The Assassin Princess (Lamb & Castle Book 2)

by J M Sanford

  The prince's eyes were still on the face of the pocket watch, his thoughts on Miss Lamb, when he heard Miss Hartwood's dainty footsteps on the tiles outside the dining hall.

  “Is this really necessary?” she asked, her melodious voice ringing off the stone walls.

  Fixing his face into a charming smile, Archalthus closed his pocket watch with a sharp snap, and looked round. On either side of Miss Hartwood stood twin bodyguards: blond, empty-eyed and immaculately dressed.

  “You must become accustomed to being escorted so,” Archalthus explained, his patience stretched by the tedious familiarity of this conversation. “You'll be my Queen one day, and the most valuable woman in all the worlds.”

  “True,” said Miss Hartwood, as one of her twin guards pulled out her chair for her. She might complain, but she'd become accustomed to their tireless patient service quickly enough. She sat down to her meal, taking a sip of wine. “And now that I've agreed to be your Queen, how long must I wait? I'm tired of being locked in my rooms all the time.”

  Ah, so she thought the wedding would change that. Best not to tell her that in some ways she'd have fewer freedoms as Queen, not more. “Not long now, my dear,” said Archalthus.

  “But when, precisely?”

  “The very day we have the Crown. The very hour,” Archalthus promised. “In the meantime, why don't we talk of more pleasant things? How are you progressing with the book of Mirendorean poetry?” She might be beautiful (and of course that was one of the most important qualities in a queen) but Miss Hartwood's mind needed finer sculpting before she was fit to be the Dragon Queen.

  With an embarrassed and unladylike shrug, Miss Hartwood turned her attention back to her food, refusing to meet his eye. He knew she enjoyed books on art and nature – books with plenty of gorgeous colour plates to feast her eyes upon – and she had a refined eye for jewellery that impressed even the dragon, but she completely failed to hold up her side of any conversation about history, politics or literature. With the day of their wedding fast approaching, albeit not fast enough for her liking, this simply would not do. Once she was his Queen, they'd be entertaining emirs and emperors together, and even Miss Hartwood's captivating good looks could only carry her so far in discerning company.

  “Rose,” he sighed in exasperation. “My Rose…”

  “I never could read Mirendorean very well,” she said sharply. “My governess always yattered on about how romantic it is, but it's such a ridiculous-looking language, with all those frilly bits. Who wants to go to Mirendor these days anyway?”

  This casual dismissal shocked Archalthus. As a young dragonling, he'd visited Mirendor, thousands of years ago when it had been a land of mage heroes and philosopher kings. The world's greatest art and literature had come from the Golden Ages of Mirendor. More recently – as Ilgrevnia skirted modern civilisation, going from node to node in all the forgotten places of the world – Archalthus had revisited what had once been the capital of Mirendor. The temples and palaces stood empty, an island of white stone awash in a sea of endless singing sand dunes, the proportions of ancient Mirendorean architecture so mathematically perfect that they stood strong long after their abandonment, beautiful even in their desolation.

  “Father says nothing good at all comes out of Mirendor these days,” said Rose. “He says Mirendor only has three exports: sand, goats, and the filthiest beggars you'll ever see.”

  “Goats. Yes,” said one of her identical blond bodyguards, in a startling surge of enthusiasm for this topic. “It is true that Mirendor supplies much of Tybor's meat since the discovery of the new Tyborean node. In some northern territories, goat's meat was historically thought to contain the deadliest of poisons. However, this has been proven untrue, and the southern territories have many traditional recipes utilising every conceivable part of the goat, including parts considered most unpalatable to modern tastes.”

  As the blond gentleman continued to narrate the history of the common goat, Archalthus regarded him with suspicion, and Archmage Morel sniggered into his sleeve – he must have been tinkering with the gentlemen's scripts again. Archalthus vaguely remembered expressing some frustrated wish for better conversation at the dinner table, and the Archmage must have decided to amuse himself by teaching the golems some useless trivia.

  “Will my wedding gown be of Tyborean silk?” asked Miss Hartwood, interrupting the lecture on goats, which had showed no sign of stopping otherwise.

  “But of course, my dear,” said Archalthus.

