The Complete Marked Series Box Set

by March McCarron

  “It sounds like you’ve got more questions than answers, friend.” Arlow slid a potato into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed before he went on. “You should speak to the head constable. I can arrange it—he’s a good chap.”

  “Bray is hoping to corner him tonight,” Yarrow said.

  “Poor man.”

  Bray spent the entirety of dinner straining to locate the high constable, fearing that he was not in attendance, that she had come to this horrid event for nothing. An hour and seemingly a hundred courses later, she located him on the other side of the hall, a handsome man in his forties with a false smile and drastically arched brows.

  “Bray,” Yarrow called from several seats away. “Arlow’s gone to get the constable for you. They’re mates, it would seem.”

  Bray watched, her view intermittently impeded by the shifting crowd, as Arlow approached the constable and bent in close to whisper something in his ear. The constable’s mouth twitched and his eyes shot clear across the room to where she sat. He stood, but continued to speak to Arlow for several minutes. An attractive Adourran woman with a long braid joined them—she leaned forward, her brow furrowed, as the constable said something.

  “Yarrow?” Bray asked. “Is that a Cosanta?”

  Yarrow’s gaze followed hers just as the woman turned and the mark upon her neck became visible.

  “Yes,” Yarrow said in surprise. “By all the Spirits, that’s Vendra!”

  “Who?” Bray asked.

  “Oh—the granddaughter of a great friend of mine. I’ve only met her a handful of times. She does drug research and stays abroad most of the year.”

  Vendra sat back down and Arlow guided the constable across the room to their table.

  “Miss Marron,” the constable said in a charming voice. “How glad I am to see you again. Arlow has just been updating me on your findings. I would be very glad to be of assistance.”

  Bray gestured for the constable to sit and he did, pulling his chair in closer to her than was strictly necessary. He smelt strongly of cigars and his eyes, as ever, probed indelicately at her. The examination felt more invasive in a dress, with bare shoulders and accentuated waist.

  “We have found, so far, four house fires in Accord—each of them on the Eve of Da Un Marcu and fatal to all in residence.”

  “How terrible,” the constable simpered.

  “Mr. Abbort—how is it that neither you nor anyone in your department has noticed this terrible trend?”

  The constable pulled himself upright in his chair. “My dear girl, in such a large city, I assure you fires are common things. So common, in fact, that we have an entire department we dispatch on such occasions.”

  With an effort, Bray reigned in her annoyance at being called ‘girl’ and spoken to like a simpleton. “Are you aware that we have not found fifty marked children on Da Un Marcu in ten years, Mr. Abbort?”

  “Yes, of course, such an alarming—”

  “And you were, I assume, also aware of these fires. Each on Da Un Marcu.”

  “Fires occur—”

  “I can forgive you for this oversight, my dear Constable. With so many things to occupy your mind, I’m sure it is natural for some issues to slip through the cracks.”

  “Yes, I have been very—”

  “But, I can only assume, now that this error has been brought to light, that you will make this matter your chief priority. I will require every scrap of information you have on these fires, and any other incidents that led to death on the Eve of Da Un Marcu in the past ten years.”

  Mr. Abbort, looking flustered and thoroughly unhappy, nodded. “As ever, Miss Marron, I will be most pleased to offer you my support and assistance.”

  “You travel tomorrow, I am told?” Bray asked.

  “Yes—to the west.”

  “I trust you can find time to have the information I require sent before then?” Bray asked.

  The constable stood, his nostrils flaring. “I will have my assistant attend to it. If you will excuse me.” He offered her a jerky bow and hurried away. Bray watched him go with satisfaction.

  “Ah, Bray Marron,” Arlow said, his dark eyes glittering. “No one could accuse you of having a gentle touch. Don’t you think he would be more helpful if you had been civil?”

  “No.”

  She turned to Adearre. “Well?”

  Adearre’s mouth pursed, as if he had a foul taste on his tongue. “That man tells more lies than truths.”

  Arlow bristled. “I don’t think it’s fair to judge a man so—”

  “Adearre’s a master at detecting lies,” Bray said.

