The Assassin Princess (Lamb & Castle Book 2) (3 page)

Bessie hesitated. The prospect of punishment still loomed, and she'd prefer to know what it would be, but so far Greyfell had barely raised his voice, not compared to what she'd heard when other students had disobeyed him. She wished he would give her a piece of his mind – she didn't like not knowing what he was thinking. “Yes, Master Greyfell. But what about –”

“Go back to bed. Report to my office tomorrow, immediately after the day's lessons.”

Bessie left Greyfell's office fearing that she already knew what her punishment would be: incarceration in the safety of the Academy's grounds, under constant watch. More than that: her punishment would be humiliation before all the other girls. She felt the prickle of tears at her eyelids. Soon
everybody
in the Academy would know how she'd failed, and how she was to be treated as a helpless victim while more capable people took control of the situation. Not only had she lost her last chance to pursue the crown, but she'd compromised her fallback plan: the Academy would never qualify her as an assassin after this. She didn't know why Greyfell had even bothered to mention final examinations, unless it was to taunt her with what she’d lost. She had no place amongst the wealthier girls, and after displaying her lack of stealth and skill, she'd be kicked out of the Academy before the end of the week.

Greyfell himself didn't go back to bed. He'd expected Elizabeth to kick up trouble after her defeat by the White Queen. He'd expected her to sneak off behind his back in an effort to re-join the Queens' Contest. He’d even had an appropriate punishment in mind for when he inevitably caught her at it. He
hadn't
expected the cursed prince's men to come after her. That changed things…

He checked the line charts there and then, but they only told him what he already knew. With his better grasp of history, he'd known the name 'Ilgrevnia' at once: the smallest of the Flying Cities, built for manoeuvres quite beyond her larger sisters' capabilities, although her original purpose had been lost to the world. Centuries ago, Ilgrevnia had fallen into the wrong hands and been taken out into the wilderness where magic was reputed to be capricious, and civilised Cities didn't dare follow her. There she'd become the Pirate City, the terror of small towns on the borders of civilisation, looting and kidnapping, or so the old stories went. There had been many tales told of Flying Cities that rebelled against the proper order of things, but little evidence of them surviving into modern times. Where Greyfell's history books spoke of Ilgrevnia, they said nothing greatly out of the ordinary: remarking on her small size and her agility; a couple of notable mages who'd had some involvement with her. Where they spoke of the Pirate City, they apparently found it distasteful: a bloody battle to defend the City; betrayals; executions. History had no reliable witnesses to the details – most sources hinted or outright claimed that no loyal Ilgrevnians had survived. Over time, sightings became less frequent, and Ilgrevnia had eventually vanished into obscurity. A handful of tales described the alleged destruction of the Pirate City, although they contradicted one another. Some said she was stranded at some far-flung location, cut off from civilisation by the ebb and flow of the earth’s magic over the years. Either way, Ilgrevnia's name didn't appear in the official line charts, and hadn't for many years.

Alone in his office as the sun rose, Greyfell sighed heavily. “Yet nothing explains the presence of this Ilgrevnian guardsman in modern day Iletia,” he muttered to himself.

The intruder wouldn’t have killed Elizabeth – Greyfell had already deduced that much – he would only have abducted her and taken her to Prince Archalthus, but then what? It seemed the Prince had the power to take the form of a dragon, which suggested he had something to do with the Queens' Contest, but the name Archalthus hadn't been familiar to Greyfell when Elizabeth first reported what had happened in the jade temple. Greyfell had done his best to research the Prince Archalthus, only to find the name suspiciously absent from the records. What Kingdom had the Prince come from? Might Greyfell find what he was looking for if he could translate the name into some other language? He'd just turned back to his books when a hiss of air and a loud 'clunk' behind him announced the arrival of a message in the pneumatic tube beside his desk. He looked at it in surprise for a moment before realising that the dawn had broken and the school day had already begun. If he had lessons scheduled, the message would probably be from somebody wondering where he was, and reminding him that he ought to be teaching. He read it anyway:

Two Eradinian gentlemen here to see you about prospects for a student with a strong interest in poisons.

His diary showed no appointments for that morning, but in the old days the Eradinian royals had always sent their daughters to the Academy, and the school needed to regain some of that prestige. Greyfell hesitated a moment – he was still in his pyjamas.
Damn that obstinate girl Elizabeth and all the trouble that attended her…
He dashed off a quick reply.

Direct them to my office at once, thank you.