  “Will it have pearls? Thousands of them? Diamonds would shine better, you know.”

  Archalthus smiled. “A thousand thousand diamonds for my beloved's wedding gown,” he assured her.

  Miss Hartwood began to run through a list of what she must and must not have at the wedding, bending the eternally patient and polite ear of her golem guard. Archalthus half-listened, but at the same time he watched the serving girl remove a section of Archmage Morel's long white beard from his soup bowl, then brush crumbs from the front of the Mage’s robes, and he worried. Would the old man live long enough to successfully complete Rose's wedding gift? The prince, thousands of years old and in the prime of life, sometimes forgot how old Archmage Morel was – ancient even by the standards of Mages. The measures necessary to extend a human lifespan beyond the natural three score and ten became increasingly unpleasant, decade by decade, century by century. There were limits beyond which a man's sanity simply could not endure, and Morel must be approaching them. A Mage's work always had an element of risk in it, even for an Archmage in his prime: for every grand success, a dire failure. Certainly whenever anybody criticised Morel's golem creations, the old Archmage protested that it was an almost impossible magic to master, with little chance for collaboration to advance the knowledge, not since golems had been made illegal. Morel's griffins had yielded mixed results, too. And if Archalthus found himself on precarious ground with his choice of Mage, he was also beginning to think he should have replaced his Commander some time ago, preferably with somebody more accustomed to magic, but it was too late now. He could send Commander Breaker to the Archmage's workshop for further improvements, but the trouble with that was that he could never be quite sure what he'd get back. He'd already lost useful servants that way – Morel cutting and stitching and transforming them into chimeras not fit for anything more than curiosities.

  With a flutter, the piece of paper the Archmage had been scribbling on rose up above the dining table, cutting itself into pieces that turned into paper butterflies and went flitting about the dining hall.

  Miss Hartwood laughed and clapped her hands in delight at the unexpected spectacle. “Oh, we must have some of those at the wedding!” she exclaimed, making the Archmage smile – Miss Hartwood was perhaps the only person in Ilgrevnia young and light-hearted enough to be delighted by even the simplest magic tricks and trinkets.

  “Of course, my love,” said Archalthus, gathering his patience. More and more dissatisfied by the moment, his attention returned to the red-haired servant, and he watched her critically as she poured more wine for Archmage Morel. She looked so much nobler as a griffin. He should have the Archmage make some proper serving girls, when time allowed, so that the griffin wouldn't have to stoop so low as to assume human shape and perform menial work. Such a noble beast as a griffin, removed from her more rightful station, must surely grow bored of cooking and cleaning, and who knew what trouble she'd get into then… Surely that was the reason for the black griffin's irascible behaviour – perhaps it would do well to set him to the hunt more often, and then he'd learn discipline and respect. Yes, perhaps he'd take the griffins out hunting one day – a gentleman’s hunt, for the sheer pleasure of it. Back in the good old days before his curse, he'd hunted alone: he'd pursued unicorns through the tangled woods, fangs and claws against spiral horn and flailing hooves; he'd hunted hippogriff bucks with antlers like trees and torn them down from the clouds where they tried to hide. More recently, trapped in human form, he'd
had to content himself with the more sedate pastime of shooting pheasants, which had quickly lost its novelty. How he longed to hunt more challenging prey…

  Miss Hartwood's excited chatter had died down, and he caught her gazing at him across the dining table, a gentle smile curving her lips. For all she taunted him, it seemed she really had learned to love him. She saw through his curse to the noble and fierce dragon spirit within him, and adored him for it despite the weak human guise he'd been forced to wear. She'd make a magnificent dragoness, once the enchanted Crown was on her head. He almost told her so, but instead kept quiet and smiled back at her. Far better to reserve that wonderful surprise for her on their wedding day.

  “Commander Breaker, do you have anything to report on the whereabouts of my bride-to-be's Crown?”

  “Oh, those two girls know exactly where the crown is, Master. Give 'em a week in the dungeons and we'll have the truth.”

  Miss Hartwood leaned excitedly over the table. “Are you talking about that sparrow girl who broke into my rooms? The little brown one?”