  Arlow’s eyes locked on Adearre with alarm; he looked as though he had bit into a particularly sour lemon.

  Bray laughed at his expression. “Don’t fret, Arlow. We already knew you were full of—”

  “He is not going west,” Adearre cut in. His golden eyes still followed the constable’s progression across the room.

  “What?” Arlow asked. “Where is he going then?”

  Adearre shrugged.

  “What else did he lie about?” Bray asked.

  “I believe he knew about the fires,” Adearre said. “He would not look you in the eye and his ears turned pink when you asked him directly about them.”

  Arlow’s mouth hung open while Bray’s thinned with displeasure.

  “Surely not Mr. Abbort. He comes from a very good family. He gave me tickets to the theater!” Arlow said.

  Bray, so caught up in the investigation, had nearly forgotten she was at a ball—until the music silenced and the crowd hushed.

  The King and Queen descended from the head table and made their way to the dance floor. They turned to face each other, the King’s back perfectly straight and the Queen a picture of poise. The music swelled and they spun into motion, twirling so the Queen’s crimson skirts billowed out around her. After a few moments, the Prince led his sister onto the dance floor as well. They were a handsome pair. Bray’s eyes lingered on the Prince’s broad shoulders. When the music faded and began anew, the dance floor filled with spinning couples.

  Peer’s fingers tapped to the tune on the linen. “Pity we don’t know any of the dances.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Arlow said. He stood and approached an attractive Adourran woman in a yellow dress. She blushed prettily, accepted his hand, and the two of them joined the many twirling couples. He danced well, Bray thought. She watched them without envy. Her own feet hurt too badly to do more than sit.

  Adearre’s foot tapped to the music beside her, but his gaze focused intently on Arlow and his pretty partner, his mouth downturned. Bray was about to ask what was bothering him when she became aware of a person standing just behind her chair. She heard the clearing of a throat.

  The Prince of all Trinitas gave her a wide, boyish smile and a deep bow. She stood hastily and curtsied without grace.

  “Your Royal Highness,” she said, hoping that was the correct title.

  “Jo-Kwan, please,” he said, his voice a rich, deep timbre. “I apologize, I do not make a habit of approaching a woman without an introduction, but as you are Chisanta I thought perhaps such rules might not apply.”

  She smiled. “You thought quite right. I am Bray Marron, and very happy to make your acquaintance.”

  Bray introduced Peer and Adearre, both of whom received a polite bow from the Prince. She would have introduced Yarrow and Ko-Jin as well, but they were no longer at the table.

  “I had hoped I might have the honor of your hand for the next set,” he said.

  Color crept into her face at the thought of fumbling about on the dance floor with the future king.

  He must have misread her emotion. “Unless, of course, you are engaged.”

  “No,” she said, “I’m not...it’s just, you see, I don’t know the steps.”

  He flashed her a charming, white smile. “Never fear. I am an excellent leader.”

  He bowed once more and departed. Bray’s heart beat faster as sh
e sat back down. She glared at the orchestra, willing them to continue this song indefinitely, for when the music faded her public humiliation would begin. She didn’t know how to dance—especially not in such a heavy dress and impractical shoes. Spirits, why had she not left as soon as she’d finished speaking with the constable?

  “Lucky girl,” Adearre purred in her ear. Bray glowered at him and crossed her arms. She searched the crowd, wondering where Yarrow had gone, then gulped down the half glass of wine that remained from dinner.

  The song ended far too quickly. Adearre pattered her shoulder. “Off you go, love.”

  She rose and made her way towards the dance floor, resigned to the inevitable embarrassment. The Prince stood, waiting for her, at the top of the floor. He held a hand out to her, just like a storybook prince, and she took it. He gazed down at her with dark, friendly eyes until the music swelled again. With his palm resting on her back, hers on his shoulder, and their other hands clasped in a kind of fingerly embrace, Bray reflected that dancing was a rather intimate thing. Even the fact that he was handsome didn’t lessen her discomfort at the closeness. Though, as she glanced up at him, she thought closer proximity did not diminish his good looks. He had an angular chin, a small scar running along the jaw bone. His eyes were a dark brown, but flecked with warmer shades.

