CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The carriage lurched as one of its wheels struck a pothole in the road. Josey held onto her seat to keep from pitching into the laps of her companions. Hubert grimaced and shifted about for a more comfortable position.

“This may be a bad idea, my lady,” he told her for the tenth time since they’d left the palace.

Hubert sounded like he had caught a cold. The lantern lighting the carriage’s cabin made him look pale, which only heightened the effect. The adept, Hirsch, watched from the corner of the seat, but made no comment. Josey wasn’t sure what to think of him. At the council meeting she’d learned a great many things, among them that the adept liked to hear himself speak. But even after a lengthy explanation about the Other Side and how it impacted magical affairs here in their world, she could scarcely remember anything he’d said except for one salient detail. Her unknown assailant was very dangerous, virtually unstoppable by blade or venom, and completely devoid of human sentiments. Beyond that, Hirsch carried himself with an air of diffidence. Josey knew little of sorcery, but she had witnessed enough around Caim to be wary of it and those who walked its twilight paths.

“Your objection is noted,” Josey said. “But I refuse to be a prisoner in my own palace. Now, can we please talk about something else before I go mad? Have we heard any news from the north?”

Hubert’s eyes slid toward Hirsch and back to her. Josey motioned for him to continue.

“Nothing official,” Hubert said. “The envoys we sent to the border have not returned, but that is not surprising. This time of year the roads are nigh impassable.”

“But unofficially?” She knew better than to ask how he could have received information faster than the imperial courier system. The lord chancellor’s office had its ways.

“Excuse me.” Hubert took out a handkerchief and wiped his nose. “Unofficially, three dispatches have reached my office.”

Josey almost threw herself at him. “Three? What did they say?”

“If Your Majesty would prefer a private conference …”

She clutched her hands together on her lap to keep from throttling him. “Go on, Hubert! For Phebus’s sake.”

“Very well. They had nothing good to say. Little more than rumors, really, but two of the three mentioned a squabble among the nobility of Eregoth.” The way he said “nobility of Eregoth” with a slight inflection showed how little he thought of their aristocratic brethren to the north. It wasn’t an uncommon prejudice among the peers of Othir, as she had discovered of late.

“What sort of squabble?”

Hubert cleared his throat. “A bloody one, from the reports. More than a score of tribal chieftains were slain. Executed, if it can be believed.” His voice trailed off. “And there was mention of strange goings-on.”

“Strange how?”

Hubert’s gaze slipped over to Hirsch. “Sorcery.”

Josey struggled to keep her face calm, but her insides felt like they were being sucked into a dark hole in the center of her stomach. Executions and sorcery in the north, and Caim had walked right into it. Some part of her hoped he had sensed the danger and was now on his way back to her, but she knew it for a foolish wish. The man she loved would die before backing down from a challenge, and that possibility terrified her more than anything.

“What of the troops we sent?” She almost tacked “after Caim left” onto the end of the question, but caught herself.

“No word yet, but they may be delayed. The mud, you know.”

Josey didn’t want to hear about mud, but Hubert was only doing his job, and under very trying circumstances. Still, sometimes she felt like she had less control over her life than when she was just the daughter of an elderly earl. It was beyond frustrating. Her stomach rumbled. She should have eaten before they left, but as always her preparations for public display took longer than anticipated.

“And the western territories?” she asked, knowing she would regret it. I might as well receive all the bad news together.

“Also not good, Majesty.”

This time there was genuine concern in his voice. For nameless people on the edge of the realm, but not for Caim? Josey tamped out the thought as soon as it popped into her head. Every living soul within Nimea’s borders was her subject. She had to care for them all.

“Go on,” she said.

“We’ve received messages from various towns. Bandits have struck all across the region. Farms have been burned, livestock slaughtered or stolen. The provincial lords fear they’ll face a famine come spring if matters are not rectified before the planting season.”

Josey wanted to bury her face in her hands. “Where is all this coming from?”

“There is some speculation that a foreign power could be working behind the scenes. Financing the brigands, providing them with arms and safe havens. We have no proof of this, but …”

“Who would be—?”

She already knew the answer, or enough suspects to make a short list. Nimea was surrounded by countries that would benefit from her misfortune. Arnos had the motivation, but that nation would have to be running supplies by sea, a risky proposition in winter. And the merchant-lords of Illmyn were known to dabble in international politics when they saw an opportunity to tip the scales of trade in their favor. The ambassadors from both nations had been curiously absent from her court.

“Find me some proof. Then I can act.”

