The Queen's Assassin Read online

  Cal takes a long sip of wine.

  Duchess Girt taps her fork against the side of her goblet and the chatter dies down. All faces at the table look her way. “I would like to take a moment to share some good news with you. An important guest of ours is engaged to be married.” She raises her goblet and looks directly at us. “A toast to the happy couple.”

  At first I panic, but then I remember the lie I spun about Cal’s engagement. Of course the duchess would bring that up. She wants to see if it’s true, and if it is, if it’s still happening. I finish off the rest of my champagne and pick up the wineglass next to it.

  “Are they not brother and sister?” the old woman who stood in front of us at the hunt asks loudly. She looks to her husband, face scrunched in confusion. He shrugs and takes a sip of wine.

  The duchess giggles. “Oh yes, Lady Helena. My apologies. I meant to say that Lord Holton is himself betrothed, but unfortunately the lady in question is not with us tonight.”

  “I see,” Lady Helena says. “Who are they again?” she says about us.

  “Excellent question, Lady Helena. For those who have not been properly introduced, the duke and I have had the privilege of hosting Lord and Lady Holton of Argonia.” People clap lightly; some of them nod in our direction. The duchess sips her champagne and puts it down, dabs the corners of her mouth with a white napkin. “Lady Lila, what was the name of your ancestral estate again?”

  “On our maternal grandfather’s side, that would be Backley Hall, in Stavin,” I tell her with a false smile, annoyed that she has placed the spotlight on us, and worried about catching the attention of the ambassador. People on the opposite end of the table lean back in their chairs to get a look at the strange girl. I glance down, letting the wig obscure my face.

  “Backley Hall,” says one of the courtiers near the king. “I don’t think I’ve heard of it.”

  “Oh, the vizier can tell you all about it,” says the duchess. “I hear he has a personal connection. Maybe he’d be willing to share?” The duchess leans forward, making the diamond earrings that hang to her shoulders swing and glitter in the light. I’m suddenly self-conscious of my own naked ears.

  I hate to admit it, but the duchess is very, very pretty. She’s all rosy cheeks and gold hair, and so small and feminine and soft. Maybe Cal even enjoyed kissing her. I take another long draft of my wine.

  “My pleasure!” The vizier begins to stand. A footman rushes forward to pull the ornate golden chair out for him. He launches into the same story he told the other day, about Lord Holton the Elder leaving him an emerald ring.

  “Are you all right?” Cal asks worriedly when I almost tip over the finger bowl.

  “I’m fine. I’m sorry I can’t be more elegant, like your gorgeous girlfriend, Duchess Flirt.” I’m practically snarling. And probably being far too loud. I don’t even care.

  “More champagne, lord, lady?” A footman leans forward between us.

  I hold out my empty flute.

  Cal shakes his head. Then he puts his hand out to the waiter, stopping him from pouring any more into my glass. “My sister has had quite enough.”

  “Don’t listen to my brother,” I growl. “Pour.”

  I drink from my newly full glass.

  Cal sighs. “What’s going on? You are jealous. I had to kiss her! Or we would have been discovered!” he argues.

  “No choice, did you? Well, from what I saw, you seemed to be enjoying it.” I wish I’d never helped him escape from Deersia; I should have let him rot there.

  “Everything all right down there?” the duchess calls across the table.

  “Absolutely,” Cal says. “My sister is chastising me for continuing to feast.”

  “Nonsense,” the duchess says. “Who doesn’t like a man with a bit of meat on his bones?”

  The ambassador raises his hand, and his husband smacks it down. “You’re terrible!” he says, laughing.

  Lady Helena adds: “A gentleman should eat as much as he pleases, unlike a lady. Though I believe Lady Holton knows that already.” She looks approvingly at my full plate.

  “It’s been a long day and the wine is strong,” King Hansen says. It’s the first he’s spoken during the entire meal. “Leave the poor girl alone.”

