The Assassin Princess (Lamb & Castle Book 2) (10 page)

Bessie's light spell floated in a haze of pastel pink and blue smoke that smelled of penny sweets and fizzled sparklers. Waving the smoke away, Bessie pulled up the trapdoor and looked down into pitch blackness. The same spell that had given her wings had rendered her bones temporarily hollow and fragile, so that she didn't dare risk a hard fall in the dark, let alone a real fight. The White Queen had looked meaner than before, too: her eyes had reflected the light like a hunting cat's, glowing green in the darkness. She might be lying in wait down there, and Bessie didn't know what other
new spells the White Queen might have learned in the past months. A direct confrontation had been imprudent and Bessie might have to think of a sneakier way of getting hold of the crown. She floated her light spell down into the cellar, but without much enthusiasm. Nothing. She listened closely, but thought the White Queen must have vanished into the network of basements that often linked up beneath such streets. Bessie didn't much like having to light her way by magic: such cheap and simple spells as she knew had no discretion about them, and could draw unwanted attention. She hurried back out into the street, letting her light spell fade out. Just as the dark of the night closed in, Bessie heard a clattering and a scrabbling on the flagstones behind her. She barely caught the flash of jet black that disappeared around the corner – all she saw with any clarity was the black tail crack like a whip – but she got some sense of the hugeness of it. Readying herself to cast another fire bolt if need be, she crept around the corner, but she'd been much too slow, and there was nothing there. With a whir of feathers Bessie leapt into the air, alighting in an empty window, where she crouched and looked down on the street. She'd seen no sign of human habitation so far, but what creatures could make their home in an abandoned Flying City?
Wyverns
, she answered her own question instantly.
Griffins. Dragons. Need I go on?
Much as she enjoyed the novelty and fun of her temporary wings, they were unlikely to give her much of an advantage over any wild creatures which had made their way into Ilgrevnia. She remembered the flash of fire which had driven
Sharvesh
back from Ilgrevnia's borders. It had happened just a moment after she'd landed in the streets of Ilgrevnia, her brand new grey-brown wings setting her down safe and sound. In an instant the exhilaration of her flight had turned to fear for Greyfell and Bryn, then a sudden unexpected jolt of fear for herself as
Sharvesh
turned to veer away from the jet of orange flame, drifting into the clouds and leaving her alone. Her first thought had been flamethrowers, but now she feared she'd missed the more obvious explanation – dragons. She'd seen
Sharvesh
get safely away, but wondered fretfully where Bryn had taken the skyship.
Sharvesh
could escape the range of flamethrowers easily enough, but if a dragon pursued…

She forced herself not to think about it, and instead made a careful survey of the rooftops below the window where she'd alighted: close to the Keystone, in the good part of town; lamps burning in almost every window of one grand mansion, but no sound of habitation anywhere close; broken windows and missing tiles on some of the less impressive buildings, but no major structural damage. The White Queen had got away from her, but she'd have to resurface
somewhere
. Close by, light curtains fluttered in the breeze from a window left open an inch or two. Reaching it from the ground would usually have been something of a challenge for Bessie, but not today.

~

Inside the mansion was a maze of corridors, through which Bessie proceeded silently, encountering nobody. Lusciously thick rugs covered the polished floorboards, and the walls were papered with richly coloured patterns and hung with fine paintings. Exotic vases and statuettes stood everywhere, as if somebody just didn't have room in the parlour for all these bothersome antiques. It seemed to Bessie that somebody had spent an awful lot of money making the place look fancy for nobody to really see it, but at the same time it had an eerie feeling, like a house belonging to some eccentric old spinster who couldn’t do all the housework by herself any more, and couldn’t abide the company of servants either. Thick grey dust lined every seam and crevice, and nobody had chased the spiders from the higher reaches of the corridors.

