“I am,” Annara said.
“Then we have an accord,” Retired Lord Wraith cut in. “You can get up, I’m sure kneeling like that can’t be comfortable. The ceremony will be held in Seichre, of course. Should we visit the palace to collect you?”
“We’ll come to you,” Irvynne said, recovering. “We’ll bring her to the docks tomorrow, if you’d like.”
“Princess?” Lord Wraith said.
“My aides and I are in agreement,” Annara said. “Until then, my lords.” She turned to Irvynne and gave her a slight, smug smile. “I’m glad we were able to agree.”
✽✽✽
“I think she’s a spy,” Heron said, almost as soon as the Archonian delegation left the room.
Senne detached the curtain, balling it up in her fist so it formed a cloud of deep ocean blue. “You think everyone’s a spy.”
“And I’m always right,” Heron said. “Did you see how confident she was? She knew what she was doing. She wants to go to Seichre so that she can spy for her father.”
“He doesn’t seem to like her much,” Senne said thoughtfully. “Maybe she’s just using me as an excuse to leave his household.”
“That’s a possibility too, but I think she’s spying for someone, even if it isn’t him.”
“You’re always so paranoid, Heron.”
“And, like I said, I’m always right. I’ve lived ten years past the life expectancy of an assassin for a reason.” Heron walked around the hotel room, lifting his coat off the back of a chair and throwing it over his shoulders. He checked his hair in a mirror, smoothing it back and tsking at the gray. “I’m going out. Don’t wait up.”
“Where are you going?” Senne said curiously.
“I have business in the Crescent. I’ll be back by tomorrow morning.” He hooked his boot under his gold-tipped cane and kicked it up into his hand. “Keep an eye out for the Archonians.”
“You think they’ll try something?”
“Not really, but the Lord of Archon is a cheating cowardly bastard and I don’t trust him an inch.” He pulled his velvet gloves on and gave her an ironic salute. “Take care.”
“You too,” Senne said.
He opened the window, slipped out onto the roof, and disappeared. Senne shut the window again before the cool night fog could pour into the room.
✽✽✽
The Lord of Chreon Se reclined on a velvet sofa, idly paging through a book of poetry. Two translucent jade teacups sat on the table next to him, along with a teapot and a single candle. He looked up, watching the fire flicker in the hearth. The candle flame guttered in a sudden draft. He smiled.
“As the waves return to the shore and the sun returns to the horizon, those who are fated meet again,” he quoted. “Come sit by the fire, old friend. The night is cold.”
Heron stepped out of the shadows into a bubble of warmth, considerately pulling the window shut behind him. “Are we friends now, Juniper?”
“I see no further reason for us to be enemies. Please, sit.” He moved over on the sofa. “Have a cup of tea.”
Heron sat on the sofa and allowed Juniper to pour him a cup of tea. The tea itself was amber and transparent. Juniper gracefully poured a few drops of pink syrup from a glass vessel into his cup.
The Lord of Chreon Se was notoriously beautiful, and even like this, without makeup— especially like this, Heron corrected himself, watching the candlelight flow over Juniper’s smooth brown skin— he lived up to his reputation. He wore his hair much longer than was strictly fashionable in Seichre and the Crescent, in a loose dark braid over one shoulder. He wore a loose silk robe, and a few pearlescent drops of water still clung to his collarbone, as if he had just gotten out of the bath.
“Is this sweet tea?” Heron asked.
“The very best, imported from Alrhen-Xiun. The syrup is rose-flavored, in the Pahinvari tradition.”
“Were you expecting someone?” Heron asked, picking up the second teacup.
“You.”
Heron’s gloved fingers tensed around the jade. “How did you know I was coming?”
“I didn’t. I’ve been leaving two teacups out all week, just in the hope that you’d drop by so I could see the look on your face when you thought I’d outmaneuvered you.” Juniper’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “There it is. That’s the face.”
Heron forced himself to stop scowling. “Mature of you.”
“Thank you.”
“What are you reading?”