  At least someone is sticking up for me. The duchess takes exception to that. “Just a bit of fun, Your Majesty, no harm meant.” She bats her eyelashes at him but he isn’t paying any attention to her whatsoever. The king looks directly at me. Like he can see straight through the makeup . . . the wig . . . the gown . . .

  I turn away from his gaze. Servants are placing dessert in front of us. This ordeal is almost at an end, and then I can go lock myself upstairs, wipe this paint off my face, and continue our search for the duke’s true allegiances.

  A tall chocolate confection arrives, dusted with powdered sugar and a dollop of fluffy sweet cream. I pick up my fork and skim a bit off the side. I’m aware of tension in the room but don’t want to look up. I just pick at my cake. The table has become awfully quiet. I glance up and see that the king is still watching me. Everyone else is aware of it too, but they’re pretending they aren’t.

  “Lady Lila,” King Hansen says. “Have you received an invitation to the Small Ball?”

  I blink a few times. “Er, no, Your Majesty.”

  He looks at the vizier. “You haven’t invited Lady Lila—and her brother—to the Small Ball?”

  The vizier shifts uncomfortably.

  “Issue the invitation at once.” The king returns to his cake, as if the matter is settled.

  “May I ask a question?” Cal says. “Why is it the ‘Small Ball’?”

  “Because we are a small group, of course,” the vizier says, looking baffled. “Are you not familiar with the tradition?”

  “No, I’m not. In Argonia we only have large balls,” he says with a straight face.

  I thwack Cal’s shin with my pointy-toed shoe. He doesn’t even flinch.

  “In any case,” the vizier says, “I was under the impression that the Holtons were going to depart by then; otherwise I would surely have sent them an invitation. Allow me to set this right, Lord Holton?”

  “We would be honored to attend,” Cal says.

  “Then it is done, and, Renovia, are you staying for the event?” asks the king.

  “It is our distinct pleasure to be able to,” says Ambassador Nhicol as Mathieu beams at his side. “You are too kind, Your Majesty.”

  Please no. Please no. Please no. I can’t do this all over again.

  Duchess Girt claps her hands. “It’s settled! Everyone’s coming to the party!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Caledon

  THE VIZIER SHOWS UP FIRST thing in the morning to fret over their wardrobes. He visits Cal’s closet first. “Oh, but what will you wear?” The vizier sighs, flicking through the various shirts and jackets and pants Cal has collected during his stay. “We have, let’s see, one . . . two . . . three days! Three days. We can come up with something in three days, I think. We’ll get started right away.” He shuts the closet door decisively.

  Next they walk down the hall so the vizier can tackle Shadow’s closet. The duchess follows him around, taking mental notes for the tailor. He pulls each gown from the oak wardrobe and tosses it onto the bed until there’s a gigantic rainbow of silk and lace toppling over onto the floor. A maid picks them up, replaces the hangers, and places them over a chair, waiting for the vizier to leave so she can hang them back up. “Something . . . let’s see . . . no . . . no . . . absolutely not . . . what’s your favorite color, dear?”

  “Red,” Shadow says.

  “No. Blue for him, darker blue for her,” the vizier tells the duchess.

  She nods solemnly. “Agree completely.”

  “In fact, we should get out there right away.” He turns to address hi
s footman, who stands patiently in the hall outside the door. “Get the coach ready.” The footman bows and leaves. The vizier sighs and rolls his eyes, as if to suggest the staff is a bother, rather than people doing him a great service.

  “Tea for the drive?” the vizier asks Duchess Girt. He doesn’t wait for her response, which will of course be yes. He leaves the room. As she follows, she brushes suggestively against Cal. Later, she mouths to him. She runs her manicured nail across his lips.

  Once she’s gone, the swoosh of her gown fading into the house somewhere, Shadow says, “Do you need something?” She is standing by the window with her arms crossed.

  Cal’s taken aback. “I thought we would talk about—” He is about to say “the duke” but he doesn’t get a chance.