Bessie’s explorations came to a halt at a heavy iron gate blocking the entire corridor. For one horrible moment she thought she might have to pick a lock (something she'd been trying to learn for years but had never been very good at) when she noticed something. Experimentally, she lifted the latch and pushed. The gate swung open effortlessly and without the slightest squeak. She examined the door closely, careful not to let it fall closed again. It
did
have a lock – a big mean heavy one – but the gate had been carefully designed to keep somebody (or something)
in
, rather than keeping anybody out. She noted the table right inside the doorway, with a tray of half-eaten food. The apple core was brown, but when Bessie poked the crust of bread, it felt fresh enough. Somebody was being held prisoner here, and the gate had been designed to make it easy for servants to leave food and collect empty plates, without needing to entrust the aforementioned servants with a key. Bessie would have to be careful not to let the iron gate lock behind her, or she'd be just as much a prisoner as whoever (or whatever) she might find somewhere on the other side of it… She took a silver vase from a nearby ornamental table, wedged it between gate and frame, and continued.

Behind the iron gate, a long corridor led to a room both richly decorated and in its own way strangely spartan: it contained a bed, a writing desk, a chair, and not much in the way of personal accoutrements. Three books on a shelf. A tall, slender young woman in a nightdress and robe stood at a window, leaning listless on the sill as she gazed idly at the stars. She looked a few years older than Bessie, with skin so pale it was almost translucent, and black hair that cascaded down her back in perfect spiral curls. At the sound of footsteps, the girl looked around. Her wide ocean-blue eyes were as beautiful as any of the paintings and antiques scattered about the corridors. And she, too, had been left locked up, apparently surplus.

It took the beautiful girl a moment to realise that Bessie was not somebody she expected to see in her luxurious prison. “Oh! How did you get in here?” she demanded. Her accent was instantly recognisable as upper crust Iletian – she could have been an Antwin girl, although Bessie didn't recognise her, and besides, a real Antwin girl wouldn't allow herself to be held prisoner for long. An Antwin girl would hide her fear in the face of an intruder… but then, the beautiful girl wasn't doing a bad job of that.

“Never mind how I got in here,” said Bessie. “The question is, am I going to let you out?” Would doing so benefit either Bessie or the beautiful girl? After all, Bessie hadn't planned for getting anybody else out of Ilgrevnia, and she doubted her temporary wings would carry the weight of two people.

The beautiful girl caught sight of Bessie's feathers, and giggled. “Oh, I see: you're a sparrow. A real sparrow!”

Bessie felt her cheeks flame. She'd thought she'd got her own, less refined accent under control. Worse, she'd thought the prisoner might be grateful enough at the sight of a rescuer not to make such a rude remark. “Just because my family come from the Walls, doesn't mean –”

“Is that why they call your kind sparrows?” the girl interrupted. “Because you really do have wings from living so close to the edge of the City all those years? If that's the case, then I must say you usually do a better job of hiding them.”

Bessie scowled, not sure if the girl was really such a twit, or deliberately needling her. Bessie had seen one of her older brothers beat a man half senseless for using the same slur. Lucky for this girl, Bessie wasn't so hot-tempered. “Who are you, anyway?”

“I'm Rose Hartwood – I'm sure you've heard of my father's boutiques.” Rose looked Bessie up and down critically. “Or perhaps not… My father owns a string of very successful high fashion boutiques, all across the civilised world.”

“How nice for you,” said Bessie, wondering if she really wanted to saddle herself with some ungrateful empty-headed snob. “I'm Elizabeth Castle,” Bessie noted the genuinely blank look on Rose's face, not the slightest flicker of recognition, “of the Antwin Academy. Do you want to be rescued or not? You
are
a prisoner here, aren't you?” Rose might have been locked in, but she didn't seem dreadfully upset about it. “Don't you have family who'll be worrying about you?”

Rose wrapped her arms around herself, looking suddenly uncertain. If Mr. Hartwood had any sense, he would have spent some of the money he'd made from his boutiques on sending his daughter to the Antwin Academy. By no means did every Antwin alumnus go on to become a spy or an assassin, but countless young ladies from good families had benefited from a proper grounding in strategy, and graduated from the Academy with the ability to rescue themselves from any number of difficult situations, including ones just like this.