“The Diary of Eqe Yu. Too sentimental for your taste, I’d imagine.” Juniper placed a tasseled bookmark carefully between the pages. “I take it this isn’t a social call.”
“I want information.”
“You know I’m always happy to oblige. What do you want to know?”
“Tell me what you know about the princess of Archon,” Heron said.
“Annara?” Juniper swirled his tea in his cup thoughtfully. He watched it, trying to decide what to say about her. “I think the Crescent’s theaters lost a brilliant actress when she turned to a life of crime.”
“Did you say crime?” Heron said.
“Mm. No one can prove anything, since she covers her tracks so well. She rarely commits the crimes herself, you see, she masterminds them.”
“Does her father know?”
“I doubt it. I would prefer if you didn’t tell him, Heron.”
“Why not?” Heron said.
“Frankly, because I don’t like the man. Also because I think it would make things extremely difficult for Annara.” Juniper hesitated, his expression softening. “I knew her when she was a child, you see. I don’t want her to be executed like her mother.”
“Her mother?” Heron said.
“Oh, that’s right, you wouldn’t know. Her mother was the Traitor Concubine— an unfortunate concubine of Lord Archon’s who, tired of her lord’s mistreatment and cruelty, tried to strangle him to death with the ribbons from her hair.”
“She failed, I take it,” Heron said.
“Well, as you’ve probably noticed, Lord Archon’s still alive. So yes, she failed.” Juniper took a sip of tea with a sigh. “He had her beheaded, and her given name wiped from the records. Annara was never much liked in court after that, and when she turned twelve, her father forced her to take a vow of poverty and live as a nun.”
“Crescentians are so barbaric,” Heron said. “Ah, no offense intended.”
“None taken. I grew up in Pahinvar.”
“What sort of crime is she involved with? Is she part of a gang?”
Juniper set his teacup neatly down on the table. “It’s a little complicated, actually. Walk with me?”
Heron reluctantly followed him into the next room, which was a study of sorts. The room was filled to the brim with miscellaneous clutter. There was a pile of tasseled pillows in one corner, with a citole perched precariously on top. Juniper bent down to pick up a single gold earring, looked around for its pair, then visibly gave up.
“Apologies for the mess,” he said.
“I can’t believe people still think you’re organized.”
“I’ve been living a lie,” Juniper agreed. “Sit there.” He paused to clear a pile of books and a long beaded necklace off a chair. “I’ll be right with you.”
Heron sat and sipped his tea while Juniper rummaged around in desk drawers. Eventually Juniper handed him a dossier.
“You can keep it, I have copies,” he said. “The thing is, old friend, that the Crescent doesn’t have organized crime, not anymore. Twenty years ago, a coalition of merchant-lords cracked down on the Xiunian and Seichrenese ethnic gangs we used to have, and ever since then, violent crime in the Crescent has been limited to the acts of a few desperate people working alone.” He smiled bitterly. “It’s actually a point of pride for some of the islands. Ervon, especially.”
“You don’t sound particularly happy about it,” Heron noticed.
“Well, the crackdowns very predictably caused a rise in x
enophobic sentiment across all the islands, which— leaving the moral argument aside— is not what you want when you live in a trading archipelago. Most of our income comes from Seichre and Alrhen-Xiun. Also, now there’s a power vacuum in the Crescent’s criminal underworld, which makes me nervous. Crime is inevitable. I’d like to be able to predict who’s controlling it.”
“And here I thought you were just a pretty face,” Heron said archly.
“Glad to hear you think I’m pretty.”
“That compliment was supposed to be backhanded, Jun.”
“Too late. I already took it to be completely genuine.” Juniper leaned over and tapped the dossier in Heron’s hands. “Anyway, that’s the scene that Annara walked onto approximately six years ago. From what I can tell, she plays the role of a boss’s tactician, planning crimes for a fee without actually allying herself too closely to anyone. That dossier contains everything I know, which unfortunately isn’t much. Crime outside of Chreon Se isn’t really my business.”