Hubert nodded. “And there’s another problem.”

“What else?”

“A watch post in Low Town was attacked last night. Two watchmen were injured and some prisoners escaped.”

“Here in Othir?”

A furious seed of anger bloomed in Josey’s belly. Border problems were nothing new; she’d heard her foster father speak of them since she was a little girl. But an attack against her peacekeepers was unacceptable.

“I want all patrols doubled,” she said. “The same with the guards at all posts throughout the city.”

“For how long, Majesty?”

“For as long as it takes to get my city under control, Lord Chancellor.”

“That will be an expensive undertaking.”

She threw up her hands. “Has the realm suddenly become impoverished?”

“No, but—”

“I have every confidence in you.” A thought occurred to her. “If we’re short of money, go to the merchants. They’ll suffer the most if crime and injustice run rampant.”

“I suppose we can try.”

Throughout the exchange, Hirsch had volunteered nothing. It was a little unnerving. Josey started to say something to the adept, but a sound from outside caught her attention. Above the clack of the team’s hooves, a susurrus had arisen. She pushed aside the lace curtains, and a bracing gust of wind blew through her hair. Candles glowed in the windows facing the Processional. This was her favorite time of year. Soon there would be snow on the streets and rooftops, converting the entire city into a winter paradise.

Something flew past the window. Josey tumbled back into her seat as it thudded against the side of the cabin. At the same time, her brain registered the speeding object. A melon, thrown at the carriage. Someone had tried to hit her!

She peered out the window. A crowd of people lined the street beyond the pikes of her mounted bodyguards. Josey started to wave until she heard the chant coming from the mouths of her subjects.

“The empire is dead! Long live the Church!”

Josey froze, stricken by the words. Then she saw a picture scrawled on the side of the building above the crowd, of a woman wearing a crown, and beside her was drawn a downward facing hook like a claw. The demon’s horn, the mark of a blasphemer condemned by the True Church to eternal exile in this world and the next. Hubert took Josey by the arm and eased her back into the seat. She was numb. It was like a horrible nightmare.

Hubert closed the curtain. “I told you it was a bad idea to venture out tonight, Majesty, but you insisted.” He smiled when she glared at him. “The people are a rambunctious lot. They just require time to get to know you better.”

“They hate me.”

“Nonsense. They simply don’t understand the complexities of governing. In time, they will come to love you as their imperial matron.”

Josey wasn’t sure she liked the idea of being anyone’s matron, nor did she enjoy the professorial tone Hubert had adopted, but she got his point.

“It’s the Church, isn’t it? I’ve deposed them and now they’re turning the people against me.”

Hubert made a face like he was biting into something sour. “There have been reports of priests giving sermons against Your Majesty’s reign.”

“What are they saying?”

“The actual wording is not impor—”

She stared at him.

“Some have threatened the Prophet’s wrath upon those who support the …” He cleared his throat. “The ‘usurper-whore.’”

Josey sat back in her seat. She pinched the back of her hand to keep the sting in her eyes at bay. The carriage swayed as it slowed to a halt. Apprehension gripped Josey for a moment until the footmen jumped down from the roof and she realized they had reached their destination. Hubert stepped out first as the door opened, and he turned to offer her a hand.

As she climbed down from the carriage, Josey pushed aside her sadness and allowed a ribbon of excitement to flutter in her belly. She hadn’t been to the Kravoy Theater in years, but it was every bit as impressive as she remembered. Flambeaux flickered in the scores of arched windows piercing the massive circular wall. The Kravoy had been built during the height of the empire, when art and culture flourished. Hoping to foster such a revival during her reign, Josey had commissioned a season of performances.

A multitude of people awaited her. When Josey emerged holding her fur-lined cloak about her shoulders, they surged forward as far as her line of bodyguards would allow. Here, at least, the reception was mixed. For every catcall issued from the throng, a hearty “Hail to the empress!” resounded.

A loud grunt from behind her ruined the moment for Josey. She turned as Hirsch, standing on the top step of the ladder, craned his neck to survey the theater.

“This will not do,” the adept said over the crowd. “Not at all.”

The carriage rocked as the adept clambered down the steps. He looked around as if he couldn’t find the gate, which was right in front of them, festooned with bouquets of fresh flowers.

Josey swallowed the smile that wanted to play upon her lips. “You do not enjoy the theater, Master Hirsch?”

“You cannot enter this … place.” Hirsch scowled at the theater. “No, no. I forbid it!”

