The Queen's Assassin

by Melissa de la Cruz

She shuts the door. “I gave him fifty a night for this?”

  “I couldn’t stop you.” Cal sighs. He looks out the dirty window. Their view is the gray brick wall of the building next door. “Hopefully we won’t be here long. And you’re not paying for the room so much as his silence.”

  “Right,” Shadow says. She sits down on the bed, then falls back. “A real bed. A hard one, but a real one, at least.”

  “No time for a nap. We have things to do.”

  “Yes. We should inquire about proper attire for Lord and Lady Holton of—what did I say it was called?”

  “Backley Hold.”

  “Backley Hold! Is there a quill around here? I should write it down.”

  “I’ll remember for you,” he says, and holds out his hand for her, a true gentleman.

  She takes it. His hand is warm in hers.

  He bows to her. “Shall we, my lady?”

  “I believe we shall,” she says.

  * * *

  BY THAT EVENING LADY Lila and Lord Callum are outfitted in simple, yet far more suitable, clothes whipped up by Mont’s finest—and most bribable—tailor. Anything can be bought in this city, for the right price. And somehow Shadow’s purse seems to be bottomless.

  Cal even made an appointment with the barber next door. He’s already bathed and dressed in a sharp new black suit, in the Montrician style, of course, when Shadow comes out of the back room of the shop where a seamstress was helping her into a new gown.

  He doesn’t look up from the broadside he’s been reading. He’s discovered that political treatises are illegal in Montrice, so clever satirists use fictional characters to stand in for King Hansen and his council. Cal’s totally absorbed in the tale, about a greedy, spoiled little boy who takes whatever he wants from anybody he wants, when Shadow clears her throat to get his attention.

  A beautiful figure is standing a few feet in front of him. For a moment he can’t quite place her or where he is. Then Shadow smiles and holds out the skirt of her new dress. “What do you think?” The sound of her voice takes him back to himself.

  He looks at her as if for the first time.

  The seamstress has pulled her growing hair up off her face with a thick band, decorated with glittery leaves and vines around the top of her head. The gown is a pale greenish-blue, with iridescent layers flowing from a fitted empire bodice, and covered in pale gold-and-silver floral embroidery.

  “Just a little something I had lying around,” the seamstress says. “It was just waiting to be fitted to the right person.” She smiles and stands back to admire her work. Then glances disapprovingly at the choppy hair around Shadow’s ears. “The wig will be ready tomorrow.”

  Cal blinks a few times. He hardly thinks a wig is necessary; she looks perfect exactly the way she is. He tries to find the right words but can’t. Finally he manages: “I think . . . I believe Lady Lila is going to be quite popular.”

  Shadow waves him off. “Don’t be silly.”

  There’s an awkward moment until the seamstress breaks the silence by clearing her throat and announcing, “We accept coin of all realms.”

  Each of them receives a set of day clothes and evening wear, which Shadow pays for with the coins in her pouch. Their old clothes are thrown in the burn pile out back. They are too ragged to save, though Cal feels a bit melancholy about it. They’re all he has left of home, and he had rather grown accustomed to Shadow in her shirt and breeches.

  * * *

  WHEN THEY RETURN TO the inn, Garbankle is still leaning behind the front desk. He’s tearing up a notice about new Montrician tax codes. “I’ll be sure to let the vizier know distinguished guests are in town,” he says as they pass by. They smile at each other.

  In their tiny room, Caledon and Shadow stand around uncomfortably, one of them on each side of a double bed that barely looks big enough for one. Somehow, being under a roof and inside four walls feels quite different from sleeping near each other in the cave. “I’ll take the floor,” Cal says.

  “That’s not fair to you,” Shadow says. She clasps her hands in front of her and begins to fidget with her fingers.

  “It’s not a problem,” Cal insists, despite the fact that he was secretly thrilled at the idea of not sleeping on a cold, hard floor. “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable. You’ve just recovered from a rather serious injury, remember?” he adds. “And I’m fine there. I’m used to it.”

