The Queen's Assassin Page 23

  We are easy with each other, having entered into an unspoken agreement never to discuss what happened between us the other day—the “lesson”—and me running away from it. He was making a point about espionage, nothing more. I have to stop thinking about his kiss. Obviously, he’s more than forgotten about it.

  As for the true identities of our hosts, we have agreed to keep a wary eye on them but decided it is safer to stay at the estate than to tip them off to our suspicions by leaving.

  So the Small Ball it is.

  “Oh, stop pouting,” I tease him. “You look rather elegant, if I do say so.” I smile, thinking of the Queen’s Assassin fretting over a dancing costume.

  “I’m not pouting. Consider the practicality. Look, I can’t move my arms”—he demonstrates by lifting his arms to show me how confining the metal breastplate is—“and the cape is so heavy. It will slow me down if we encounter any problems.” He fusses with it, yanking the front tie down. “And it’s choking me!”

  I laugh and reach out to help him tie a better knot. “You had it too tight.” We haven’t stood so close together since the kiss. I finish quickly and back away. “There. Is that better?”

  He nods but continues to fuss with it. “The king’s upcoming engagement will most likely be announced at the Small Ball. A marriage to a princess of Argonia or Stavin will strengthen his army and forge a greater alliance against Renovia. The royal houses of Argonia and Stavin are already unified through a great-grandmother. Only Renovia remains apart.”

  “Or maybe he’ll marry our Crown Princess Lilac,” I say. “Wouldn’t that be something.”

  “I’m sure the queen has considered it,” says Cal. “It would be a pathway to peace between the kingdoms.”

  “Poor Princess Lilac,” I say.

  “Is Hansen so unappealing?” Cal asks.

  I shrug. “King Hansen is fine, a little pompous and a little vain, and our enemy of course, but he seems harmless. I just meant how sad not to be able to choose whom to marry, even as a princess.”

  “We all have our duty to fulfill,” he says, continuing to fidget in his formalwear.

  A thought occurs to me. Cal’s nervous. I’ve never seen him this way before. “You don’t know how to dance, do you?”

  “I know how to dance,” he says indignantly. Then reconsiders. “Generally speaking. But the Guild does not offer their assassins formal training in the art, no.”

  I laugh. Growing up I learned all the court dances from village fairs and festivals. Plus all the lessons from Missus Kingstone over the years. “It’s easy. Believe me—they can’t do anything too complicated in those wigs.” I look at his chest. “Or that armor. I’ll teach you.”

  “There’s no need. I can stand in the corner with my sword and cape.”

  “Unacceptable. Nobody will believe you’re Lord Holton of . . . oh, what is it? It’s been called so many things by so many people I don’t know what’s right anymore.”

  “Backley Hold,” he says.

  “Exactly. Listen—nobody will believe you’re Lord Holton of Backley Hold if you don’t dance. All highborn men of the realm know how to dance. They love dancing. So let’s get started.” I hold my arms up. I wait for him to come toward me but he just stands there. “Come on. You need to be a lot closer to me than that,” I say.

  He takes a few reluctant steps forward. “Really, this feels entirely unnecessary. I’ll have you know I’ve gotten by just fine all these years without dance lessons.”

  “But it is necessary if we are going to uncover what’s truly going on here in Montrice. Remember what you said? ‘Espionage is an art. You must have a wide range of skills.’ Skills include dancing.”

  “Fine.” He takes my hand and puts his other on my waist. I try not to focus on that. “Now what?”

  “Let’s start with the basic steps. Put your feet like this. Perfect. You’re mostly moving in a square; think of it that way. Like this.” I lead him through the steps. He picks it up right away. “Excellent! Now, you lead.”

  Cal relaxes a bit. After leading me through a few more short steps, our actions become more fluid, less halting and deliberate. I relax and forget about the movements so much and become aware of the feel of his hand in mine, the other warm against the small of my back.

  I break away. He looks stunned, briefly, but wipes the expression off his face.

