“Do you, now?” The voice that rumbles back is deep and carries a faint note of challenge.

“I do. And since I have found you out, I think it only fair you show yourself. Is that not how these games work?”

“Indeed, it is, my lady.” He steps out from behind a tree, and my worst suspicions solidify. He is dressed in good-quality riding leathers, a boiled leather tabard, and a fine cloak. His chain mail is black, as are his thick leather gauntlets. His woolen cloak is pulled low, shadowing his face. No peasant, then. While he bears no visible weapon except the long knife at his waist, he comes bearing the scent and feel of death. I tighten my grip on the concealed crossbow, slowly bring it up, and aim it directly at him.

“Is that, too, part of this game, my lady?”

“I know not. You are the one who has set the game in motion.”

He is not marqued, of course. It is only long years of habit that has me checking.

That is not true. I check because I am an eternal fool, hoping against hope that Mortain will still be able to reveal his will to me.

“It is not some game, my lady, merely a man beset by misfortune. My horse went lame, and I have become lost looking for the king’s palace at Plessis. Can you point me the way?”

“Is that why you gutted the deer? You were trying to divine the way to the king’s palace with its entrails?”

“A man grows hungry, my lady.”

“And yet I smell no cook fire.”

“I was out gathering wood when you arrived.”

“And yet your hands are empty.” I keep my voice light and teasing, but my hawk, having filled herself on the deer, has turned her attention to the tense undercurrent between the man and me. She shifts on her feet and spreads open her wings, letting out a screech. I tilt my head and smile. “My hawk does not like you.”

I should kill him. I should do it now and be done with it.

But some small part of me wishes to be absolutely certain before I release my bolt. Besides, a bolt will scream murder, and possibly lead to too many questions. There is a subtler way to achieve the same end. Keeping my eye and my aim firmly on the stranger, I slowly dismount so that I am standing on the ground, facing him. I give a sharp whistle, and the hawk launches herself to land neatly on my arm.

The man tilts his head, a faint smile playing about his lips. “How will my lady shoot her bow with only one hand?”

I smile. “It is a small crossbow, especially designed so that the trigger requires only a finger to release it. Besides, I do not think I shall waste a bolt on you.”

This causes his eyebrows to raise in faint surprise.

Now!

I launch the hawk at him. He doesn’t shout or raise his hands to protect his face like any normal man would, but reaches for his knife. Merde. I have no choice but to use the crossbow.

I squeeze the trigger, releasing the bolt. It pierces the man’s woolen cloak and embeds itself in the hollow above his breastbone. Even as his hands scrabble at his throat, I close the distance between us and slip around behind him. Fortunately, he is not tall. I grab his head in both my hands, then wrench it to the left, breaking his neck.

I prefer a knife. It is cleaner and faster. But this way when they find his corpse they can assume he fell from his horse.

His soul bursts free of his body, shocked and angry. It rushes for me, as if it still has the power to harm. Instead, it swirls impotently around my head, filling me with his final thoughts. I force myself to remain open to them. A bag of coin. A voice giving my description. The order for my death.

My actions vindicated, I shove the body to the ground. An assassin. And I was his target.

Working quickly, I search him for any indication of who has sent him, but there is nothing—?no messages, no seals, not even so much as one of the coins he was paid. Next, I hunt through the bracken for a stout twig, pull the bolt from his neck, and jam the twig into the remaining hole. Not only has the poor man broken his neck in a fall, but he has had the misfortune to land on a sharp stick.

Grunting with the effort, I drag him toward the bank. With the recent rains, it has swollen to nearly the size of a small river. I give him a final shove and he disappears for a moment before bobbing back up as he is swiftly carried down current. By the time he has reached the bend in the stream, his clothes are heavy with water and have begun to pull his body below the surface.

If the gods do not like it, they can take it up with those who keep attacking me. It is the best I can do for now. Besides, if I do not hurry, the others will come looking for me.

* * *

Beast is waiting just behind the queen, scanning the trees. When he sees me, the tension in his face eases, and I smile to reassure him that everything is fine. For it is. The threat has been identified and addressed. The shaking and sickness I feel in my stomach is merely the dregs of the surprise of it. While I have killed often enough, it is rare that I find myself a target.

