Traitor Princess, Assassin Saint

by T. R. Sherwood

  He was perched on a roof like a raven, wearing a heavy wool cape. The smoky, translucent silk of his veil shivered in the wind, but it was weighted with obsidian beads. No matter what, he would never show his face.

  A shadow passed in front of the golden windows on the other side of the palace courtyard. It was a large shadow, and Heron recognized the shape of Midion’s crown.

  He followed it, moving silently on the slate shingles. When the shadow disappeared, Heron ducked in through a window. A strand of his long hair caught in the latch. He tugged it free.

  Lord Midion had disappeared into a room that Heron remembered from his map of the palace; a library. Heron opened the door, just a crack, and recoiled.

  Lord Midion was huge. He towered over the hulking desk in the center of the room. Muscles rippled underneath his shirt. He was built like an ox, and Heron was a malnourished teenager. For the first time, Heron realized that Tin had probably lost his mind. Giving mysterious powers to impoverished child servants was a terrible idea, actually. Memory steel or no memory steel, Lord Midion could have crushed Heron’s spine with one hand.

  Heron almost didn’t recognize his rapid breathing and shaking hands as symptoms of fear. Working as Lord Wraith, he constantly had to ignore his own emotions. He just had to shove them off to one side to do your job and pray they wouldn’t catch up with him anytime soon. Heron inhaled sharply, held his breath, then exhaled.

  His vision tunneled. Lord Midion was large, which would make him slow. He didn’t wear a cravat or a neckcloth, which would have made it harder to get to his carotid artery. Heron kept his knives sharp. If he was quick and precise enough, Midion would bleed out in seconds.

  Midion shifted, examining a set of papers on the desk. Heron slipped a long dagger out of his belt and dashed at him.

  Heron’s foot hit the hardwood harder than he had meant it to, and Midion heard him. It was only a split-second’s disadvantage, but one of Midion’s hands shot out and grasped his neck. The blade of Heron’s knife glanced off cartilage. The cut it left was too shallow. He had missed the artery.

  Midion slammed Heron down onto the mahogany desk. Papers jumped. An inkwell tipped, spraying long strings of ink over the wood. Heron started to choke, and gray spots appeared at the edges of his vision.

  Midion ripped his veil off and tossed it into the fire. Heron could feel the heat from the fireplace on his bare cheek. It was even more jarring than the crushing pain in his throat.

  “What the hell?” Midion said. “You’re just a—”

  Heron stabbed him blindly, and he choked. Heron pulled the knife out and stabbed him again, this time more professionally: in the heart, between the third and fourth ribs. Blood showered everywhere, mingling with the spilled ink. Heron tried to shove Midion off him. It took him two or three attempts.

  It was not Heron’s finest moment. And, he realized, with a cold drop in his stomach, someone had seen the entire thing. A boy sat paralyzed between the bookshelves nearby, clutching a book. He looked like he was about Heron’s age, but at the same time, he looked so much younger. His hair looked slightly unfortunate in an awkward short haircut. It was such a dark brown that it looked black in the firelight. He might have been handsome if he hadn’t been so terrified.

  “Please,” he said. “I didn’t see anything. Please, I...”

  He spoke the same textbook Crescentian as Heron, but with a very heavy Pahinvari accent that made it difficult to understand. His eyes were wide. Heron could see the pale smudge of his own face reflected in them.

  You have to kill him, said the mechanical part of Heron that was responsible for calculating precisely where to stab. It sounded older than he was. It had Tin’s cold monotone. He saw your face. You can’t leave him alive.

  The book the other boy was reading was written in Pahinvari, but Heron could tell by the shape of the text that it was poetry. He hunched protectively over it on instinct, as if trying to shield the words from Heron’s knife. Sentimental, a different part of Heron observed. This one sounded a lot more like him.

  He wiped Midion’s blood off the knife. Something in the other boy’s eyes shuttered.

  “Do it quickly,” he said, in his accented Crescentian, as he squeezed his eyes shut. It wasn’t real courage, it was just fatalism. Heron could hear the difference.