  “See?” I say, perhaps a little too cheerfully. “You’re a natural. It’s a bit like sword fighting, except nicer. You didn’t even step on my foot. Now let’s try something a bit more complicated. I’m going to spin as you let go of my hand, then you bring me back to you again. Okay?”

  Cal catches on right away. As I turn, he reaches out and takes my right hand, and we come back together flawlessly. As if we’ve practiced this many times.

  We do that a few more times, melding the twirl with the other steps. He’s agile and light on his feet, which isn’t surprising, considering his training. He has excellent posture and instinctively understands the way to make our bodies move in sync together. But I do my best not to get distracted by that. Probably more of his acting at work, and the thought spoils the magic for me.

  “You just need to memorize the steps to the different dances. That should come easily. You might be better than me already,” I tell him. He shrugs, but doesn’t reject the compliment.

  “Your father never took you to court? Or to a village fair?” I ask when we’re finished.

  Cal pulls the cape off and tosses it aside. He plops down into the chair. “The truth is I barely knew my father. I mean, I remember him, of course. But even before he died, he was gone a lot. Working. So I didn’t know him the way I should have. And no, he never took me to court or to fairs; there wasn’t much time.”

  He must see the concern on my face because he goes on. “Don’t get me wrong. I know he loved me. But I don’t think he knew how to be a father. I don’t think he expected to raise a child alone. He taught me things, sure. He told me stories. Stories he learned from my mother.”

  “What happened to her?” I have been too afraid to ask before.

  He looks down at his hands and fiddles with his sword pommel. “I know almost nothing about her. My father didn’t want to talk about her—it hurt him too much. She died not long after I was born. Her name was Medan. She grew up on a farm and had a younger sister, he said. She was a Guild healer. She taught my father about herbs and using Deian magic to cure people. That’s how I knew what to do for your arm.

  “She didn’t think the monks should be the only ones with magic. She caused a lot of trouble, teaching magic—small magic, what she referred to as ‘kitchen magic,’ nothing that would ever be a threat to anyone, but still—someone could report her, and the Aphrasians would come for her, and that could put the Guild at risk. My father wanted her to stop. For her own safety. Even if many agreed with her. Well, he was right.

  “One night a villager called for my mother to care for their sick daughter. She’d just had a baby herself, but my father said that only made her more determined to go help. She left me home with the neighbor and headed across town. She was there all night, nursing their daughter. She did her best, but for some things, there is just no cure. The girl died a few days later. The parents blamed my mother. Claimed she was evil, a witch, using Aphrasian secrets nefariously, for her own gain somehow. That she’d stolen their daughter’s lifeblood. A mob came to the house while my father was away on a mission for Queen Lilianna. Broke down the door. Tied her to a pole. Set her on fire.”

  I want to comfort him, but I don’t know what to say. “I’m so sorry, Cal. That’s . . . it’s . . .”

  “I know,” he says. “But I don’t remember anything. I was just a baby. The mob left me sleeping in the cottage. Luckily she still had at least one friend left—a neighbor who stole me away from the house and kept me until my father could return to
collect me.

  “When my father died, an old blacksmith took me in as an apprentice and left me the shop in his will. It’s a good cover while I’m bound to service by the oath my father made. I’m the Queen’s Assassin, and if not that, I’m a blacksmith.”

  I grab his hand. “Cal—you’re more of a prince than any I’ve ever met.” The words fly from my mouth before I can stop to think about what I’m saying. He looks at me with surprise, and his eyes soften. Maybe he’s thinking of the kiss, maybe even considering another. Because I am.

  I feel my heart pound in the silence between us. But he does nothing. I was right, he forgot about it and gives it no further thought. He’s probably kissed dozens of girls.

  I drop his hand.

  “Everything will be fine tomorrow,” I say to smooth things over and move on. “Get your dancing shoes ready.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Caledon

  UNBEKNOWNST TO HIS TRAVELING COMPANION, Cal has not forgotten about the kiss. It is all he can think of when he is not trying to remember where he has seen the duke before. He knows it is important, but for the life of him he cannot recall. He is almost certain the duke is the conspirator against the Renovian crown, but he cannot act until he is certain.