  But she shakes her head. “We’ve both slept on that frozen ground; you are as tired as I am. We will share the bed,” she says with a finality that brooks no disagreement.

  Cal shrugs and points to a screen in the corner. “You can change. I’ll step out of the room if you like.”

  Shadow gathers up the bottom of her gown and clomps over to the changing screen. “The seamstress made me quite a matronly night shift, so there is no need.”

  While she’s taking off her dress, Cal removes his boots and slides under the covers. He tries to keep his eyes on the wall, but somehow, he can’t help glancing to the corner of the room where Shadow is changing. He can see her silhouette through the screen and looks away, abashed. He remembers seeing her walking out of the spring in all her glorious form. She had not been embarrassed to be seen then, and he’d admired her spirit. It was not all he’d admired, of course, but he was a gentleman.

  “So tomorrow,” she says, interrupting his thoughts. “The vizier.” She steps out from behind the screen and the shift is as matronly as promised, but made of linen so fine as to make everything underneath it visible even in the low light.

  Cal coughs and averts his eyes once more, trying to find a safe space for them to land. He has been alone for so long, he had forgotten how much he enjoyed female company. But while there had been many girls in Cal’s past, he’s never met one like her. The vizier, right, they were talking about the vizier.

  “The vizier is our key to the palace,” Cal says after he has composed himself.

  Shadow climbs onto the other side of the bed. He feels her leg brush his as she slips between the covers, and senses the slight pressure from it in every part of his being. He is a fool who should have slept on the floor.

  “Can we discuss it in the morning?” she asks, voice groggy as she turns to the wall.

  “As you wish.”

  She doesn’t move again, so he assumes she drifted off to sleep. After the day they’ve had, she must have been exhausted. Cal is too, but the knowledge that Shadow is so terribly within reach gnaws at him, pushing sleep farther away with each passing moment.

  Shadow of Nir, from the Honey Glade, a beekeeper, a maiden of the farm.

  He remembers how she nestled up to him in the dark cavern, and how she didn’t move away when she awoke to find them so entwined. He wishes they were back there a moment, huddling for warmth, instead of in a cozy room with so much air between them.

  At last, after a very long while, he falls asleep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Shadow

  LINDEN GARBANKLE KEEPS HIS WORD. The following afternoon Cal—or should I say Lord Callum—and I are summoned to tea at the vizier’s grand town house in the city.

  We don our new finery and borrow the innkeeper’s carriage to take us to the side of town where the nobles live. The carriage is close quarters, and my wig, a towering concoction of curls, is heavy on my head, so wide that it practically brushes Cal’s cheek. The entire journey I’m hyperaware of every inch between us, every jolt of his arm against mine.

  Last night, in his sleep, Cal rolled over from his side to mine, and his arm draped itself around my waist, his legs over mine, his nose in my hair, his chin resting on my neck. I felt his warm breath on my cheek, but instead of moving away, I burrowed even closer to him, my back against his chest, my hand on his arm, pulling him closer. In answer he tightened his embrace, so that we lay cleaved to each other, the hot center of h
im against my body.

  When I shifted against him, I swear he moaned a little.

  I didn’t want him to wake up. I didn’t want him to realize what he was doing, or what was happening between us. I didn’t want him not to want this.

  What am I doing? He is the Queen’s Assassin and yoked to a blood vow. He’s sworn never to have a family, never to have children. Just a few days ago I thought he was the most arrogant, irritating boy ever to live.

  I must find a place in the Guild, and I cannot allow anything—even him—to distract me. If I am to be a spy and an assassin, I cannot have emotional attachments.

  When we woke up, we were huddled on opposite sides of the bed. So far it’s been an uncomfortable morning, and while nothing has been said about last night, it feels as if something has shifted between us. There’s a new shyness, as if we hadn’t just survived a harrowing prison escape together and spent days camping in the woods.