“Does your father know you're here?” Bessie pressed. Could she be wrong, or did Rose's lovely turquoise eyes glisten tearfully at that? There: Rose's father was the wedge to open up the ice maiden's shell. Bessie could only hope that she wasn't wasting her time in the effort while somebody else kicked her doorstop away, trapping
her
in Rose's lovely cage.

“I honestly don't remember how I came to be here,” said Rose. She sat down on the end of the bed, her hands folded neat but tight, her eyes downcast.

Bessie still had horrible visions of somebody finding her makeshift doorstop and putting it back in its rightful place, but despite everything, Bessie pitied the helpless prisoner. Besides, an Antwin girl does not turn her back on useful information. “Tell me everything you do remember.”

“Well, I was woken one morning by a strange woman's voice.
‘Time to get up now,’
she said to me,
‘Wash your face and brush your hair – you must look pretty for Master,’
and when I opened my eyes I found myself in this room.”

A servant with flaming red hair stood there, watching me. She handed me a brush and again bid me wash my face and brush my hair. “You want to look pretty for Master, don't you?” she said.

I had a horrible suspicion then that I knew what had happened. A man had come to my father some time previously, trying to barter for my hand in marriage – some prince we'd never heard of before. Father had turned him away when he couldn't prove his credentials. So, I asked the servant woman if her master was the Prince Archalthus, and she nodded.

“In that case, no! No, I
don't
want to look pretty for him!” I told her, jumping out of bed and marching straight for the door. I didn't even care that I was in my nightdress, I was so furious with Archalthus –”

“Don't say his name,” Bessie interrupted, remembering the commotion of the dragon's sudden appearance at the jade temple. The elderly Archmage and the witch had spoken the dragon's name three times between them, and the beast had burst out of thin air like a genie from a bottle.

Rose gazed vacantly at her. “I beg your pardon?”

“If you're trying to summon him: don't. I want to help you if I can. And… I want to hear your story,” Bessie added. Appealing to the girl's ego might work better than appealing to common sense, in this case.

“Oh, you needn't worry about
that
,” said Rose. “Prince Archalthus has more important things to do than guard one prisoner.”

Bessie braced herself for the sudden appearance of the dragon, but nothing happened.

Rose gave her an odd look. “I told you so. Anyway, I tried to storm out, but the door was locked, of course. I was so very furious that I even considered climbing out of a window, but it's much too high.”

Bessie looked down from the window at Ilgrevnia's Keystone Square – a view at once familiar and unfamiliar. The obelisk was definitely smaller, cut from some grey stone marbled like storm clouds, polished to an almost mirror finish and writ in gold that glinted in the streetlights. The buildings circling it didn't look so grand as the biggest temples and mansions of Iletia. Bessie stopped worrying about the iron gate in the corridor – she was fairly certain she could climb down from
this
window without too much trouble.

“Worse yet,” Rose continued, “the streets were deserted.”

“There are clothes for you in that chest,” the redheaded servant told me. “Master will see you when you're ready.”

I had to make the best of the situation, and I am a lady, so I washed my face and brushed my hair. As I brushed, I tried to remember what this prince had been like. Handsome? Witty? Cruel, old? I'm too young and beautiful to be married off in a hurry, so my father had already turned down more than a dozen potential suitors for me, although I must admit I rather liked some of them…

Rose stood up, sighed, and began pacing back and forth, while Bessie watched her as a cat watches a dog on a leash.

I put on the dainty satin slippers that had been left by the bed for me, and opened the chest. What I found there… well! I'd already guessed that the prince would want to dress me up like a doll in elegant and expensive clothes: all wealthy men like to do that with their pretty wives. Oh, but the
fabrics,
little sparrow girl! Shimmering shades of red like autumn leaves in the rain, accented with the finest stitching in golden thread… There was so much to choose from, but eventually I dressed in a tunic glittering with clever embroidery, a heavy suedish red skirt that swishes in a marvellously dramatic way when I walk, and fur-lined knee-high boots. I was puzzled: whoever had packed the chest had been preparing for winter, but winter was almost out the door at the time, and into spring.