As the message whooshed back down to the front desk, Greyfell grabbed a pair of trousers from his room and buttoned his jacket over his pyjama top. He didn't want to keep the Eradinians waiting a moment longer than necessary, not when he had no lessons to teach until the afternoon, and it might temper Elizabeth's recklessness if he left her to stew for a while this time. The Headmistress would want to devise her own punishment for the unruly student caught out after curfew, and it was best that she did, since Greyfell knew he'd been much too lenient with Miss Castle. Elizabeth would be safe enough in classes or in detention. Still, if Prince Archalthus' men were targeting her in her capacity as candidate Black Queen, and so close to the Academy, her continued involvement in the contest might well be unavoidable…

He put away the book on the history of the City Guard, but didn't clear the line charts. In his experience, a Master with a clear desk was a Master with something to hide. He cast about for a comb, but by then the unexpected visitors were knocking at the door of his office.

“Enter!” he called, and stood behind his desk to hide the fact that he hadn't had time to put on any shoes.

The two gentlemen were blond, bland-faced and smartly dressed, though their clothes were nowhere near as opulent as those of the Eradinian courtiers of old, and they didn't have that languid manner the Eradinians cultivated. They appeared to be twins, identical in every detail. The stiff awkward way they moved, the dullness of their eyes, and a dozen other things Greyfell couldn't consciously identify put him on guard at once. If these were Eradinian gentlemen, then Eradinia had changed since he'd last been there. Elizabeth had said something about a set of twins at the jade temple, although she’d said they were dark-haired, and these two were blond.

“Our humble apologies for calling on you without an appointment, Master Greyfell,” said one of the twin gentlemen. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with us.”

“Not at all, please come in,” said Greyfell, summoning the two of them into the room, keeping the doorway clear, should he wish to make a hasty exit. “Is the young lady with you?” he asked, craning his neck to look out into the corridor. He kept his attitude civil, in case he was mistaken, but if they'd come alone then that only made him all the more suspicious. The majority of the Academy's prospective students were bright and inquisitive children – an indulged princess who didn't care to see the Academy for herself wouldn't make an apt student.

“A visit will be arranged for her if the Academy proves promising,” said the first of the two gentlemen.

“We have many schools to visit and consider,” added his twin. “Only the best for the child.” Neither of the two spoke with an Eradinian accent, but the flatness of their voices made it difficult to place where else they might have come from.

Greyfell nodded. “And you say she has a special interest in poisons?” An uncommon interest for a young girl, but not unheard of for a prospective student at the Antwin Academy.

“Yes, and the lady at the door referred us to you. You are a Master of Poisons, are you not?” asked the gentlemen, with a suspicious, disapproving look at the collar of Greyfell's pyjamas, visible beneath his jacket.

“I teach a first year Potions class, amongst other things. Perhaps I can arrange for you to speak with a Master of more advanced chemistry, although I'm afraid you may have to make an appointment and return at a later date.”

“We hear the Antwin Academy has a most remarkable young lady amongst the student body,” said one of the gentlemen.

“There are a number of remarkable young ladies studying here,” said Greyfell, truthfully enough. “I'm sure you'd recognise the names of many of our alumni. That reminds me: the young lady who wishes to learn more about poisons… what is her name?”

The gentleman gave a blank stare: the ruse had obviously been prepared in advance, and he didn't seem to have the imagination to invent a name for the fictitious child on the spot. His brother's gaze had drifted to the line charts on the desk: the last known locations of the Pirate City, on the borders of civilisation. The dull eyes became sharp and shrewd as he scanned the map methodically. Perhaps, Greyfell thought, he should have put the line charts away after all. “These are some very far-flung locales,” said the blond gentleman. “Are you planning a voyage, Master Greyfell?”

~

While Greyfell dealt with the visiting gentlemen, Bessie was in her Correspondence and Penmanship class, quite oblivious to the new threat present within the walls of the Academy. She slumped on her desk, struggling to pay attention to the finer details of how one should address royalty in writing, doodling gloomily with her calligraphy pen as she tried her best to keep her eyes open. The Headmistress had
graciously
allowed Bessie to continue with a handful of classes where she couldn't easily cause trouble, but Bessie didn't much see the point. She'd rather just be sent home in disgrace. Meanwhile, friends and enemies alike had been quick to remind her how the Headmistress liked to fit the punishment to the offender’s worst fears and pet hates, so Bessie would be cleaning the highest rain gutters before the day was out.

