When the vines twining the wall finally rustled-barely audible over the breeze and falling water-she drew up with a start. Shock burned her cheeks and tingled in the tips of her fingers as her hand closed over her dagger.
Savedra pressed deeper into the shadows of her hiding place in the columned arcade and peered into the garden. The glow of distant lamps glimmered in the fountains, traced the tops of the walls and neatly pruned trees. Even with her eyes adapted to the night, she barely saw the thicker darkness creeping past the trellised walls.
At least it hadn’t been a false alarm.
A familiar welter of emotion followed: shock, doubt-what if it was a mistake this time, what if this one were innocent-and then the cold rage that someone dared to threaten those she loved. When a hooded man climbed into the royal gardens in the dead of night, the odds of an innocent assignation were poor.
Soft shoes moved from grass to flagstones with only the faintest scuff to betray their wearer. The man was good; Savedra would have to be better. She knew his path-down the arcade and up the stairs, to the glass-paned double doors that led to the prince’s suite. Or the other set that led to the princess’s. And if it were the latter, the little voice that sounded like her mother asked, why did she not merely stand aside and let the deed be done? She would be there to comfort Nikos in the morning, after all.
She moved before she had to answer the question, anger and excitement loosening stiff limbs. On the other side of the arcade, a soldier moved slower and louder. The assassin spun, blade gleaming, and gave Savedra his back.
Too easy.
The impact jolted her arm. The blade slowed on leather, quickened through flesh, then struck bone with a scrape that set her teeth on edge. She braced as the assassin’s weight leaned back against her. She might regret being born a man every time she had a gown fitted, but it meant she was stronger than she looked.
The killer cursed softly, quiet even in death, and tried to pull free. One gloved hand groped backward. Savedra twisted the knife.
Lanterns bloomed in the shadows to blind her and swords rattled. Then Captain Denaris was there, knocking the man’s weapon away, pulling him off Savedra, a soft stream of profanity fit to rust steel hissing from her lips.
“Alive! Alive, damn it! Why is that so bloody difficult?”
“He’s no more threat now,” Savedra said as the man gurgled and bled onto the stones. The words came out ragged; her chest ached. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been holding her breath.
“And no more use.”
“I’ll find out who sent him.” Her vision swam with orange blossoms. She started to rub her watering eyes and stopped just in time.
The captain snorted but didn’t argue. It had taken years-and several dead assassins-for her to trust the prince’s mistress, but now that she did, she never pried into Savedra’s sources.
Savedra turned away from the soon-to-be corpse, reaction setting in now that action had ended. She had only been sick the first time, but she always shook after. Her right hand clenched, blood cooling sticky on her fingers. The raw metallic smell filled her nose and she stumbled to the fountain to wash her hands.
Denaris followed, boots swishing against wet grass. Lantern light picked out strands of grey in her dark hair, showed the pity in her lean and whittled face. “You could have people to do this for you. You should have them. You’d serve him better-”
Savedra shook her head, the weight of her hair tugging sharp against pins. It was an old argument. “I’m no spymaster. And if I have to do this, better my hands be stained for it.” She pulled the hands in question out of icy water and scrubbed them on her skirt.
“Nikos needs a spymaster more than he needs a mistress.”
“Lord Orfion-”
“Isn’t here.” Cold and implacable as a blade. “And likely won’t return.”
“And whose fault is that?” Savedra folded her arms tight across her stomach, as if she could stop it churning so easily.
The captain shrugged, mouth twisting eloquently, but didn’t speak. Not quite treason, to call the king a fool, but hardly politic either. “Fault or no, it’s true. Lord Orfion needs a successor as surely as any king.”
“Then let him name one, Kat. I haven’t the stomach for it.”
Denaris glared, but didn’t belabor what they both knew-Orfion had named a successor, and the king had ignored him and chosen his own replacement. And taken that replacement with him to Ashke Ros, leaving Nikos to get by as best he could with lesser agents.
“May I go?” Savedra asked. “I’d like some sleep before sunrise.” Not a lie, but no matter how much she wanted rest, she knew none would come this morning.
The captain shook her head, but let the matter drop. “Go. We’ll mop up here and search the corpse.”
Savedra turned toward the narrow servants’ hall that led out of the garden. She had a key to Nikos’ rooms, but not the heart to go to him like this. She paused, sodden slippers squelching on the lawn. “What will you tell him?”
“I always tell him when you give us warning. I don’t have to tell him you were here.”
“Thank you.” The smell of blood and roses followed her as she left the garden.
Her footsteps carried through the silent polished halls of the Gallery of Pearls-she was the only pearl in residence. Portraits of long-dead men and women watched disinterestedly from the walls, but the Gallery had stood nearly empty for most of recent history. Supposedly Naomi II had filled every room in the old palace’s gallery with her concubines, but since the Azure Palace was built the monarchs had been more restrained. Sometimes councilors brought their mistresses here in the summer, but the other women offered mainly awkward silences and ill-concealed stares around Savedra. At least the portraits didn’t whisper.
She didn’t bother pulling back the covers, but fell limp across the bed, staring at the shadowed canopy as dawnlight brightened through the curtains, waiting for her nerves to settle and her shaking to still. When they finally did, she rose to bathe and dress and face the rest of the day.
The lawns were still wet hours later and the sky hung dull and heavy, thwarting most morning pursuits or driving them indoors. And so Savedra found herself in the Queen’s Solar with Nikos’s wife.
When Lychandra Alexios lived, the room had been filled with couches and tables and expensive carpets, a place for comfort and quiet conversation. After she died, the furniture had gone into storage and dust had dulled the tall windows and skylights. Only last year had the king given his son’s wife leave to refurnish it.
If he expected her to turn it into anything other than a private practice yard, he never said so. Not that anyone who knew Ashlin would expect otherwise.
Steel rang and echoed as the princess and her sparring partner drove each other back and forth. Breath rasped, and boots scuffed and thumped on stone. Today they used western longswords, straight functional blades without the Selafain fondness for curve and ornament. Still beautiful, Savedra supposed, though she preferred her weapons more subtle. Her hand wanted to clench around the memory of a dagger and she adjusted the drape of her forest-green skirts over the bench instead.
Metallic light trickled through the windows, robbing the pink and yellow granite tiles of their warmth. Thick clouds dragged past overhead, pregnant with unshed rain. Savedra regretted the image as soon as it came to her and looked down again. She studied the flash of steel, the fighters’ footwork, the play of muscle under sweat- sheened skin-anything but Ashlin’s face or waist.
The princess’s stomach was lean as ever under her leather vest, she decided after several moments of carefully not looking. The last pregnancy had progressed far enough to show, but that softness was gone now. Muscle corded in Ashlin’s arms as she lunged and parried, and sweat darkened her linen shirt and pasted stray wisps of short candle-flame hair to her cheeks and brow. In the light of day Savedra’s fears seemed ridiculous- Ashlin could more than handle any assassin.
Warrior princess. Barbarian. One-day queen of Selafai. And by some joke of the saints, Savedra’s friend instead of bitter rival. A friend she would kill to protect.
As a friend, she should convince the princess to rest. No one else dared-no one wanted the edge of Ashlin’s tongue, especially Nikos. But the last miscarriage had been harder than the princess would admit, and Savedra had been the one to stroke her hair, to clean away the blood and pretend she never saw the tears. For all the years she’d wished to be born a woman in flesh as well as mind, some things she didn’t envy.