  “Yes, Mistress. And that little sparrow girl might be used to a life of hunger and misery, but the blonde one looked more accustomed to luxury. She'll be the one to confess where they've hidden the crown.”

  “You captured two sparrow girls? In our City?” Miss Hartwood looked caught between horror and delight at this scandalous revelation.

  “In the dungeons?” Archalthus had seen the labyrinth first hand, albeit some long years ago. Dragons enjoyed underground chambers, often carving out magnificent homes for themselves deep under mountains, but the caverns and tunnels beneath Ilgrevnia were perpetually dark and damp, the air sick with creeping water and all the nasty moulds you found where the walls cramped in and sunlight never touched. “I told you to treat those young ladies as our respected guests,” Archalthus growled, “and you've left them to rot in the dungeons?”

  The Commander flinched. “They'll confess before they starve, Master, don't you worry about that.”

  “What?”

  “They're prisoners, Master, not guests,” the Commander protested. “They stole Her Ladyship's crown; they –”

  Archalthus stood up so quickly that his ornately carved chair toppled backwards with a crash. “Enough!” he shouted, banging his fist down on the table, his golden eyes ablaze. “I will not have the history books show that I stooped so low as to use such tactics!” For the sake of convenience, he forgot the times he’d employed less-than-noble tactics in the past, particularly when it had been his curse tempting him into dishonourable action. The occasional execution was one thing, and a monarch's duty sometimes; torture was another thing altogether. A prince must have standards!

  Still protesting, Commander Breaker rose from his seat and scurried out of the dining hall, the Prince striding after him, fists and jaw clenched, radiating regal fury. Miss Hartwood went running after her fiancé, her lovely turquoise eyes bright with glee – she would get to see the funny sparrow girl again after all! – and her twin bodyguards followed.

  ~

  Archmage Morel, who had stirred from dozing at the sound of raised voices, peered around the table anxiously. “Where did everybody go? Scarlet? Did I nod off?”

  “It's all right, Mister Morel,” said Scarlet, tucking a blanket around him against the chill of the coming evening. “You just sit and rest. It's about time you had some peace and quiet, what with you working so hard all the time.” She went to pour him another glass of wine, but he stopped her, disentangling himself from the blanket. “You sleep if you want to,” she insisted, desperately.

  But the old Archmage wasn't such a fool as to fall for that. Eyes narrowed, he scrutinised her open face where a lie struggled to hide. “Your brother's a bad influence on you, Scarlet.” He gripped her wrist, not so frail or feeble as he'd seemed just moments ago. “Tell me: what mischief is Sable getting into now? Has he got into my workshop again?”

  23: IN THE PALACE OF THE DRAGON PRINCE

  Even as Morel spoke, the crow griffin was prancing up and down the workshop, snatching up first one shiny trinket in his beak, then dropping it to grab another, spoilt for choice as to what he should take. Having dropped the deadly Device into the well beneath the Orb, Sable knew it would be the end of this cache of strange and horrible delights, and his last chance to steal from the old Archmage's magical treasure trove.

  “I thought crows were supposed to be clever,” said Amelia loudly, but Sable ignored her. She turned to Bessie instead. “You stupid, mean-spirited little…” Amelia couldn’t think of a word bad enough for what Bessie was. “We have to do something about that Device. At best the City will crash, and at worst…” the worst was beyond even an imagination well fed with fairy tales. “Don't you remember what happened with the Keystone? I can only imagine this will be at least a hundred times worse.”

  Bessie frowned, looking suddenly uneasy and so young that Amelia didn't believe she was fourteen at all. “Sharvesh is magical. Bryn's skyship, that brought me here,” Bessie explained when she saw Amelia's look of confusion. “I should have thought of that before: they'll be waiting somewhere close by… I don't want to see them stranded out here!”

  “Stranding might be the least of their troubles,” Amelia muttered. She looked at the size of the gap between the Orb and the edge of the hole, and then looked at the size of Bessie. “Look, I know you want to see Arch–” Amelia stopped herself just in time, “to see the prince destroyed, but if you don't fish that Device out of there right now, I'll… I'll turn you into a rat! For real, this time!” She grabbed Bessie by the arm and dragged her to the edge of the well. “Go on! Get in there and get that Device!” If they couldn't stop it, then at least they could move it from the Orb and put it somewhere it wouldn't run the risk of unravelling time, turning mountains upside down, or awakening sleeping oceans.