The door burst open, banging against the wall, and the Penmanship class erupted into shouts of surprise and squeals of chairs being pushed back.

“Miss Castle!” Master Greyfell scanned the roomful of third years, seeking the small dark-haired figure. His eyes were wild, his agitation barely restrained. A couple of girls giggled when they noticed his bare feet.

Bessie raised her hand tentatively, still fearing punishment. “Here, Master Greyfell.”

Greyfell grabbed her by her raised arm, wrenching her from her seat. His grip was slippery with blood, and Bessie smelled iron. “The Prince's men are here,” he said. “Run to the West Door. I'll follow.”

Bessie didn't need telling twice.

The Correspondence and Penmanship Master, while neither a soldier nor an assassin, had been teaching at the Antwin Academy long enough to pick up a thing or two, and at the first sign of danger had drawn a long knife. He'd recognised Master Greyfell at once, though, and now looked at him questioningly.

“Intruders – they'll be here soon,” Greyfell warned him. “They can't be killed, but you must delay them!”

Bessie had taken flight at once despite her sleepiness, but out in the corridor she slowed, enough for Greyfell to catch up with her easily. “Will they be all right?” An Antwin girl knows when to run and hide from too-powerful enemies, but did that make it right to abandon her classmates to them?

“You are the Black Queen,” Greyfell reminded her. “The target. Is your Argean friend still docked in Iletia?”

Bessie nodded, and they headed for the docks, the grey skies still drizzling in the aftermath of a sudden rainstorm. Greyfell had a heavy bag slung over his shoulder – he must have prepared for this eventuality, or something like it, though Bessie did wonder what had happened to his shoes. The bag slowed him, and Bessie refused to leave him behind, readying herself to fight. The Academy staff's first priority would be to protect the students, and Bessie hoped that they'd soon capture the intruders, but at the same time… her journey was under way again! She slipped through the crowds, past big men with barrels, and queasy merchants just alighted from skyships. She’d visited Bryn’s ‘ship not long ago, and looked for its bright yellow sails in the last place she’d seen it docked. There were dozens of vessels of all sizes tethered at the edge of the Flying City, bobbing in the currents of the unsettled sky. Beneath them, and beneath the boards on which Bessie stood, it was five thousand feet down to the ground. She tried not to think about it – although she found that much easier to do indoors. She focused her attention on the skyships and not the sky. There:
Sharvesh'
s yellow sails made a bright beacon against the deep blue of rainclouds, but Greyfell stopped Bessie even as she made a beeline for the familiar skyship. “Wait,” he whispered, catching his breath. “They have… anticipated our plan.”

And then Bessie caught sight of the two blond gentlemen, patrolling the limits of the City where the tethered skyships floated. The two gentlemen looked unruffled by the chase, as if it had been no more than a casual stroll. Bessie readied herself for a fight: a fireball from out of the blue would at least put the blond gentlemen on the back foot… Sparks crackled across her fists.

Greyfell gripped her firmly by the elbow. “No, Elizabeth. I killed each of those creatures twice before I escaped my office, and they were unarmed then. We must elude them if we can.” Easier said than done, as the two blond gentlemen had stopped right between them and
Sharvesh
.

Greyfell and Bessie moved into the shadows, edging closer to the yellow-sailed skyship and the gentlemen, until they could get no closer without being seen. They took up a position behind a tall sedan chair with blue gauze curtains fluttering in the breeze and four burly men waiting to carry some pampered person from their skyship and into the City. Bessie watched the two blond gentlemen through a gap in the gauze curtains. “What are they doing?” she whispered.

With a flash of silver, one of the gentlemen had produced a pocket watch on a chain from his waistcoat pocket, and was speaking into it. If Bessie strained her ears and watched the gentleman's mouth closely, she could just about make out what he was saying… “We were attempting to infiltrate a school for young ladies: we feared weapons would arouse suspicion,” she heard him say over the noise of the docks. She'd already noted that although one twin had a sword now, the one holding the pocket watch appeared to be unarmed. “Yes, in retrospect we realise that,” he said, and there followed a long pause – try as she might, Bessie couldn't make out the other half of the communication. “We beg your pardon, but what is an Argean?” Another pause, then “Of course, Commander Breaker. We will search any such vessels present.” And with a snap of the pocket watch and a quick look around, the blond gentlemen were moving: one towards a tiny two-person cloudskipper of a 'ship with Argean writing all along her side; and the other towards the gangplank leading up to
Sharvesh.