  As for the kiss, since it appears Shadow has given it no further thought, and is cheerful and friendly toward him once more, he is careful not to show his feelings. They are friends again, and that is all that matters. But images and sensations keep returning to his mind—her soft, sweet mouth, and the way their bodies moved together, fluid and graceful, during the impromptu dance lesson.

  He almost kissed her again, after telling her about his family. It is a good thing she pulled away. Whatever is happening between them has to stop.

  On the night of the Small Ball he leaves his room and heads downstairs to meet her in the entry hall, conscious of keeping his stupid cape from getting underfoot.

  As he descends the wide staircase, he sees Shadow standing near the door.

  She doesn’t see him yet, but it’s clear that she’s waiting for him, and the sight of her takes his breath away.

  Her gown is deepest midnight blue, slightly shimmering, with delicate floral embroidery across the bottom of the skirt. A golden sash is tied around her tiny waist, and he makes a silent offer of gratitude to Montrician aristocrats for their preference for incredibly low necklines. Instead of wearing the traditional headpiece, a large conical shape with a sheer veil, she wears her hair pulled up under a blooming crown of flowers to match the embroidery.

  His cape is the same shade of blue, with a red dahlia at his breast like the ones on her dress and in her hair.

  Her eyes sparkle when she finally catches sight of him. “Cal! How handsome you look!” she says, even though she saw him in it yesterday.

  “And you, my lady, will have a dozen proposals before the night is through,” Cal says, bowing to her.

  She laughs. “I hope not!” So do I, Cal thinks as he offers his arm to escort her.

  The duke and duchess join them in the entry hall. The duchess is flustered. She fans herself frantically with her right hand, balancing her tiny puppy in her left. “The ambassador has taken ill,” she exclaims. She looks at her husband. “Is it contagious, do you suppose?”

  “I told you, dear, the doctor assured me it is not,” he says calmly.

  The fan shakes even faster. “Oh dear. I do hope it’s not . . . foul play . . .”

  “People do get ill,” the duke says, dismissing her.

  “I suppose you’re right. Terribly disappointing.” The duchess hands her yapping pup over to a footman and brushes hair off the front of her gown.

  “Honestly, don’t you know better by now?” the duke says to her.

  “Oh, hush,” she says. “Let’s go or we’ll be late!” She takes a long look at Cal. “Well, don’t you make a fine knight in shining armor, oh my!” She pats his shoulder with her fan on her way past him to the door. “And, Lady Lila, you look positively . . . interesting.”

  The couple exits ahead of Cal and Shadow and climbs into the first waiting coach.

  Once they’re settled in their own carriage and the clopping of hooves covers their voices better, Shadow whispers: “What do you think about the ambassador?”

  “Certainly suspicious.”

  “Do you think he was poisoned?”

  “It’s possible. But I think it’s more likely he’s using illness as an excuse, like we did. Maybe he thinks it will be easily believed because it will seem like he caught it from us.”

  “Not sure what to make of ‘the doctor assures me it’s not contagious.’”

  Cal shrugs. “We don’t have enough information. And right now, it isn’t our concern. You need to get King Hansen to talk. Dance with him. See what you can find out, who is close to him. I think he’ll like dancing with you a lot more than me.”

  “I’m not so sure about that. You look awfully dapper tonight, Lord Callum. I think you could loosen anyone’s lips.”

  “Even yours?” he asks.

  She turns toward the window, pink spreading across her cheeks.

  * * *

  THEIR CARRIAGE DRIVES UP the lane leading to King Hansen’s castle. It’s illuminated by torches all the way up to the curved approach in front of the entry. They pull up behind other carriages and wait their turn to exit and go inside. Footmen rush to open carriage doors, while royal guards stand outside the doorway. Yellow light spills out onto the front steps.

