well protected here.” She looks over at her husband, who doesn’t seem to be aware of anything that’s happening around him.

  “We are quite friendly with the ambassador. I cannot wait to introduce him to my distinguished guests. But it will have to wait, I’m afraid, because they’re due to arrive late in the evening. I’m sure they’ll want to retire immediately. But breakfast tomorrow—it will be a treat! The cook will prepare a special batch of scones.”

  The duchess continues telling them her complete breakfast menu, but Cal tunes her out. He has to figure out how to avoid being introduced to Ambassador Nhicol and the Renovian entourage.

  * * *

  CAL EXPLAINS THE DANGER he’s in while Shadow paces the room. Her pink dressing gown, a gift from Duchess Girt, billows out behind her as she goes, so it looks like it’s chasing after her, trying to keep up. She’s taken her wig and jewelry off, so her wavy dark hair, growing out already, rests around her ears in a short, cropped bob. Cal likes the way it frames her face.

  The duke and duchess have gone to bed, with orders to be awakened when the ambassador arrives.

  “I can’t go to breakfast; I will stay up here while you make excuses for me,” he tells her.

  “What?” she asks, pinching her nose.

  “I’ve caught some kind of fever, some kind of terrible disease from Argonia,” he instructs.

  “But then I have to go down and meet him?” she says, obviously panicked.

  “Shadow.”

  “Listen, I’m pretty certain I’ve met him before as well. He bought honey from my aunts. I can’t see him! He’ll know I’m Renovian!”

  Cal is firm. “The ambassador isn’t going to remember you simply because you met him once. He meets quite a few people.”

  “What if we’ve both fallen ill? That way it’s more believable, especially if we’ve caught something on our travels,” she says triumphantly.

  Cal relents. “That’s fine. We’re both ill, then. I’ll tell the maid to bring up toast and tea. But we need to be able to go on the royal hunt somehow. The king himself invited us.”

  If he’s suspicious about her anxiety regarding the Renovian ambassador, he chalks it up to her general inexperience and forgets about it soon enough.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Shadow

  THE DUCHESS IS HEARTBROKEN THAT we’ll miss her extravagant breakfast, but when the maid says we might be contagious and have both been revisited by our dinners—thanks to a hefty dose of ipecac syrup I found in the drawer of the vanity—she backs down and wishes us a speedy recovery.

  We can
’t play sick for too long, or else the duchess will fetch a doctor, and he’ll know we’re not truly ill.

  After the maid delivers my tea and toast, Cal calls me to his room to discuss the situation. I am wracked with guilt. This valuable “missing art” Nhicol is searching for in Montrice is sure to be me. My mother is quite well positioned at court and has surely alerted the authorities to begin their search. I can’t let him find me. I can’t.

  “I’ve been thinking,” Cal announces as soon as I enter the room and shut the door. “These royal hunts are always so big. We can probably avoid Nhicol altogether if we’re careful.” He’s standing by the window, looking out at the grounds of the Girt estate.

  “I thought of that too. But—what if we’re not careful enough? What then?” I can just imagine the scene: the ambassador recognizes us as Renovian and unmasks our true nationality to the king, who decides we are spies and sends us to the dungeons, or worse, the gallows. Or worse, my mother discovers exactly where I am and what I’m up to.

  Cal paces back and forth a couple times. “How do we know he isn’t already aware that we’re here or who we really are? Maybe this is part of the queen’s plan.”

  “But why would she send him here without sending word?” I ask.

  “The question isn’t whether she would send word, the question is would she send him here without telling him that we’re here.” Cal takes a sip of tea and grimaces. “Or is he here for his own reasons?”

  “I have no idea. But until we know, we have to stay away. As you mentioned earlier, he can easily be an Aphrasian spy, or a double agent. We don’t know. We need to find out what he’s doing here before we let him see us.”

  We hear footsteps in the hallway. Cal takes charge. “The maids are on their way to tidy up. You need to go back to your room. Here’s the plan: We’re going to feel better, but be a bit late, so we’ll join the party at its tail end. The ambassador will be up near the front with the Girts and the king. Once the hunt begins, it’s just a matter of avoiding them.”