The Queen's Assassin (The Queen's Secret #1)(50)

They approach the gate. A man stands inside the guard tower. Cal clears his throat. “Gates were open last time I was here,” Cal says to him, using the neutral dialect of Avantine.

The man replies, “Times have changed, especially concerning Renovians. Beware of them, shady folk.”

Cal nods. “Horrible city, Serrone, full of barbarians,” he says.

“From where do you hail?”

“My sister and I are from Argonia,” he tells the guard. “Just passing through Mont on the way to our grandfather’s estate in Stavin.”

The guard narrows his eyes.

“Of course, we have coin to spare,” adds Cal, and Shadow takes her cue to bring out the pouch full of gold.

“Much coin,” Shadow says, smiling slyly.



* * *





THEIR PASSAGE INTO THE city secured, they ride into town. People everywhere stop to stare at them, even pausing mid-conversation to watch them go by. Their dirty, plain clothes mark them as poor or foreign or both, especially compared with the elaborate dress around them. Behind Mont’s impenetrable fortress walls lies a city of vanity and finery.

Mont’s women, and some of the men, wear dramatic, garish makeup and huge hooped gowns of ornately embroidered fabrics with headdresses so large that the streets feel even more crowded than they already are. It’s difficult to see around them, even on horseback. One woman’s headdress is so big that it requires wire supports from her shoulders. The men and women wear similar fabrics, but rather than wide, swishing gowns, most of the men have long, narrow tunics over tight pants and heavy boots. Over their tunics, they wear chest armor, and all are carrying weapons, as if they’re ready to go into battle at any moment. Cal notices that even the women in the grandest gowns have daggers sheathed at their hips as well. The Montricians have become far more fearful since he was here last, though that was some time ago—two years? And he was only in the city a day or two, picking up a message from one of the queen’s operatives.

“Try not to stare; it’s considered rude,” Shadow says out the side of her mouth. “You really should read Crumpets and Cravats.”

He’s about to retort when he realizes she’s only teasing him.

They pass a marketplace, where vendors are selling imported produce at shockingly high prices. In the town square, skinny, barefoot children in linen shifts throw copper coins into a huge fountain. An old man sits hunched on the edge of it. A ten-foot-tall statue looms over them. “King Hansen himself.” The man nods when he sees them staring.

The statue depicts a generically handsome young man wearing a crown and fur-lined royal cape, one arm raising a sword, the other holding a shield. He looks about the same age as Cal, nineteen or so.

“It’s good luck to make offerings to him,” the old man adds, motioning to the children. Shadow scrunches her nose in disapproval. Cal doesn’t like it either. There’s something . . . lacking about this place. Shallow. Elaborate statues celebrate an unaccomplished young king while children use what little coin they have gambling on fountain wishes. Coin that will surely end up in the king’s pocket.

“You’re not from here, I take it,” the old man says.

“No, sir, we’re looking for an inn,” Cal says. “Do you know where we can find one?” Shadow hands the man a silver coin.

“Follow me.” He gets up slowly, straightening out his back. Cal can almost hear it creaking and cracking. The man begins walking on the road, shuffling his feet.

“May I offer you my horse?” Cal asks. The old man waves him off.

He leads them a few streets away, stopping in front of a two-story wood-and-brick building in a more modest neighborhood. The sign out front reads: STARLIGHT INN, LINDEN GARBANKLE, PROPRIETOR.

They dismount on the side, where there are low-walled stalls to keep the horses overnight. The old man holds out his hand as if to shake Cal’s. “Well. I suppose this is where I leave you.”

“We appreciate it,” Cal says. The old man reaches out and grabs his forearm to shake it.

“Don’t worry about a thing,” he says. He looks pointedly at their clothing. “Garbankle’ll take good care of you. Best place in all Montrice for a couple of ruffians to stay undetected.”

“Not sure what you mean,” Shadow says. “We’re—”

“Garbankle has no love for the authorities but a great love of money, you understand? I know you’ll think of a way to improve diplomatic relations between our two fine kingdoms.”

Cal shakes his head, his courtly Argonian accent impeccable. “But I told you, we’re not—”

“Bah!” He waves his hand at him. “I been around long enough to know a crook when I see one. And you gave me a Renovian coin.” He winks.

Shadow stammers, trying to protest, but the old man says, “Don’t worry about me. I lose no sleep over law and order. The crown, it comes and goes. Or the one wearin’ it does.” He begins shuffling away.

“Can I give you a ride back to . . . ?” Back to the fountain? Home? Cal doesn’t know what to say, but he wants to offer the man some kindness in return for his aid. “A ride back?”

The old man just waves his hand behind him again. A few seconds later, he rounds the corner, out of sight.