  Finally, it’s their turn. A footman opens the coach door and Cal steps out. He turns and offers his gloved hand to Shadow. As she emerges, people stop to stare, dazzled by her beauty. Shadow seems not to notice, but Cal does, feeling a surge of pride at being her escort. She is mine, he thinks, before he can stop it.

  The palace has been transformed since the last time they were there for the weekly audience. For one thing, it’s much more crowded, though Cal can’t tell if there are more people or if the elaborate gowns and capes are taking up all the space. There are thick green flowered garlands strung over every window and doorway. Tables are covered in shimmering white tablecloths that are accented in thin gold and silver thread. Urns of flowers are set up in every corner and at every table, along with gold candelabras holding bright white tapered candles. Blazing chandeliers are suspended from the ceiling, and hanging gems glitter in the firelight. A fire roars in the giant hearth. Musicians wearing green and white play merry tunes while guests dance or gather in groups, talking and laughing over plates heaped with food. A chef carves fresh meats from a spit in an adjoining room while footmen pour bottles of the finest Argonian wine into long-stemmed glasses.

  King Hansen, in head to toe gold brocade and white lace, glides across the dance floor with a flaxen-haired maiden in a flouncy mint-green gown, one of the higher-ranked noblemen’s eligible daughters. “I wonder if that’s her,” Shadow says to Cal. “The one he’s meant to marry?”

  He shakes his head and points to a line forming on the other side of the dance floor. At least a dozen similar-looking aristocratic young women stand there, waiting for a chance to dance with the king. It’s already clear they can’t get near Hansen. “Every woman in Mont wants a turn with him,” Shadow says. “So which one is the one?”

  “Does it matter? Once he sees you looking like that, I have a feeling he’ll let you skip to the front of the queue,” Cal says.

  Shadow looks at him out of the corner of her eye.

  “What?” he says.

  “Nothing,” she answers.

  “Tell me,” he insists.

  “You are full of compliments tonight.”

  “Is that a bad thing?”

  “No, it’s just . . . you’ve never noticed before. How I look.”

  How could I not? Every man in here does. “That’s not true,” he says. “It’s just that you l
ook different this evening.”

  “Just different?” But there is a teasing lilt to her tone and not the hostility from the other day.

  “You look very pretty,” he admits finally.

  “I’ll accept it,” she says with a smug smile.

  A nobleman in an outfit like Cal’s comes toward them. “Uh-oh. Here we go,” Shadow mutters to Cal.

  The man holds out his hand to Shadow. “May I have this dance?”

  She accepts his hand. He leads her to the dance floor. She looks back at Cal with a pleading expression. He puts his hands up. What can I do? he mouths. She rolls her eyes and shakes her head at him just as the nobleman swings her around and sweeps her away into the crowd.

  Cal moves to the edges of the room and stays in the shadows, as far from the dance floor as he can while still observing the guests. His gaze sweeps the room and settles on two men in the opposite corner, deep in conversation. He follows their gaze toward King Hansen. He must get closer to them, but it’s almost impossible to concentrate on them when he’s so distracted.

  Shadow twirls by, holding her skirt up so that it billows out even farther, led by another member of Montrice’s lesser nobility. This one appears to be respecting her space, at least. She is smiling politely but keeps looking around the room. Another nobleman cuts in. She isn’t going to have a moment alone at this rate—they all want her attention, however brief. And who can blame them? She’s practically glowing tonight.

  Her face is fresh, natural, and she holds herself with a charming forthrightness. No one would ever guess she’s a beekeeper’s ward, let alone an apprentice assassin.

  Shadow glides by again, with a new dance partner. More are waiting at the sidelines, itching to step in. They all think they’re wooing the titled heiress to a substantial foreign estate. Cal’s amused at the thought of them finding out who she really is.

  The vizier spots Cal and rushes over to him, his loyal footman close behind. “Lord Holton! I have found you at last. Here, come with me. You must dance with the finest ladies of Montrice! I know, I know, you said you are already betrothed, but you never know, do you? And there’s nothing wrong with having some fun, is there?”