Heron flipped open the dossier and quickly scanned through its papers. His brow furrowed. “The Atheonian bank robbery last year? I thought they caught the people who did that.”
“Half the money is still missing. It’s just a hunch, but this seems to fit her modus operandi. Of course, all of this raises one big question which I still can’t answer.”
“What’s that, then?”
Juniper spread his hands. “Where does the money go? By all accounts, Annara has been genuinely and honestly living like an ascetic for the last eight years. If she doesn’t spend the money on herself, what does she do with it?”
“Any theories?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea, honestly,” Juniper said. “Why are you so concerned about the princess of Archon, anyway? I’ve never seen you so invested in Crescentian current affairs.”
“She’s going to be the new Lord Wraith’s oath-sister,” Heron said.
“Ah. Interesting.”
“From what you’ve said, though, it seems like she probably isn’t working for her father.”
“If she is working for someone, it definitely isn’t him,” Juniper said.
Heron snapped the dossier shut. “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”
“Anytime. I still owe you for what happened on Midion, after all.”
“And I owe you for everything after. If you want to recount all the debts between us, we’ll be here all evening.” Heron tucked the dossier into his coat and climbed onto the windowsill, where he paused, silhouetted by the distant stars and the lights reflected in the harbor. “Take care, Juniper.”
The Lord of Chreon Se only nodded thoughtfully and watched him climb out into the night. He was already turning back to his desk, brushing a few trinkets and cosmetics out of the way to look at a stack of ledgers and reports.
CHAPTER SEVEN
In the end, Annara traveled to Seichre alone, unaccompanied by servants or any sort of retinue. She didn’t see either assassins on the journey. She suspected they had taken a different ship. They must have been understandably wary of being outnumbered by the Archonians in an enclosed space.
The harbor they landed in was unmistakably Seichrenese, populated by boats with Seichrenese dragon figureheads and Seichrenese scrolls carved into their wood. A minor palace clerk helped Annara down onto the docks and led her to a small temple at the edge of the Royal City. It was dedicated to the moon goddess. Mother-of-pearl inlays glittered like starlight from the dark wood. Narrow stained glass windows cast stripes of watery light across the floorboard.
The clerk led her to a back room with a large floor mirror and a vanity table, then she said, “I’ll give you a few minutes to get changed.”
“Thanks,” Annara said automatically.
The clerk shut the door behind her, and Annara cursed quietly. She had planned to do the ceremony as she was, but obviously that wouldn’t do.
“I should probably put on makeup, at least,” she said aloud, as she sat at the vanity table.
The glass was clean and well-polished, obviously not nearly as old as the rest of the church. The moon goddess oversaw marriage, so they probably did weddings there. Annara sat in the place of a hundred brides, leaning close to the mirror to put color in her cheeks.
Most of Annara’s makeup was stage makeup, used more often for disguises than for style, but she still had a ceramic container of rouge and a pot of kohl made from charcoal and sweetened with rose water. She put a little subtle color on her lips, thinking about the role she was going to play. Princess Archon probably didn’t wear much makeup. Princess Archon was artlessly pretty, but not beautiful enough to be noticed by anyone too important.
The clerk knocked on the door.
“Come in,” Annara said, wiping her fingers on a rag.
The clerk opened the door and nodded approvingly at Annara’s face. Then she looked down. “Your shoes...”
Annara still couldn’t blush on command, so she ducked her head shyly instead. “I spent the last eight years as a nun, miss. I still don’t have the wardrobe that would be appropriate for someone of my station.”
The clerk’s expression softened. “Oh, right, of course. Well, Lord Wraith probably won’t notice.”
A bell chimed somewhere, resonating through the wooden walls.
“Time to go,” the clerk said grimly. “Listen, I know you’re probably nervous about swearing sisterhood to an assassin, but just hold your head up and look straight ahead. Whatever you do, don’t run. I don’t want this to turn into a diplomatic incident.”
Annara suppressed the urge to laugh. What was this, an oath-sister ceremony or an execution? Outwardly, she gave a demure bow, eyes cast down, and said, “I wouldn’t dare.”