All jocularity dropped from Josey’s mood. Gasps erupted from the nearest citizens, and Hubert’s mouth fell open.

Josey frowned. “Master Hirsch, I do not like your—”

But he rode over her words with another grunt. “It’s too big. Impossible to defend. Why, it fairly begs anyone in the vicinity to attempt any manner of larceny. No, no. This is out of the question. We must leave at once.”

“We are not leaving,” she said. “But you are. Captain Drathan!”

The leader of her bodyguards stepped up and made a sharp salute.

“Escort Master Hirsch back to the palace, Captain. And confine him to the guest wing.”

The officer gestured for a pair of his men to come forward as he turned to the adept.

Hirsch stared at Josey. “So be it. I wash my hands of this evening’s fiasco.”

With another grunt, he walked away. Josey watched them depart, the adept leading the soldiers away into the night. Was she making the right decision? She twisted the imperial signet around her finger, feeling its weight. She couldn’t back down now. Josey glanced around at the faces surrounding her. Her subjects. I must lead with strength, not weakness.

Josey turned to Hubert, who had watched the exchange with a frown. He clearly wanted to say something, but wisely did not. She hooked his elbow before he could change his mind, and they entered the theater arm in arm.

The atrium was a tribute to the imperial age of Nimea, with a massive colonnade supporting the ceiling five stories above their heads. Luxurious fresco murals of the city provided the backdrop for the scads of attendees who lined the walls as she passed. Josey waved and nodded to everyone as if this was the grandest moment of her life. In a way it was. Since taking the throne, she had seen more of the inside of her palace than of the city beyond its walls. She knew less of her people—their habits and preferences—than she cared to admit. Of all the things Caim had shown her in their time together, it was that the city, and the entire country, consisted of more than just nobles and prefects and exarches, that the lifeblood of her realm were the common men and women who toiled every day to provide for their families.

Caim. There he was again, infiltrating her thoughts even though he was a thousand leagues away. Did he ever think of her? Josey shoved aside the wistful feelings and concentrated on her presentation, her walk, her wave—all the things Hubert had drilled into her during their long preparation. She thought she was doing pretty well until she caught his glare out of the corner of her eye.

“Rarm dun,” he murmured under his breath. “Rarm dun!”

She frowned, and then noticed her arm swaying above her head. Arm down! She pulled her hand back down beside her face, waving from the wrist. Turn and wave to the other side. Now nod, but not too much. Like a pair of dancers, they crossed the atrium and went up a flight of carpeted stairs to the balcony level. An usher bowed low before leading them into the imperial box.

Josey settled into the center seat, which was fashioned into a miniature throne, but was more comfortable. Thank heaven. Hubert took her cloak and hung it on a hook while four bodyguards took up positions, two inside the box’s curtained entrance and two outside. While listening to the strains of the orchestra tuning up, Josey looked around. The imperial box was the highest seat in the house, directly before the stage. Lesser boxes fanned out to either side. Many of their occupants turned her way. Her gaze swept across the men and women in formal attire as Hubert, sitting at her right side, pointed out a few he thought she should know.

“There is Lord Rodney, the Viscount of Wessenax, with a young woman who is not his wife. And in the next box over is Percival Heinley. His family isn’t noble, but he’s one of the richest men in the kingdom. Inherited a string of silver mines from his father. Now there was a true bastard in every sense of the word, though it’s said he had a fine eye for horseflesh.”

While Hubert ran through the litany of names and ranks, Josey leaned over the balustrade. Numerous alcoves surrounded the floor beneath the box seats. Aisles ran from these recesses down to the main seating. Besides the alcoves, there were exits on both sides of the stage. She estimated there were four hundred people in the audience below. She ought to have felt safe. Instead, a bud of anxiety was lodged in her bosom.

A pair of familiar faces in a box across the theater caught her attention. Lord Du’Quendel and Lieutenant Walthom sat with a pack of other young men in military uniform. Before she could look away and pretend she hadn’t seen them, Walthom stood up and made a formal bow in her direction. Lord Du’Quendel hastily did likewise. She started to raise her hand out of habit. Oh heaven, Josey. Don’t encourage them!

She settled for a polite nod instead.

“Hubert, have those levies been raised to send west?”

“They are being assembled as we speak, Majesty.”

“Put Lord Du’Quendel in charge of the expedition.”

“Du’Quendel? I don’t believe he has any military experience.”

“Humor me. The generals can run the show, but I want Lord Du’Quendel on his way the first thing tomorrow morning. And send Lieutenant Walthom’s unit as well.”