I found the parlour adjoining the bedchamber, and was just exploring the writing desk when I noticed that a door had been left ajar. I ventured out into the empty hallway, keeping an eye out for the servants, until I came to an enormous door, which swung open before me to reveal a dragon! Naturally, I screamed, and swooned. Well, so would you, at a sight like that, unprepared. I revived just in time to see the creature disappear in a flash of fire and smoke, and there in its place stood the Prince. Then, I remembered him at once, in a rush that left me breathless. He was so very handsome that I must have done everything in my power to forget him when Father sent him away…

He asked me, very tenderly, how I felt.

“You've taken me prisoner!” I shouted, angry despite my captor's marvellous good looks. “How do you think I feel?”

He told me then that I shouldn't think myself a prisoner, but a guest in his house. He said he'd sent my family a skyship loaded to capacity with jewels, antiques and the finest tea from Tybor – more than enough to match his original offer. “Which I think was rather generous of me,” he added, with a dark look in those fabulous golden eyes, “considering your father's attitude.” Even as a man, the way the Dragon Prince stared at me was quite overwhelming.

“I refused you,” I reminded him, although actually my father had refused the prince on my behalf. “You have no further business with me,” I said, not wanting to be cowed by this… this beautiful, arrogant creature.

He asked me if I knew the
story of how the first Flying City came to be. I didn't. More to the point, I didn't see the relevance of it, and told him so.

“It was built by a great Archmage, as a gift to his beloved. She was the daughter of the King of the Eagles: beautiful, proud and ever longing for the open sky. Rather than enslave the lady he loved to a life on the ground, the Archmage spent twenty years designing and building a palace that could fly high above the clouds, in her home the sky. It was reputed to be the grandest palace ever built. A hundred Flying Cities have been built since then, but none live up to the marvels of the very first.”

“I must admit it's a lovely story,” said Rose, “but at the time I didn't deign to show any kind of reaction.”

Bessie didn't think the story so lovely. She'd heard it before, and either the prince or Miss Hartwood had missed out a significant element: the Empress of the Endless Sands, consumed with jealousy, who'd had the Archmage's beloved assassinated.

The prince gazed into my eyes as if bewitched. “That story, and your beauty, inspired me,” he said. “I've built a world for you. A perfect, wonderful world. Untouched, unspoiled: just for you and I.”

I must admit that with that shock, I quite forgot to be angry. “You built a
world
?”

He looked away. “Well, rather I had it built for you. And it's not quite finished yet,” he confessed. “I'm told another four months. Five at the most.”

“A
world
? For me?”

He smiled, more handsome and charming than ever. “You must have hundreds of suitors beating a path to your door. You must be so very bored with flowers and jewels. I knew I'd have to go beyond the usual offerings to win your heart.”

I was quite overcome, unsure whether to be angry or frightened or to think myself the luckiest girl in all the world. I spent three days besieged here in my chambers, my heart jumping every time I heard the creak of a door nearby. But every time, it was only the redheaded servant, bringing meals, or water, or the advice to “show Master a little gratitude”. The servant Scarlet became my only companion, commenting often on all the things the prince had done for me: given me gifts of fine clothes, paid my family a dowry befitting a queen, commissioned a whole world just for me… After a while, I began to think that if Scarlet loved the prince so much, perhaps Scarlet should marry him.

On the fourth day, the prince summoned me to the dining hall. I'd grown bored in captivity, missing my friends in Iletia. “What do you want now?” I snapped at him.

He stared at me, his golden eyes burning like embers. “I want you to be my queen. I want to give you the world, and soon I will.”

“Does it ease your conscience to give me such an extravagant gift, after stealing me away from my family?” I demanded.