  And then, very suddenly, he couldn’t do it. His eyes caught on the unreadable lines of poetry, and a part of him that had been dormant for years abruptly woke up, took the reigns, and decided to walk away without hurting anyone else.

  He knew that if a description of his face got out, he would have outlived his usefulness, especially since Tin had recently found another child to torment. The Seichrenese government would execute him without a second thought. Even so, a very old, atavistic instinct leapt up in him like a flame, and he put the knife back in its sheath. Maybe it was the look on the other boy’s face. Maybe it was the poetry, or the way he spoke Crescentian in the same foreign, hesitant way that Heron did. Whatever it was, Heron could tell that nothing could change his mind.

  He climbed back out through the window, taking care not to leave bloody footprints on the windowsill. By the time the boy in the library opened his eyes again, he was already gone.

  A few days later, Heron found out whose life he had spared. The boy in the library had to be the young Prince of Chreon Se. Heron waited for the prince to sell him out. Nothing happened. Days passed, then months, then years, and Chreon Se never breathed a word to anyone about what he had seen.

  ✽✽✽

  He didn’t see Chreon Se for two more years. At nineteen, Heron was freshly crowned with the title of Lord Wraith and allowed much more freedom, which he mostly used to cheat at cards.

  There was a reason behind this, though. When he wasn’t assassinating politicians, he had to make money somehow. He wanted money of his own, money that he didn’t owe to the Crown or to the Wraith Initiative, and due to Heron’s specific skill set, cheating in very fancy gambling halls while playing against the very wealthy was the best way to do exactly that.

  There was a new gambling hall in Chreon Se. It was called the Fallen Camellia, and it had gotten its alcohol license so fast that everyone suspected its owner had bribed a high-ranking government official. Its main clientele were people that everyone was very careful to call sailors or merchants, but it was clear to everyone with half a brain that they were really smuggling sugar from Pahinvar to Alrhen-Xiun, with a quick stop in the Crescent on the way.

  Occasionally, very wealthy people from all over the world would stop in the Fallen Camellia for a taste of adventure, dressed inexpertly in what they thought were peasants’ clothes. They were very easy to find, and also very easy to fool, because they had to pretend they already knew what was normal in a place like that. Most of the time, Heron didn’t even need to cheat. He could remember the cards well enough to win on pure strategy.

  He had to hand it to the owner of the Fallen Camellia, whoever they were. They had a talent for interior decor. The rooms were decorated in the Seichrenese style, which made Heron feel oddly at home even though it must have been pleasantly exotic to everyone else. Diaphanous pink and red curtains spilled from the ceiling like waterfalls, obscuring both the bar and most of the other patrons. You could never tell who was in the room with you, whether they were smugglers or gangsters or assassins, but you could hear their voices curl around you like smoke from a censer.

  Incense burned in the corners. The smell was elusive, sweet and intoxicating, and slight enough that it disappeared when Heron tried to think too hard about it. The velvet upholstery smelled faintly of wine, warm and friendly.

  On his third night there, Heron sat in a corner, watching shadows moving through the curtains. He was waiting for someone who looked nervous or out of place, whose clothes were too new or too artificially dirty to be real. Once he found a mark, he would challenge them to a game of cards.

  Before he could find anyone, a hand pulled aside a nearby curtai
n, and someone sat directly across from him. Heron started to scowl, then jolted as he recognized the newly-crowned Lord of Chreon Se.

  Heron had heard that he was supposed to be beautiful, but people said that about anyone wealthy and even slightly pretty, so seeing his smile for the first time was something of a shock. It lit up his entire face, and it was one of those rare smiles that made you feel like you were helping its owner keep a secret, as if it had known you for ages and loved you anyway. Beauty in the Crescent was sometimes more about literary and musical accomplishment than physical appearance, but Heron was willing to bet money that Juniper deserved his reputation in every possibly way.