“As you command.” Hubert pointed to the box on their left. “I see Duke Mormaer has decided to attend this evening.”

Glad for the distraction, Josey followed his gesture to the next box, where the Duke of Wistros was sitting down with an elderly matron.

“Let me guess,” she said. “That’s not his wife, either.”

“No. I haven’t any idea who she is. I’m certain his mother is passed. Possibly an aunt or some other relative. Odd, though. Mormaer isn’t a regular attendee of the theater. In fact, to my knowledge Mormaer hasn’t attended a production in years, but he turns up here tonight.”

Josey resumed her study of the seats below. Armed soldiers walked among the patrons. “Perhaps he holds the same contrary opinion of my attendance as you and hopes to see me pelted with rotten fruit.”

Hubert turned to her, his brow pinched together. “You’re up to something.”

Josey gave him a bland look. “What do you mean? I’m simply enjoying this, my first night out of that drafty stone shack you call a palace. In peace, if it pleases you, my lord.”

“You’ve set a trap!” He leaned so close his nose bumped into her ear. “You’re using yourself as bait to draw out the assassin, and Mormaer is in on it.”

“Keep your voice down.”

Josey grimaced as she glanced over her shoulder at her guards. This was the moment she’d been dreading. Hubert’s face was a stiff mask, but she could see the anger bubbling underneath. More than that, there was true resentment. She didn’t blame him. That had been the hardest part of the plan for her to accept. But Mormaer had sworn her to secrecy; it was the only way he would assist her. Now, with Hubert sitting beside her, wounded, she wished she had insisted on the need to include him.

“It was Mormaer’s idea. He came up with a plan to catch my attacker. The fewer people who knew …”

“Fewer meaning not your lord chancellor. Who else knows?”

“Only those who must. We don’t know anything about the assassin. He could be masquerading as anyone.”

“Am I a suspect, too?”

Josey met him frown for frown. “If you were, you would be sitting in a very cold cell right now, and not here beside me. I trust you, Hubert, even with my life. If this fails, you are my last line of protection.”

“Majesty, I cannot protect you if I am not informed—”

A voice called from the hallway behind them. Josey rose as the curtain dividing the back of the box was pulled aside. Lady Philomena stood in the doorway. She wore a long indigo gown that personified her. Plain, but expensive.

The lady made a small curtsy, so small that Josey almost missed it. Josey bent her head to precisely the same degree.

Hubert made a bow. “I was not aware Your Ladyship enjoyed the theater.”

“I do not.” She looked to Josey. “I enjoy nothing which distracts me from the grandeurs of the Prophet. But I have come at the prelate’s behest, to relate His Holiness’s relief that the empress survived the cowardly attempt on her life and our sincere wish that this event will bring Her Highness to a closer relationship with the Church, which is the true source of authority.”

Josey forced herself to smile. “My lady is too kind. Please convey my thanks to the Holy Father, and ask him to pray for the soul of our servant, who was killed in the attack.”

“Yes,” the lady said. “Your manservant, was he not? So fortunate for him to be able to give his life for his mistress, the noblest end for a man of such odious birth.”

Josey stared, unable to believe her ears. To hear Fenrik degraded so … like he had been a pet or a piece of furniture. Her hands, gripped in her skirts, began to shake. Before she could say what came to mind, Hubert jumped in.

“I believe the performance is about to begin. Perhaps Your Ladyship would grace us with your presence afterward.”

Lady Philomena raised a delicate eyebrow. “Not this evening, Your Grace. I must be off to vespers.” Then to Josey, she made another minute curtsy. “Highness.”

Josey said nothing, not trusting herself to remain civil, as the lady departed. Once the curtains dropped back in place, she spat out a string of invectives that made Hubert stare.

“That rotten bitch,” Josey said as she went back to her seat, feeling a little better. “I’d like to tell her where she can put her wishes.”

“Yes, she’s a conniving snake.” Hubert took a deep breath. “But she is also a powerful force in the Thurim. And she speaks with the prelate’s voice. That makes her doubly venomous.”

The house lights went down. The curtain rose, and polite applause sprung from the audience as a woman in a frilly yellow gown and a hat bedecked with long feathers strode to the center of the stage.

“Tonight for your pleasure,” she said in a strong voice that carried through the theater, “and to honor our patroness, Empress Josephine”—there was a round of enthusiastic applause from the floor—“we shall perform The Caliph’s Jewel.”

As the players took their places upon the stage, Josey settled back in her seat and tried to look calm, but her insides were twisted up in knots. She was taking an awful risk. But it’s worth it if the plan works.