He looked away, gazing into the empty fireplace, his head resting on one hand. I've never seen a man so handsome, for all his strange ways. “You deserve a perfect, unspoilt kingdom,” he muttered. “You deserve to be mistress of all you survey,” he said. “You already have my heart, Rose.”

I was determined to stay furious with him, and it only made me angrier when he spoke to me on such familiar terms without my permission. “I don't want your kingdom,” I said, “and I don't want your heart, either.” I wanted to go home: to go back to shopping and gossiping with my friends; to boys who would make fools of themselves for me. I did
not
want this intense and moody stranger professing his undying love for me and giving me extravagant, entirely inappropriate gifts. “Boys who give presents only do so because they want something in exchange,” I said to him. My mother's words, coming out of my own mouth.

If Bessie could believe even half the gossip back at the Academy, then there was a lot of truth in those words: if a silversmith's son who gave a girl a necklace expected to get kisses and affection in return, then what did a man want when he offered a woman a whole world?

The prince looked utterly horrified. “What do you take me for?” he said, when he regained the power of speech.

“What do you take
me
for?” It's one thing for hopeful boys to bribe girls with expensive gifts. Society has a different view entirely on the kind of girl who knowingly agrees to such exchanges.

He turned pale. “My intentions are entirely honourable, Miss Hartwood. I plan to make you my wife.”

Then he told me all about this world he'd commissioned for me – for the two of us – and how I should have final say in all of it. I could specify the details of each individual tree and flower if I so desired; the position of every constellation in the sky; the exact hues of the sand on the beaches and the petals on the roses. He asked me what kind of summers I loved the best – long or short, torrid or mild – and he actually took up a quill as he awaited my answer. Oh, he is a strange creature…

All the while, I could feel the tears brimming in my eyes, blurring my vision. Summer wouldn’t be summer without going to the park with my friends, getting caught in sunlit showers… “I want to go home!” I screamed at him. “I don't want to get married yet! Not to anybody, but most certainly not to
you
!”

“Shh, now,” said Scarlet at my side, “Shh…” She turned to the prince. “Forgive me for speaking out of turn, Master,” she said, “but Miss Hartwood has had a difficult few days. You mustn't forget that us women are delicate creatures, easily upset by strong feelings. Perhaps I should take her back to her private rooms, now?”

“Oh. Yes, of course,” said the prince. “My sincerest apologies, Miss Hartwood. It’s my curse, I’m afraid, it clouds my mind…”

“She'll be right as rain soon enough, Master,” said Scarlet, leading me away. “Just give her time.”

She took me back to my rooms and made me a cup of tea, then asked if I was afraid to be married, to take on all the responsibilities of a wife… the responsibilities of a queen.

I was. I'd always known I'd be married someday, the mistress of a big house, but the day-to-day running of any proper household is more work than you'll ever know, little sparrow girl. I've been prepared for it since I was a child, of course, but it all seemed so sudden, and Archalthus had frightened me, staring at me so intently with those golden eyes.

Though she's only a servant, Scarlet was very kind to me, and stayed with me while I cried. She reassured me that her master was a patient man who wanted me to love him as he loved me. She reminded me of the wedding gift, the unfinished world. He wouldn't marry me until it was completed to my satisfaction, and if I wasn't ready to be queen, I could distract the prince with a never-ending string of details to attend to: a beach that ought to be a touch warmer; a mountain just not majestic enough; a forest that needed more songbirds…

Bessie was so engrossed in the thought of this artificial world, this wedding present of legendary proportions, that she didn't hear the guards approaching until the door flew open. Remembering her wings, she took flight as the two men approached her, but the window was too far, the ceiling too low, and the two men grabbed her by the ankles. As they pulled the kicking, struggling girl down from the ceiling, they crushed and crumpled her feathers – a pain like someone yanking on her hair. Even grounded, she struggled and scratched at the guards, but their skin was like stone under her fingernails, and they soon had her arms pinned so that she couldn't use magic and she couldn't reach her knife. With her hollow bones making her vulnerable, she had little choice but to submit.