  “There’s nothing to talk about,” she snaps.

  He runs his hands over his face and hair in frustration. “Why are you so upset with me? Don’t we have more important things to worry about?”

  She looks out the window.

  “I already told you . . .” He pauses to collect his thoughts. He thinks she could be jealous but he can’t be sure. Besides, if Shadow cares for him, wouldn’t she say something? It’s not as if she’s shy, like he keeps telling people. “All I did was kiss a girl I didn’t particularly want to kiss, but I did it, for us.”

  “For me? You kissed her for me?” Shadow whips from the window. “Should I be grateful? Should I kiss the king too? For you?”

  “If it comes down to it, if it helps us uncover the conspiracy,” he says. He wants her to understand this is all for the greater good. “We are here for the queen. So can we please do what we’re here to do?”

  Shadow rubs her forehead. “Yes. Of course. I think I’m just tired. And overwhelmed.”

  Hooves clack on cobblestones outside the window. They see the carriage bringing the vizier and duchess to town. Shadow pulls the velvet curtain halfway across the window. “There, they’re out of our hair now. Where’s the duke? Did he ever mention where he was going to be today?”

  Cal scans his memory, trying to recall if Duke Girt said anything at breakfast. “Not that I recall. Let’s go find out.”

  They go down to the breakfast room, the smallest of the estate’s dining spaces, to ask for fresh tea and something light to eat. Cal picks up that morning’s discarded news and scans the headings.

  QUEEN OF RENOVIA TO VISIT MONTRICE, CROWN PRINCESS TO ACCOMPANY HER

  Cal wonders if the queen has come to Montrice to check on his work, if she will send a message somehow.

  A few minutes later, a maid arrives with a tea service, a bowl of fruit, and an assortment of breads and pastries. Cal thanks her and says, “Miss, do you happen to know where we can find the duke?”

  “Oh, he’s gone to town, to the solicitor’s office, my lord,” the maid responds.

  “Any idea when he’ll return?”

  “Usually when the duke goes to town, he’s gone until early evening, my lord. He left orders not to serve a full luncheon this afternoon. Do you need anything more?”

  “No, thank you,” Cal says.

  As soon as she leaves the room, he and Shadow nod to each other. Today they will make a much more thorough search of the duke’s study. Cal hopes he won’t have to kiss anybody to get out of it.

  * * *

  CAL LISTENS AT THE doorway like the last time. Nothing. Shadow turns the knob—it doesn’t budge. Locked.

  “Now what?” Shadow says. “I doubt we’ll get another chance. We can’t stay here forever. Maybe we can go outside, try to get in the window? It may even be open for air.”

  But Cal is already picking the lock with the sharp tip of his dagger. He jerks it to the side; there’s a satisfying click. He returns the dagger to its sheath and turns the knob again. The door swings open. “Listen for anyone snooping around,” he tells Shadow.

  “Always.”

  Cal closes the door and locks it behind them. He checks the windows. If the duke comes back earlier than expected, they can climb out and drop down fairly easily. The drop is only about six feet. There are bushes, but if they fall in the right place they can avoid those.

  He didn’t notice the first time, but the duke’s office is filthy with dust. The maids must not be allowed in very often. There are stacks of papers on the desk, some discarded drafts with large inkblots marring the words, some with lines of text crossed out. All of them appear to be real estate and tax transactions or household expense logs, receipts, records of staff payment. Cal is careful not to move anything out of place—he knows that even if it appears to be a reckless mess, the duke almost certainly has a method, and will be able to tell if something is amiss.

  Shadow scans the shelves on the wall. There’s far too much to go through in detail, row upon row of old ledgers and saved papers stored in leather boxes, lined up by size. She takes one of the boxes off the shelf and lifts the lid. “Nothing,” she says. “Same as what’s on the desk.”

  The desk has drawers on each side. Cal opens them one by one as Shadow had the first time they were in the study. Papers. A book of Montrician history going back to the time of the ancients. Quills. An old, stained inkstand. Empty ink bottles. Full ink bottles.