And it would. Through her discussion with Duke Mormaer, she had tried to think about it from the assassin’s point of view. Interestingly, her time spent with Caim had come in handy. Although no expert on the art of killing, she had a certain perspective, and Mormaer’s scheme made sense. She even thought Caim, wherever he was, might approve of their logic. She tried to find comfort in that thought, but it had been easier when they were back in the palace just talking about it. Actually sitting here, on full display like a target at a carnival game, was quite a different matter.

Josey was just beginning to relax when voices rose in the corridor outside her box. Someone sounded angry, but whether it was one of her bodyguards or another she could not tell. She started to glance over her shoulder. A sound like rustling paper crashed in her ears as something brushed her cheek. Josey froze, her entire body clenched with fear. No no no! I don’t want to—

Small wings fluttered and disappeared over the roof of the box. Josey inhaled a shuddering breath. It was just a pigeon. Caim would laugh his head off if he’d seen that.

She leaned over to share the joke with Hubert, and froze at the look on his face. Mouth open, he was turned around in his chair looking to the back of the box. Josey turned her head. What she saw robbed the heat from her blood. One of her guardsmen had reached over, but instead of fingers, glistening black tentacles extended from his hand to cover the other guard’s face and throat. While she and Hubert watched, the stricken guard collapsed to the floor. The killer looked in their direction.

Hubert stood up, grabbing for his sword, but a vicious swipe from a fistful of writhing tentacles hurled him over the railing. Hubert!

A cry for help lodged in Josey’s throat as she slipped off the seat of her chair. She reached into her skirts for her knife, but her legs were tangled up in layers of petticoats. She couldn’t breathe. It was all happening too fast.

The imposter’s appearance shifted as he advanced. His eyes receded into their sockets, his skin bubbled and darkened like charring meat, and the grotesque tendril-hands morphed into hooked talons. Josey kicked her chair into the assassin’s path, and the creature shattered it with a casual slap. Its rubbery lips stretched upward into an obscene grin. Josey dug through the material twisted around her legs. Someone help us!

A woman screamed. Relief washed through Josey as the cry was taken up by others. She imagined the people below, standing up in shock and pointing at the imperial box. The assassin stopped and released a ferocious roar that pummeled her ears and drove her to the carpet. She knew the knife was strapped to her thigh, but she couldn’t find the handle. As the assassin loomed over her, she looked up, expecting to feel the painful bite of claws.

A flash of intense light blinded her, followed by a burst of heat over her face and arms like the blaze from an oven. A bitter stench filled her nose. Josey blinked away spots of residual brilliance to find the assassin was gone. A dense cloud of smoke hovered in its place. Coughing and waving to disperse the haze, she stood up. In the next box, Duke Mormaer and the old woman were gone. Instead, Hirsch stood in their place, both hands extended toward her. Thin trails of smoke rose from his open palms.

Josey released her skirt and crawled to the railing. Hubert hung by one hand; the other still held his sword. Blood dribbled from a cut across his forehead, but he was alive. Josey laughed in spite of herself and the situation. It had been Mormaer’s suggestion for her to pretend to send away Master Hirsch in public. After pretending to leave with Captain Drathan, the adept disguised himself and accompanied the duke to the performance. It had worked to perfection.

Josey reached down to help Hubert. The floor of the theater was in chaos as people shoved to get to the exits. As she got hold of his wrist, a scraping noise from behind sent a shiver down her spine. Josey turned her head to look behind her. The assassin clung to the roof of the adjacent box section. It looked more monster than man, with a hulking physique and long, veiny limbs. Green flames danced along its hunched shoulders and down its back, but the fiercest fire burned within its cavernous eye sockets as they turned toward her. Gathering its legs, the assassin leapt across the distance and landed on the side of the imperial box. Its claws shredded the lacquered privacy screen.

Though it wrenched at her heart, Josey let go of Hubert. Sobbing, she pulled up her skirt and grabbed for the knife, even though she suspected it would be futile against this thing that had withstood swords and mystical fire and yet refused to die. With a roar, the assassin pushed into the box. The stench of its breath, like putrid rotting meat, made her cringe. The knife in Josey’s hand quivered as the assassin stood over her. Blood dripped from its claws. She braced herself, refusing to look away. She had gambled the lives of her soldiers and her friend. The least she could do was face her end like an empress.