  His fingers shifted against her own, and she couldn’t help but think of a different hand she had held recently, and how much pleasanter it had been.

  The heavy material of her dress shook like a great bell against her legs and her stomach fluttered. She stepped on his foot within the first few beats, but he was chivalrous enough not to laugh or scorn.

  “You are the Chiona woman who investigates crime, I am told.”

  “I am, Your Highness.”

  “Please, Jo-Kwan. I am sick to death of ‘Your Highnesses,’” he said, guiding her effortlessly through the steps. He had been right, he was a good leader. “I would love to speak to you about your experiences. Why is it that you succeed where the constables do not?”

  Her shoe slipped but she managed to cling to it with her toes and only miss a single step of the dance. Again, he politely drew no attention to her blunder.

  “Aside from more extensive training, I have the ability to cross borders without regard to jurisdiction.”

  The Prince nodded. “That is what I expected. I’ve been urging my father to overhaul our criminal justice system and create something more universal. Your input would be invaluable. Would you mind terribly if we talked shop? I know it is a ball—”

  “On the contrary,” Bray said, feeling more at ease. “I would be delighted.”

  Prince Jo-Kwan launched into a well-researched and well-considered plan for an overarching justice system, and Bray was so engaged in the conversation that her feet began to move instinctively, the act of dancing itself becoming a nonissue.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Sweat slithered down Yarrow’s temple and his head ached. He wondered how long these events typically lasted; the assemblage, for the most part, did not appear fatigued by the hours of dancing or the lateness of the evening.

  “Can you believe she’s claiming another dance with the Prince?” a tall woman with a hawkish nose said in a carrying whisper to her friend. “This is their third straight set!”

  “I know! I can hardly believe it, Frensha. What is he thinking? She doesn’t even have hair…”

  The women passed Yarrow by. They were not the only ones discussing the Prince’s unvaried dance card. Bray had made some female enemies over the past hour.

  Yarrow’s eyes lingered on her. She looked beautiful—the green complemented her coloring well. She appeared to be deeply engaged in conversation with the Prince. Yarrow could hear her interest in his mind, its tone distinctly business-like.

  His other companions had dispersed. Arlow and Ko-Jin had taken up seats at the card tables. Yarrow pitied the men who sat with Arlow, as they would likely be rather poorer by the time they departed. Adearre and Peer lingered by the entrance, deep in discussion with a man in a sharp gray uniform. Yarrow had long since grown overwhelmed by the number of people, all milling and talking and drinking. He longed for a bit of peace.

  “Yarrow Lamhart?” a feminine voice asked.

  He spun on his heel and smiled. “Vendra.”

  She appeared much as she had the last time they’d met, slim and pretty, with high cheekbones and a lovely dark complexion. She looked young enough to be of an age with Yarrow, when in reality she was a good eight years his senior.

  “I haven’t seen you in an age.” She shook his hand. “What brings you out into the world?”

  He took a sip of his drink, fine Dalish whisky that barely burned as it traveled down his throat, and answered, “Research.”

  “I should have guessed,” she said, her dark eyes alight with merriment. He found her behavior strange. She’d been friendly enough to him in the past, but always a bit cold. He’d developed the opinion long ago that she didn’t much like him.

  “How was Grandfather when you left?”

  “Dedrre is well,” Yarrow said. “He talks about you all the time.”

  “Yes.” She hiccupped. “He’s very proud. Did he tell you that passage on the Fifth you found for me was very useful? I’ve developed a much longer-lasting sedative, thanks to you.” She patted his chest.

  The music ceased and there was polite applause. Yarrow prayed that it marked the end of the ball, but to his chagrin the orchestra immediately began another number.

  “I’m glad it was of use. I’ll be sure to send along anything else I find.”

  She took his hand in hers and looked up at him with large, suggestive eyes. She took a step closer.