  “This is odd.” Shadow had stood on a stool and taken one of the boxes from the top shelf. It’s opened on a petite round side table next to a reading chair. She holds up a piece of paper. “Look.”

  Cal takes the paper from her and reads it.

  BILL OF MORTALITY

  A REPORT MADE TO THE KING’S MOST EXCELLENT MAJESTY

  By the company of the parish clerks of the capital of Montrice

  Does hereby declare the mortal deaths of Their Royal Highnesses, The Grand Duke and Duchess of Girt

  It is dated twenty years ago, a few months before the letter from King Esban, thanking the duke for his hospitality to his late brother. But how could the duke host King Almon if he was already dead?

  Cal hands the paper back to her. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  She nods. “The real Duke and Duchess of Girt are dead. They’ve been dead for over twenty years.”

  “So who are these imposters?” asks Cal.

  “Their murderers,” Shadow says, shuddering.

  “Except the duchess is our age,” says Cal.

  “Or she only looks like she is,” says Shadow. “She could be a witch, or some kind of shapeshifter.”

  Cal is about to agree when she holds up a hand. She hears something. They stand still as stone. Seconds later they hear walking in the hallway right outside the door.

  Cal places his fingers around his dagger. His window plan seems silly now—they can’t get to the window; it’s on the other side of the room.

  They stand there, waiting, a box full of the duke’s personal papers spread out in front of them.

  The footsteps continue past the study door.

  Shadow lets out a huge sigh of relief. Cal relaxes, tension leaving his neck and shoulders. “Must have been a maid,” he says.

  “Good thing it wasn’t the duchess. I don’t think I could handle such a vulgar display a second time,” she says archly.

  “And how do you think I felt? I’m the one who had to do it.” He expects her to laugh or make a snide comment back, but Shadow is silent. “Would it make you feel better if I kissed you too?” he teases. “Then you won’t feel left out.”

  “Don’t patronize me,” she says, a hurt tone in her voice.

  “I’m sorry. The fact is, sometimes part of being a spy is making someone believe you want them when you don’t.”

  She stares at him, still annoyed.

  “Not unlike pretending to be the heir to a Stavinish estate. Would you like a lesson in the art of espionage, my lady?”

  She doesn’t answer directly, but that draws a smile and short laugh fr
om her.

  “Here,” Cal says. “Let me teach you.” He steps closer to Shadow and takes her hand in his, pulling her toward him. She won’t look him in the eye, but she allows him to bring her close and put his arms around her.

  He softly touches her cheek, leans down, and brings his mouth to hers.

  It is supposed to be a lesson in spycraft. But when he feels her skin against his, it is the furthest thing from his mind.

  Though he only intended to give her a brief kiss, once he’s started, he finds he doesn’t want to stop. Shadow doesn’t either, and her hands twine around his neck, urging him closer. He presses himself against her as she opens herself to him, and her mouth is soft, and sweet, and he is lost in her, in this.

  Yes, this. This is what kissing the duchess was not. Kissing Shadow is everything—it is more than everything—it is as if he were sleepwalking, and now he is awake, all his senses, his entire being, his soul, alive and singing.

  Then suddenly, just as the kiss deepens, his hand in her hair and her arms around his neck, it’s over.

  Shadow jerks back.

  Cal is left alone, stunned. “Do you hear something?”

  She shakes her head. Quickly, she dumps the papers back in the leather box, replaces the lid, and slides it back onto the shelf. “Thanks for the lesson,” she says. “You’re a wonderful teacher and an even better actor.”

  “What? No . . . wait! That’s not . . .”

  But she doesn’t answer. She runs out the door, leaving him alone in the duke’s study.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Shadow

  THE SMALL BALL IS TOMORROW night. Cal is undertaking a dress rehearsal with the costumes that have been made for us. “I look like a fool,” he says, frowning at his clothing.