  Amelia's threat might have been empty (she didn't know how to turn Bessie into a rat) but it didn't matter, as Bessie had a sudden attack of conscience at the thought of her companions in danger. She tried her hardest to retrieve the Device, but… “I can't,” she said at last, swiping at the tears of frustration brimming in her eyes. So close to the Orb, her hair stood on end, a fine dark cloud around her head. “I'm not stupid, you know. I knew better than to put the Device under the Orb – that was the wretched griffin's doing – and I can't reach it now without getting all the way into the hole. I might just about manage that, but then I'm not so sure I could get out again.”

  Buckets of water stood beside the Orb, and the idea struck Amelia to fill up the well beneath, in hopes of floating the Device to a height where Bessie could reach it. But the Device didn't float, disappearing below the rising water level.

  Amelia shook her head. “Let's leave it be, then.” If she was still in Ilgrevnia when the clock struck seven and the City fell from the sky, it would be a death sentence, and she wouldn't abandon Bessie to that fate either. If they didn't linger too long in the Archmage's workshop, they might have time to rescue Rose: Bessie had been able to sneak in to the prisoner's rooms easily enough before, so surely she could do it again. But before Amelia could broach this idea with Bessie, the door flew open and Scarlet dashed in, her long hair flying free of its pins, her face red.

  She stood there panting for breath, staring a moment at the enormous clock on the wall before turning to the fugitives. “Master's about to find you gone from your cell,” she warned. “I'm sorry: there's nothing I could do. Mister Morel knows the workshop's open, too – I told him it was only Sable fooling around again, and I'd see to him.”

  Bessie gave a haughty sniff, snottier than she would have liked after her bout of frustrated tearfulness. “Thank you, Scarlet,” she said, brusquely. This latest news didn't particularly worry her: if the prince's men had to search Ilgrevnia for the escaped prisoners, there was no reason for them to start with the workshop. “Why's that clock running backwards?” she asked, pointing at the clock that had grabbed Scarlet's attention. Amel
ia hadn't noticed at first, but the hands ran counter-clockwise, steadily and accurately measuring time backwards.

  Scarlet took a deep breath and for a moment looked as though she'd explain, but then thought better of it. Mad clock or no mad clock, time was running out. “Just one of the curious things Mister Morel's built for himself,” she said with a brittle kind of cheerfulness, as if speaking of anybody's grandfather and his whimsical ideas, instead of a dangerously powerful mage. “I don't pretend to know what that's for.”

  No, thought Amelia, new suspicions suddenly awakening, although you might pretend not to know what it's for… But there was something more important yet: she immediately told Scarlet what Sable had done.

  Scarlet looked horrified to hear that the Device was trapped underneath the Orb – she rushed to the well and peered in, but if Bessie couldn't get to it then none of them could.

  “Might Archmage Morel be able to do something about it?” asked Amelia.

  Scarlet shook her head. “Oh no! If we tell Mister Morel what Sable's done, we might as well – Sable, put that down! You don't know where it's been!” The black griffin gave a muffled squawk around a beakful of tangled old rope, leather, bedraggled feathers and silver bells. Head held proudly high, eyes glittering with mischief, he dared his sister to take the prize from him. She strode over, seizing a portion of the thing herself, yanking hard on it, but in human form she wasn't nearly a match for the strength of the black griffin. He shook the thing in his terrible crow's beak, like a terrier play-fighting for a length of old rope – everything was a tremendous game for the black griffin. Scarlet went to throw the thing down in disgust, but found she couldn't let go of it. She sighed. “There, now you've done it.” Sable too found himself trapped in the strange snare, tearing at it with his beak as he tried in vain to pull his claws out of its tangles, pulling his sister off balance instead. Bessie managed to cut the living ropes from round Scarlet's wrists, almost succumbing to the trap herself, but she didn’t dare get close enough to Sable’s fierce beak and claws to free him.