  Yarrow cleared his throat. Was she trying to seduce him? That was an odd notion, and an uncomfortable one. If there was a woman whom he’d like to be seduced by, it was not Vendra.

  He took her hand and kissed the back of it lightly, then released the contact and took a definitive step back. There, that ought to be a clear enough gesture without hurting her feelings.

  “What brings you to Accord?” he asked, his tone carefully light. “I saw you speaking with the constable. No trouble with the law I hope?”

  “Oh, I’m ever having trouble with the law. But I’m the victim, not the culprit, I assure you. It’s nothing serious.”

  Yarrow gestured for her to continue.

  “Just theft,” she said. “My stores have been robbed almost every year for the past decade, if you’ll believe it. And each year they take more and more.”

  “What do they take?” Yarrow asked.

  “Sedatives mostly,” she said. She leaned in and spoke in a softer voice, “The constable has been conducting an investigation for me, tracing the distribution of the stolen goods. He’s finally found the thieves’ headquarters—in an abandoned warehouse outside Che Mire.”

  Yarrow chewed on his bottom lip for a moment. “Are your sedatives administered with a medical syringe?”

  “Of course.”

  Vendra moved in close enough that he could smell the clean scent of her. “I’ve got a room just down the road at the Rose Petal Inn—”

  Abruptly, a jolt of panic raced through Yarrow’s body. He turned his head sharply towards the dance floor, looking for Bray. She had just experienced a distinct surge of alarm, and Yarrow’s own heart beat faster, pumping with her emotion.

  He found her easily enough; she was still with the Prince, but she had ceased dancing, was crouched in a defensive position with her back to the future king. It took Yarrow a moment to locate the danger.

  At least half a dozen figures, garbed in all black, slipped in and out of the dancers. They moved inconspicuously, blending easily with the ever-present black tuxedos. Yarrow wondered how Bray had noticed them at all; he certainly would not have.

  Yarrow ascertained their objective in an instant. One approached Bray because she stood by the Prince. Several figures crept towards the King as well. Ad
earre and Peer already sprinted in the monarch’s direction, shocking unsuspecting dancers.

  Assassins.

  Yarrow’s heart tattooed in the drum of his chest as he scanned the crowd, searching. He located the Queen, not far from where he stood, sitting at the head table with a cup of tea in hand. The Princess danced on the other side of the hall, nearer the card tables.

  The guests still had not noticed anything was amiss—they chatted and danced and laughed.

  “Ko-Jin! Arlow!” Yarrow bellowed, hoping his voice would be audible over the din. People turned to him with reproachful glares. Ko-Jin jumped up at the sound of his name, his body tensing. Yarrow pointed to the Princess, trusted his friend to understand.

  A gunshot sounded. Pandemonium ensued.

  The music ended with dissonant abruptness. Women and men alike screamed and swarmed, like a hive of satin-clad hornets. They shoved and tripped over each other in their haste to escape.

  Yarrow ran in the opposite direction, pushing bodily through the throng, towards the Queen. She had frozen, her trembling hand still clutching a floral tea cup, her rosebud mouth parted in silent panic.

  She seemed, for a moment, unsure whether Yarrow was friend or foe, until her eyes locked onto the mark upon his neck.

  A single black-clothed form loomed behind the Queen. Yarrow glimpsed the flash of silver—a blade.

  With no ceremony, Yarrow pushed the Queen down to the floor and prodded her to slide under the table for protection. “My apologies, Your Highness.”

  He sensed the attacker move, discerned the blade ripping through the air, and ducked. He heard the dagger whiz past his left ear. It clattered and skidded across the marble floor behind him.

  Yarrow hopped back to his feet and turned to face the assassin. The man, short but well-built, had covered his face in a black cloth. Bright red hair peeked out of the folds. Across his chest he’d strapped a belt lined with five additional daggers, not including the one in his hand.

  Yarrow’s pulse thrummed but his thoughts remained calm. He stepped towards the assassin.

  “Outta my way an I won’ kill ya,” the man said.