“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 she 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.
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 tux
edos. 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 toward the King as well. Adearre 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 toward the assassin.
“Outta my way an I won’ kill ya,” the man said.
He did not, however, give Yarrow the opportunity to move. He hurled his second blade, hoping to catch Yarrow off guard. He was not in luck. Yarrow moved without thought into Meeting Earth and the dagger flew wide.
Yarrow took several steps toward the assassin, but was forced to fling himself flat on his stomach as yet another dagger flipped menacingly through the air. In the space of a breath, Yarrow was on his feet again and had closed in on the man.
His opponent had a dagger in hand, but rather than throw it, he lunged, aiming to plunge the short blade into Yarrow’s gut.
Yarrow moved on pure instinct. He formed Slow Lash, knocking the man’s arm wide, and, in the same swift motion, he whipped his own arm around and smacked upwards at the man’s elbow, jarred him into dropping the weapon.
The assassin had no opportunity to react. Yarrow twisted him by the shoulder, caught the assassin’s neck in the crook of his elbow, and flexed—cutting off the blood to the man’s brain.
Yarrow had never used his innate fighting skills before—even when he fought Bray, he had held back, not wanting to inflict any real damage.
But this, this was different. He could kill this man effortlessly. And even as that truth settled into his mind, he noticed a thousand details. The assassin’s face cover had unraveled slightly, revealing a youthful freckled face. The boy had nicked himself shaving. He smelt like lye soap and wood shavings. Nausea roiled in Yarrow’s stomach.
He released the boy, letting him tumble, unconscious but very much alive, to the floor.
Another gunshot brought Yarrow back to his senses. He leapt to his feet and turned to assess the situation.
He had been fortunate to contend with only one assassin; five men aimed to kill the King. Adearre and Peer protected him with difficulty, given their lack of weapons.
Three killers set their sights on the Prince, but he was safe. Bray held him by the hand and the daggers and arrows flew ineffectually through his intangible form.
Yarrow watched as Ko-Jin took down a third assailant in his duty to protect the Princess. He moved with such force and speed that a fourth assassin, upon seeing his companion so effortlessly dispatched, turned and ran away.
The Princess broke out of Arlow’s hold and ran across the hall toward Yarrow, panic in her eyes. “Mother?”
The Queen answered in Chaskuan and the Princess slid under the table to join her. They clung to each other, whispering in rapid, high-pitched voices.
Arlow jogged after his charge, his face pale and his hand clutched at his side.
“You’re injured?” Yarrow asked.
Arlow flashed his usual self-confident grin, though pain narrowed his eyes. “Just a graze. I’ll watch them.” He jerked his head to the table. “You help the others.”
Yarrow took a moment to relieve the red-headed boy of his remaining daggers, though he had never practiced throwing knives before. How hard could it be?
He darted across the hall, his unfamiliar dress shoes sliding on the dance floor. Bray was closest—he sprinted in her direction. She looked spitting mad, but was unable to attack without affording an opportunity for the assassins to harm the Prince.
“Yarrow, be careful!” Bray shouted, though he was warned by her surge of concern first. A tall figure turned a pistol in his direction, his forefinger flexed over the trigger.
Yarrow slid to the floor just as the weapon fired. His ears rang and his nostrils filled with the sharp scent of gunpowder.
Back on his feet, he ran to Bray, and she sprinted to him, dragging the Prince along behind her. She reached out her free hand and he took it. He felt, for the second time, the strange sensation of having his own solidity wink out.
“We should group up,” he shouted, trying to be heard over the screams of the few remaining guests and the ringing in his own ears.
He was struck by an inappropriate desire to laugh as he, his boyhood love, and the future King of all Trinitas ran, hand-in-hand, across the dance floor like children at a spring festival. The swishing of Bray’s dress beside him helped to magnify the absurdity.
His amusement dissolved as the bolt of a crossbow whizzed through his chest and rattled to the floor. Bray couldn’t hold all of their hands, after all, and the assassins had brought some serious weaponry.
Yarrow counted the enemy and realized there were more than he had initially estimated and, despite finding highly trained resistance, they showed no intention of fleeing.
Ko-Jin, Adearre, and Peer formed a half arc around the King. The attack would be over quickly when their assailants ran out of ammunition, but while they had firepower, not even Ko-Jin could risk entering combat.
A lump formed in his throat as the hopelessness of the situation settled upon him.
“You should protect the King,” he said to Bray.
She grimaced, clearly wanting to fight. But the protection of the royal family must come first—even she, hot-headed as she was, knew that.
She tugged the Prince to where the King crouched. Yarrow took up a place beside Adearre in the line.
“Any brilliant ideas?” he asked his companions.
“I’ve got a plan,” Ko-Jin whispered. “Follow my lead.”
Yarrow took one of his pilfered daggers in hand, pausing. Eight assassins remained standing; they, too, stilled and waited. The silence that fell, after the prolonged din of shouting, gunfire, and trampling of feet, hung eerily in the air. Yarrow felt a drip of sweat run down his temple.
One of the assassins stepped forward. He unwrapped his head cover, revealing a handsome face marred by a single puckered scar on his right cheek.
“
We have no wish to harm the Chisanta,” he said in a south Dalish accent. “It is the tyranny of the Bellra line we have come to end. Let us complete our mission, and we will let you go in peace.”
Ko-Jin took a decisive step forward. “If that is true, lower your weapons.”
Not one of them shifted, until the scarred man gave a short nod. Then the pistols, crossbows, and daggers pointed to the floor.
“I would feel a lot better if the weapons were on the ground,” Ko-Jin said, his voice pleasant. “The Chisanta are not citizens of Trinitas. This man is not our King. But I confess, I have no desire to be struck by a stray arrow or bullet should one of your men be feeling a bit overzealous.” The scarred man frowned. “Besides, surely you mean to give the King a clean death. You did bring that fine sword along with you.”
The man’s hand went to the hilt of the weapon at his side. “That was my intention,” he said cautiously.
Ko-Jin spread his hands, palms wide, in an inclusive gesture. “If you ask your men to put down their weapons, I’m sure my companion would be happy to bring the King forward.”
Yarrow wasn’t sure where Ko-Jin was going with this, but he kept his expression cool and disinterested. He knew his friend well enough to trust he would not allow the King to die, clean death or no.
The scarred man contemplated Ko-Jin for a moment, before giving the order. “Guns, crossbows, and daggers to the floor. Swords in hand.”
The men dropped their weapons with a clatter, then the whisper of swords pulled from sheaths kissed Yarrow’s ears.
Ko-Jin nodded graciously. “Bray, if you would be so kind as to bring the King forward?”
Bray pulled the King to his feet, her dress slithering audibly along the floor as she towed him forward. The King’s eyes went wide, his mouth working soundlessly, like a fish. Sweat beaded on his brow.
“No! I am your King!” he said, at last finding his voice.
Bray led him to the line of Chisanta, but did not move further into the no-mans-land. The assassin would have to come to them.
“No! Father!” the Prince bellowed. “Bray, what are you doing? You can’t!”
Division of the Marked (The Marked Series) Page 24