A blur of bright steel sprang up beside Josey. As she tumbled to the floor, Hubert appeared and threw himself in front of her. The slim tip of his sword pierced the assassin’s side. Its fiery eyes gaped wide, whether in pain or shock Josey could not tell, but the monster leapt back with superhuman agility, dragging Hubert with it. She heard a crackling noise an instant before she was blinded by a second blast of scintillating light.

Josey got up on her knees, wiping her eyes. Through a blurry fog she spotted a huge hole in the side of the imperial box. The edges of the hole smoldered. At first she didn’t see Hubert, but then he pushed up off the floor under the wreckage of the partially collapsed ceiling.

“Are you all right?” they each asked at the same time.

He brushed a hand down the front of his evening jacket, the fine gabardine now caked in dust and stone chips. “I believe my attire has been vanquished.”

“I’m sorry, Hubert.” Tears formed in her eyes as she considered what had almost happened because of her. “Please forgive me.”

He smiled as he straightened his lapels. “It is always interesting to serve you, Majesty. And it is my great honor.”

Footsteps echoed in the corridor behind the box. Josey steeled herself for anything, while Hubert looked around for his sword.

Hirsch leaned through the curtained archway. “Everyone still in one piece?”

“Thanks to your magery, Master Adept,” Josey answered. “Is it dead?”

Hirsch shook his head as he went over to the railing. “I merely drove it off.”

Josey’s heart sank. They had gone through all of this and had nothing to show for it. Out in the hallway, she could see the legs of her bodyguards sprawled on the floor. Their blood soaked through the short red carpet and pooled between them. I’m not worthy of such devotion.

Hubert had gone over to stand beside Hirsch. “Perhaps it’s not dead, but you managed to hurt it.”

Josey joined them. Past the charred partition, streaks of soot and luminescent green slime spread across the wall of the theater, and then ended as if their source had vanished into the air. Hirsch bent over the shattered railing and came back up holding a long splinter of wood. On the tip was smeared a glob of the greenish black stuff.

“Is that—?” Hubert started to ask.

“Yes,” Hirsch replied. “I may be able to track the beast with this, if the material isn’t too badly tainted.” To Hubert he said, “Come with me while the spoor is still fresh, and bring every soldier you can spare.”

“How—?” Hubert tried to ask, but the adept was gone.

Josey pushed her lord chancellor toward the archway. “Go with him. Take Captain Drathan and the guards.”

“I won’t leave you defenseless.”

A tall figure moved into the archway. “I will remain with the empress,” Mormaer said.

Josey considered the offer. Hirsch needed help. Whatever the assassin was, she feared the adept would have his hands full if he managed to catch it.

“Thank you, Duke Mormaer.” Josey nodded to Hubert. “Attend Master Hirsch. Don’t let anything—”

“I’m going!” Hubert pressed past the duke and ran down the corridor.

The theater was amazingly quiet in the aftermath of the attack. Below, the audience, orchestra, and players had fled. Josey’s hands shook as she clutched the railing. I could have died here tonight. Now what? I could be attacked again, on the way back to the palace, or while sleeping in my bed. Sleep? She huffed at the thought. Though she was exhausted down to her bones, she wouldn’t be able to sleep as long as the assassin remained free.

“Majesty,” Mormaer said. “My guards and I shall accompany you to the palace.”

Josey turned. Alone in the dim lighting with him, she was keenly aware of how large he was. If he wanted, he could push her over the side and claim it was an accident. Yet when she looked into his eyes she saw a hint of … understanding? Certainly not compassion.

“It was a good plan,” she said.

Mormaer’s expression did not change except for a tightening around the eyes, but any warmth she thought she had seen in his gaze froze over.

“We should go, Majesty.”

Josey bit her bottom lip as she walked past him, angry at herself. She had said the wrong thing, as usual. But Duke Mormaer was so damned inscrutable; she never knew what to say around him.

A squad of armsmen in Mormaer’s black livery stood in the corridor. Two of her bodyguards lay at their feet in pools of blood. Josey paused to pay her respects to these men who had died in her defense. Their eyes stared up at the ceiling.

“Duke Mormaer, my cloak, please.”

When he fetched it, she laid it gently over the faces of her bodyguards. Dark spots appeared in the fabric where their blood soaked through.

It was only as she turned away to follow Mormaer, his men falling in behind them, that Josey noticed a detail about her bodyguards. Neither had sported any claw gouges or throat punctures. Instead, each had died from a straight cut across the throat, as neat as if done by a chirurgeon’s blade.

A chill ran through Josey. If not the assassin, then who killed them?