I have taken so long that everyone is flush with pheasant, and it is time to head back. The heavy weight of Beast’s regard is on me for the entire return trip. I can feel the sheer effort of will it takes for him not to pull me aside and demand to know what has happened.

We are met in the courtyard by squires, stable hands, and falconer’s attendants who are eager take the reins or retrieve their beloved falcons. Beast shoulders aside the squire trying to assist me and helps me dismount himself. “What happened?”

“It is handled,” I utter under my breath. “Meet me later tonight, and I will tell you what transpired.”

Displeasure radiates from him like heat from a smoldering fire, but there is naught he can do about it with others watching. “Midnight,” I promise him.

When I emerge from the stables, the regent and her party are just riding into the courtyard. Two of her attendants are with her, as well as six of the royal guard. I slow my steps, giving the groom time to help her so she is off her horse by the time I approach her.

“Madame Regent, we missed you on our hunt today.”

At the sound of my voice, her shoulders flinch, and she slowly turns around to face me. “Lady Sybella. I am sorry I couldn’t make it. Was there good hunting?” Do her eyes shift ever so slightly, or is that merely the scudding clouds reflected in them?

“It was fine hunting,” I say. “And you?”

She gives a fluid shrug that says both everything and nothing. “I wasn’t hunting, I was paying a visit.” She begins removing her riding gloves. “Since I can feel your curiosity from here, I will put you out of your misery. I was visiting the Princess Marguerite.”

While I am pleased to have an answer, I am also perplexed that she would share it with me. “And how was she?”

“Very well. And how have your charming sisters entertained themselves with you out hunting all day?”

Her question is as effective as holding a knife under my throat. “By tending to their sewing and their lessons, Madame. I will tell them you were kind enough to inquire after them.”

“Yes, please do.” She sends me a smile that is as lovely as it is false, and I am left wondering why she was willing to tell me where she had been.

Chapter 65

Genevieve

he second leg of my plan crumbles shortly before the mummers are scheduled to perform, right after we reach the palace courtyard. As we mill about waiting to enter, Maraud and I drift toward the edge of our group. When we are on the very outskirts of the mummer troupe, we pause. To the right sits the smithy, the fletcher’s hut, and the kennels. The stables are on the left. “Best we approach them indirectly,” I tell Maraud under my breath. “Once the

courtyard is clear, we can make our way to the stables. And avoid the kennels lest we set the dogs to barking.”

He nods in agreement. We check one last time to see if anyone is watching, but the mummers are all making last-minute adjustments to their costumes and whispering among themselves. I give the signal, and we take a step away from the crowd.

No one so much as blinks.

We take another cautious step, then another. No voices raised in surprise, no one urging us to come back. Everyone is thoroughly involved in their own preparations and merriment.

I nod again, and this time we walk with purpose, heading in the direction of the smithy. Just as we reach it, an enormous man with a black beard down to his belly comes around the corner, fastening his trousers, nearly running into us.

We stop and stare at each other. It is the smith, I realize, taking in his bulging arms and leather jerkin.

He is the first to recover. Scowling, he lifts one beefy hand and points. “The palace is that way.”

There is nothing for it but to try to step into the hole he has created. “Oh, we know, monsieur,” I say breathlessly. “But our chain!” I grab for Maraud’s chain and hold it up for the blacksmith before quickly dropping it again. “Two of the links are coming loose, and we wondered if, tomorrow before we leave, you could fix it for us?”

He stares at me from beneath his bushy brows, the tip of his nose suspiciously red. He smiles. “Be glad to. Good luck to help a mummer!” He claps one large hand on each of our shoulders and begins walking us back to the palace. “And who are you dressed as, demoiselle?”

“Brigantia and the wolves of war,” I tell him.

His face breaks into a huge grin. “I never liked that story as a boy. Always wanted the wolf to win. But tonight? Tonight I’ll be rooting for you.” He winks and chucks me under the chin. “Here we are now, and here’s the rest of your troupe. I’ll keep an eye out for you.”

Tags: Robin LaFevers His Fair Assassin Fantasy
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