  It was more than just his smile. In the two years since they had seen each other last, Juniper had grown up. He had let his hair grow long, and it currently spilled over his shoulder in a low ponytail that fanned out into perfect, soft waves. His clothes suited him now. His style was effortlessly elegant, finished with two pale green earrings that brought out the olive flecks in his eyes.

  “Good evening, my lord,” Juniper said conspiratorially. His strong Pahinvari accent had turned faint, but it still made his vowels softer.

  Heron felt the bottom of his stomach drop. Juniper was speaking Seichrenese. He had hoped that his appearance might fade from Juniper’s memory in the way that horrible things sometimes did, but of course he was never that lucky.

  “Did you recognize me?” Heron said.

  “I never forget a pretty face.” His tone was light, but he was frightened, Heron could tell. His eyes kept darting uncontrollably to Heron’s belt, like he was trying to work out where Heron had put his knives, at least until he was suddenly distracted by Heron’s haircut. “Oh, I like what you’ve done with your hair, by the way. It suits you.”

  “You know who I am, then,” Heron said. “You should know enough to stay out of my way.”

  “Normally, I would be delighted to. However, today there are… circumstances. Would you like to play cards?”

  “What?”

  “Cards, my lord. That is the reason everyone is here, isn’t it? Well, that and the wine, which is excellent, by the way.”

  “Alright,” Heron said, struck by the absurdity of the situation. “Let’s play cards.”

  Juniper took a deck out of his pocket and started to shuffle it with expert, fluid motions.

  “You never sold me out,” Heron said abruptly.

  “You spared my life,” Juniper replied. “I’ll deal. We’re playing triumph, I take it?”

  “Of course. You were recently crowned Lord of Chreon Se, I think. I’m sorry I missed your coronation,” Heron said, trying to figure out what the hell the Lord of Chreon Se was doing in the Fallen Camellia.

  “Think nothing of it,” Juniper said breezily, as if they were actually friends. “It’s a boring ceremony, you really didn’t miss much.”

  “I have to ask, my lord. What are you doing in a place like this?”

  Juniper leaned in as if to tell him a secret. Heron caught the smell of sandalwood on his clothes, mixed with something sweet that might have been vanilla. “The Fallen Camellia is mine, actually. I’m the owner.”

  Heron blinked. “Really? I think I saw a drug deal on the way in.”

  “Probably some sort of mild aphrodisiac. People don’t really sell hard drugs here.” He smiled, guiltily amused at Heron’s astonishment. “Crime happens no matter what we do, Lord Wraith. I’d like it to happen where I can keep an eye on it.”

  “And people say you’re nothing more than an irresponsible hedonist.”

  “Well, I’m one of those, too. Wine?” When Heron grimaced slightly, he laughed. “Don’t worry, it’s not drugged. I’m not that irresponsible.”

  “No, it’s… I’m under the legal drinking age.”

  “Good gods, are you really? How old are you?”

  “Nineteen,” Heron said.

  “Oh,” Juniper said, still caught off-guard. “So am I. The drinking age is younger here, so you can drink if you want.” As he spoke, he motioned a server over.

  The server turned out to be a beautiful young woman with glossy mahogany hair and a neckline that fell almost to her navel. Juniper smiled his secret-sharing smile at her as she filled his goblet, and Heron felt a sudden stab of jealousy that he immediately filed away to deal with later.

  The beautiful server went to stand directly behind Heron, and he suddenly understood what was going on. “You’re trying to find out if I’m cheating at cards.”

  “Well, you have been winning rather consistently. You’re making me lose money,” Juniper said apologetically.

  “You have boatloads of money.”

  “Yes, but I’m a merchant-lord. Making boatloads of money and then spending it on things is part of my profession.”

  “I haven’t even been playing against the house.”

  “You’re frightening my customers,” Juniper said.

  “I’m not cheating. You can’t throw me out.”

  Juniper made eye contact with the woman behind him. “We’ll see. Three of knives.”

  “Six of serpents,” Heron said. “You do know that I could snap you in half, don’t you?”

  Juniper played another card. His hands were shaking, but his voice was steady. “Are you going to? I hope you’re not. That would seriously interfere with my weekend plans.”