“Good. Go on, then. Lord Wraith is waiting.”
Annara found her way through the narrow hallways of the church. The main room was behind a pair of arched double doors, covered in delicate, swirling metal in the shapes of stylized waves. Annara instinctively glanced behind her. The clerk was nowhere to be seen. The hallway held nothing but silence and dust motes that fell slowly, like tiny snowflakes.
Annara pushed open the doors. The hinges rasped into the silence. The room beyond was long and narrow, with austere wooden pews striped turquoise and sapphire and gold with the light from the narrow stained glass windows. The altar was shrouded in diaphanous black curtains, translucent like smoke. A few silver and gold sequins winked. Annara could just make out three figures behind the veils: a priestess, the assassin, and the statue of the goddess, all submerged in shifting shadows.
Retired Lord Wraith sat in one of the front pews, looking slightly uncomfortable. The pews were set too close together for his long legs. He nodded at her as she passed, face still half-hidden.
Annara lifted the silk curtains and slipped inside. The priestess bowed to her. She was ancient, with a face wrinkled like rice paper and tough, gnarled hands. She motioned for Annara to stand opposite Lord Wraith, and Annara did.
She raised her eyes to look at the assassin. Lord Wraith was taller than her, but only by an inch or two. A black silk veil covered her face, so that Annara could only make out the vague hints of features. Her hair was held into a bun by a mahogany hairpiece that looked like horns. She wore a long black coat over a Seichrenese-style charcoal tabard, with four knives tied onto her sash.
Lord Wraith turned slightly to look at the priestess, and Annara saw light glimmer on her teeth through the veil. She shivered involuntarily.
“Do you, Lord Wraith, blade of the monarchy, enter willingly into this pact of siblinghood?” the priestess said, in a voice as ancient as cloth taken from a tomb.
“I do,” Lord Wraith said.
“And do you, Princess Archon, daughter of the Crescent, enter willingly into this pact of siblinghood?”
“I do,” Annara said, staring calmly at the folds of Lord Wraith’s veil.
“Then we shall proceed.”
The priestess tottered over to the altar u
nder the statue of the goddess and returned with a golden cup and a ceremonial dagger. The dagger was white steel with an abalone handle, iridescent in all the colors of the ocean. A lightly alcoholic smell drifted off the cup.
“Your gloves, my lord,” the priestess said to Lord Wraith.
Finger by finger, Lord Wraith peeled her velvet gloves from her hands. Underneath, her fingers were long and deceptively delicate. Her palms held the characteristic callouses of a swordswoman, and Annara noted with interest that she dual-wielded.
The priestess took Lord Wraith’s left hand and used the dagger to make a small incision in her index finger. A thin thread of blood fell into the cup and bloomed outwards. Then the priestess turned to Annara, who held out her left hand.
“The other hand, please, Princess Archon.”
Annara held out her right hand, and the priestess cut her index finger. It didn’t hurt as much as she thought it would. The dagger, though ceremonial, had been polished smooth and sharp, and it slid almost painlessly into her skin.
The priestess used the tip of the dagger to stir the cup and intoned in Xiunian, “Thus is your blood bound into one. Do you swear to honor each other as family until the end of your days, to care for each other in times of illness, and to protect each other in times of crisis?”
It seemed to be Annara’s turn to speak. “I do.”
“And you, my lord?”
“I do,” Lord Wraith said. Her tone was unreadable.
“Your veil, my lord.”
Lord Wraith jumped slightly, as if she had forgotten it was there. She raised her ungloved hands— slowly, jerkily— and lifted her veil.
Annara caught her breath. Lord Wraith was beautiful— unfairly so, since if everything went as planned, Annara would eventually kill her. Her skin was so smooth it could have been carved from jade, and her eyebrows curved in perfect dark arches over sparkling brown eyes. Her eyelashes were long, and her lips were parted slightly and tinted like peony petals.
Traitor Princess, Assassin Saint Page 5