  He’s been quiet all day, and when my arm falls on his, he practically flinches. Perhaps last night was just my imagination. Perhaps nothing happened between us, and I am merely delusional.

  “What?” he asks, sounding annoyed.

  “What?”

  “You keep staring at me; do I have dirt on my face?” he asks.

  I shake my head. The tailor made him a midnight-blue Montrician-style day suit, more fitted than what I’m used to seeing men wear in Renovia, with leather shoes rather than tall boots. The jacket is long in the back, shorter in the front, and the vest has similar gold-and-silver embroidery to my gown. He’s had a closer shave, so I can see his face even more clearly, that strong jawline and chiseled nose, knife-sharp cheekbones. He’s had a haircut too—thankfully they didn’t take it all off, but they did clean it up so that it falls perfectly around his eyes. Besides the obvious physical changes, he seems different somehow, distant and more detached.

  It’s like a handsome stranger is suddenly sharing my space.

  I try to keep my attention focused out the carriage window. There’s a clear dividing line where the struggling areas, with their modest dwellings, become stately manor houses. The homes’ iron gates and barred windows make me think of the children at the fountain, giving money that should have been for food toward the vain hope of luck instead.

  A tall footman opens the door before we even finish our approach up the steps, then whisks us into a small parlor off the main hall. He offers us large cushioned chairs and then disappears into the house to inform his master that we’ve arrived.

  The walls are lined with animal heads—hunting trophies, which represent species from many different lands: boar, bears, foxes, a type of striped horse, and a scimitar-toothed jaguar like the one that almost took my life. A narwhal horn. A giant rare pink sea star, easily three feet wide. Strange fish—antennae-like eyes and rainbow scales—mounted on plaques. Everywhere I look I find more: a small winged rodent posed under a glass dome sits on a shelf; a framed montage of butterflies hangs near the window.

  I already don’t like this vizier, this collector of dead things.

  The door flies open. A short, bald man strolls in, followed by the footman, who closes the door. The footman remains by the entrance, his arms clasped behind him, awaiting further instruction.

  The vizier is draped in furs—so many furs that I become confused trying to count them. At least two of them match the fur of the heads on the wall. In fact, one of them still has a head on it. A mink, I believe. I try not to think about that. Or look at it.

  He reaches up to shake Cal’s hand. I notice he wears amber rings on almost every finger. The largest one, on his left thumb, has a petrified wasp suspended in it.

  I hate wasps. Once a swarm of them invaded our beehives and wiped out most of the colonies. They are predators masquerading as something they’re not—something friendly.

  Cal nods his head and presents himself. “Grand Vizier,” he says. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  “Lord Holton,” says the vizier, shaking Cal’s hand. “The pleasure is all mine.”

  He offers his hand out to me—“This must be the lovely Lady Lila!”—and I offer mine in return, but he doesn’t shake it, he pulls me toward him and kisses me on each cheek—with sloppy, wet lips. He smells like mothballs and rose water. I try not to gag. His entire persona is overwhelming. Something about him puts all my senses on alert—and rather than just experiencing the underlying sounds and feelings around me, I get the sensation of something being drawn out of me. As if he’s inspecting me. Sizing me up. When he backs away, I have to force myself not to wipe my face. The last thing I want to do is offend him. But I don’t have to be his friend; I don’t even have to see him again. I just need to stomach him long enough to get access to the king’s courtiers.

  “Imagine my surprise. We have so few visitors in Montrice,” he says. “And even fewer who’ve journeyed all the way from Argonia.” His voice is friendly, but I sense the challenge behind it. He wants to know what we’re doing here; if we’re even who we say we are.

  “We’re only passing through,” I explain. “On our way to see to our grandfather’s estate in Stavin.”

  “Yes. So I’ve heard. An inheritance, is it?” He gestures for us to sit. We take the chairs offered to us previously; he sits on a larger one across from us. He uses a little step to climb onto it. Once settled, he’s sitting higher than we are. He places his hands on the armrests as if trying to look regal. He stretches out his stubby fingers and begins tapping them against the wood. I get the feeling he’s trying to draw attention to his rings.