  This managed to startle a laugh out of Heron. “No. I’m not going to.”

  Not now and not ever, his tone implied. Juniper raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”

  Heron could already tell that the world would be a little dimmer without him in it, but he would rather die right there than say that. “No need. Extraneous murders are very unprofessional.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind if this whole merchant-lord thing doesn’t pan out.”

  Heron laughed under his breath. His laugh was strange and awkward. It didn’t come out much in those days. Juniper beamed at him.

  “You’re very calm,” Heron noted.

  “I’m terrified. But this—” he said, gesturing around at the gambling hall, “this is my element. If we met in a dark alley, there would be considerably more screaming.”

  “You’ve grown up a lot.”

  “Mm. It took me a while to get the hang of Crescentian court. But I did get there.”

  “Do you still like poetry?”

  Juniper paused. His eyes flicked up to meet Heron’s for the first time. “I do. Very much so.”

  “That’s good. I was afraid you’d lose interest in it, after that night. I don’t know many poets, I’m afraid. I only know Seichrenese folk poetry.”

  Juniper brightened. “Oh, like the Song of Ehilienne?”

  “Yes, actually. How did you know that?”

  “I know lots of things. The next time you come to Chreon Se, I’ll introduce you to my favorite Pahinvari folk poets. It’s only fair.” Juniper blinked and seemed to realize he was speaking to one of the world’s most feared assassins. “Or not. You’ll probably be… busy.”

  “Yes.” Heron’s mouth tasted metallic. “I usually am.”

  “Unfortunate,” Juniper said, playing another card. “Have you ever considered changing your profession?”

  Heron almost laughed. “No.”

  “Really? You can’t find it pleasant or enjoyable. You don’t seem the type.”

  “It isn’t. I don’t have a choice.”

  “Ah. Then I won’t pry.” He frowned down at the cards on the table. “I think you’ve won.”

  “Fair and square,” Heron agreed. “Are you satisfied, Lord Chreon Se?”

  Juniper glanced up at the woman behind Heron. Heron saw her shake her head in his peripheral vision.

  “You’re not cheating,” Juniper said, “but you are counting cards.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I don’t have any hard evidence. You have a tell, my lord.”

  “I don’t have a tell.”

  “Everyone has a tell. You look up and to the right when
you’re trying to remember which cards have been played. It’s subtle, but it’s there.”

  He was right, Heron realized. “You’re very observant.”

  “All part of my job.” Juniper stood, taking his wine with him. “I’m not going to kick you out yet. But I would like to very politely suggest that you take your business elsewhere before you frighten off all my aristocratic customers. I suggest the Cinnamon Club in downtown Atheon; they have excellent cocktails and a clientele full of easy marks.”

  “Thank you,” Heron said, startled.

  “Oh, and don’t tell them I sent you. I’ve been banned for ages, unfairly, since the flaming rum incident was entirely an accident. Right.” Juniper stuck out his hand. “Do we have an agreement, my lord?”

  Heron hesitated. He liked the Fallen Camellia, he realized suddenly. He liked the layers of curtains and the sequins that winked in them like stars. He liked the way the hazy golden light made the shadows look warm. He liked the idea that he might run into Juniper again. But all those things were meant for other people, people with better lives and cleaner hands.

  “We do.”

  He shook Juniper’s hand. His hands were very warm. Juniper had the grace to make it look like he wasn’t making a deal with the devil, even though that certainly must have been how he felt.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  It was nearly midnight by the time Senne returned to Wraith Manor. She splashed cold water on her cheeks and felt the drops travel down her chin like tears and soak into her collar. She needed to come up with something to tell the King.

  Seichre’s spy system wasn’t extensive, not like the one in Alrhen-Xiun. Maybe if she told him that Annara was dead, he would believe her. But that plan would rely on Annara keeping her head down, and without speaking to her, there was absolutely no guarantee that she would do that. She had to come up with something, or the King would execute her, but her mind was blank.