The Queen's Assassin (The Queen's Secret #1)(46)

I laugh. “I don’t need practice.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be my apprentice?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then you need practice. You’ve been lucky so far, but you can’t rely on throwing rocks and hiding in trees.”

“You forget you’re speaking to a mage. And what about the dire emergency of letting my arm heal?” I say, teasing.

“If you knew anything about sword fighting,” Cal says, “you’d know that in a situation like this”—he tosses me a sword—“you’re supposed to use the other arm.” I catch it in my left hand.

I suppose I asked for this.

“Now, when using your nondominant arm, you want to . . .” He comes at me, swinging the sword. An attempt to take me off guard. But I come right back at him, holding him off. His eyes widen when I do.

“Clever,” he says, stepping away. “I thought you hurt your dominant arm.”

“I did.” I grin.

He narrows his eyes.

“I’m trained to use both.” I shrug, though it hurts my arm a bit.

We skirmish for a while, and he teaches me a few moves and counterattacks, and even with my injured arm, I’m able to pick up the lessons. He’s a good teacher, surprisingly patient, and takes the time to explain the thinking behind each parry. “Once you have a foundation, it will come naturally,” he says.

He proposes a duel to show him what I’ve learned, and even though I fight my hardest, he disarms me in a flash, and holds two swords at my chin. He is quick, deadly, and merciless. I saw it during our escape, but his arrogance these past few days has distracted me. It’s been too easy to forget the man I am dealing with. I can’t help but tremble at sword point.

“Hey,” he says, drawing them back quickly. “It’s just a game.”

I take a deep, shaky breath. I thought I was good enough for the Guild, but if this duel is any indication, the truth is maybe I’m not. Maybe I’ll never be the fighter that he is.

He throws the swords down. “That’s all for today.”

His weapon hits the ground and I find I can suddenly breathe again. I’ve come back to myself. “Okay. Your turn.”

“My turn? For what?”

“Lessons. If we’re going to be posing as aristocrats from Argonia, then you have to learn how to behave at a royal court.”

“As I’ve already explained, Lady Shadow, I’ve spent a lot of time at court. I’m already well-versed in the art of bowing and keeping my mouth shut.”

“Ha! But have you read Crumpets and Cravats?”

“Sorry, no, my missions for the queen don’t leave much time for novels.”

“Well, when you’re an aristocrat, nobody expects you to keep your mouth shut. Quite the opposite. The more interesting you are, the more they’ll like you. But the art of communication is about so much more than talking. For example: What does it mean when someone bows to you, but they only bend at the waist?” All those lessons with Missus Kingstone are turning out to be useful after all.

“Easy. You outrank them but you’re only titled, not a royal.”

He’s right. “That was just to get you warmed up. How about . . . ? Oh, I know. You’re invited to a masked ball. A woman—a countess, let’s say—is standing across from you. She flicks her fan open, twice, then puts it away. What does that mean?”

“What does that mean?” he echoes. He thinks for a moment and then shrugs. “That she has no use for her fan.”

“It means she’s irritated with your presence and wants you to go away.” I want to enjoy my victory, but the smile on his face is perplexing.

“Excellent!” he says, and begins to laugh.

I rap his knuckles, as learning the complicated language of a woman’s fan is a serious endeavor. “Here’s another. I’ll keep it simple. Same woman. But this time, she takes out her fan, flicks it open once, fans herself briefly, then closes it in her right hand.”

“She’s saying, ‘Bring me a glass of water, peasant.’”

“No, of course not! That’s two flicks and a twist.”

“You don’t say!”

Now it’s my turn to laugh. “I was joking!”

He blinks.

“Actually it means she’s open to conducting an affair with you.” I wiggle my eyebrows for comic effect. “Probably happens to you often.”

“So you admit you find me handsome, then?” He smiles, and the sun hits his dark eyes so I see there are gold flecks in them. He knows how handsome he is; he must. It is one of the qualities that make him so good at his trade. No one could suspect that someone so handsome would also be so merciless.

I turn to put away the remains of our meal so he won’t see me blushing. “No, of course not. I mean, not that you aren’t. I’m sure a lot of people think so.”

“Do they now,” he says. I can feel him smirking.

“You’re pretty fair yourself,” he says as he walks away. I pretend I didn’t hear, but I’m smiling anyway.



* * *





CAL’S HERBAL PASTE IS like magic on my arm—it’s almost back to normal in a single day—but we decide to spend one last night before continuing our journey. It’s safe here, and we both need the rest. We use the morning to continue our sword-fighting lessons, and in the afternoon we catch a few more fish. Cal goes off to bathe at the spring while I stay back at camp and prepare our meal. He returns with his hair wet and his skin glowing, and I can only imagine how the courtiers will swoon when he arrives at the court of Montrice.