  “Our grandfather’s estate.” I keep my answers short. I don’t want to encourage too much prying, or draw the conversation out any longer than it needs to be.

  “Backley Hold,” Cal adds. “Have you heard of it?”

  “Hmm . . . yes, yes, of course I have. In fact, I believe I attended a hunting party there in my youth. Lovely place. So sorry to hear about the elder Lord . . .” He waves his hand around in circles, as if he’s trying to conjure up the name.

  “Holton,” Cal and I say at the same time.

  “Lord Holton, yes. Fine fellow. It’s been quite a while since I’ve seen him, so he wouldn’t have remembered me anyway, you know. Tell me, what favor do you require?”

  Both of us are taken aback by his sudden bluntness. “Favor?” I say. The footman opens the door. A maid walks in carrying a silver tray. She sets it down on the table next to the vizier, curtsies, and leaves. The footman closes the door and returns to his position.

  “Yes, of course. I assume you’re here for that reason. Tea?”

  We don’t respond, but he places a porcelain teacup and saucer in front of each of us anyway. Neither of us moves to pick it up. The vizier takes a sip of his, places the cup back on the saucer—it spills a little—then turns his attention back to us. He folds his hands in his lap and waits.

  “No favor,” says Cal. “But perhaps an introduction.”

  “To court?” asks the vizier, looking skeptical.

  Cal nods.

  I lean forward. “It’s just that we’ve brought a gift for King Hansen, if he’ll do us the honor of an audience.” I reach into the hidden pocket of my skirt and pull out the diamond ring with the large Argonian emerald in its center that I have been carrying for so long. I thought it might be useful on my journey.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Cal looking at the ring, then at me, and then at the ring. I hadn’t mentioned it and I’m not looking forward to the questions I know are coming. I didn’t tell him about it because I hadn’t intended to use it until right at this moment. I can tell that expensive, shiny gifts are the type of thing that impresses the vizier and earns his favor.

  The vizier’s eyes widen. He sits up and leans forward to get a close look at the ring. “Well, well. How wonderful. A beautiful piece.”

  “I’ve brought a
little something for you as well, if you’ll accept,” I say. I pull the smaller, slightly less valuable diamond-and-emerald ring out of the pouch and hand it to him. “Argonian mined and set, of course.”

  “Of course, of course,” he says, putting it on his pinkie finger. It only fits halfway. He holds up his squat little hand to admire it in the late-afternoon light shining from the bay window. “It’d be my honor to speak with King Hansen on your behalf.”

  There’s another knock on the door. The footman opens it, and another steps inside. He approaches the vizier, bends down, and whispers something in his ear.

  He nods at the footman before turning back to us. “Will you please excuse me?” he asks. He scoots off the chair and hops to the ground, then leaves the room, followed by the footman. The door shuts behind them, leaving Cal and me alone in the creepy room.

  “I don’t like him,” I tell Cal.

  “We’re not here to like him,” Cal says, his expression unreadable. “We’re here to get into the palace. And we’re that much closer already.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Caledon

  “AREN’T YOUR AUNTS HEALERS? THEY sell salves and teas and such?” Cal asks Shadow when they are alone. He tries to sound casual. He gets up from the chair to get a closer look at the vizier’s house of horrors. He leans toward one of the deep bookshelves, only to discover that the tiny jars lined up on it are filled with preserved primate ears.

  First a pouch full of gold coins and now Argonian emerald rings—is Shadow a thief? What kind of name is Shadow, anyway? His earlier suspicions about her resurface in an instant. Who is she really?

  Shadow busies herself with brushing nonexistent debris from her dress. “Yes, and . . . ? They weren’t always. In any case, they do well for themselves.”

  He stares intently at one of the fish—a dragonfish, according to the label. “Remarkably so, apparently.”