The Black Queen: The King's Daughter, #3

By J. Kathleen Cheney

When Ellis Dantreon's father ordered her to become a soldier, she became the only female at the war college. Now she's graduated and has taken her place guarding the king. But the country's Seers are still predicting a terrible possibility—that she might end up marrying the Duke of Perisen, Anton Marisi. 

 

And if she does, she probably won't live long. Nor will her brother, Prince Kerris. 

 

Ellis is baffled by the prediction. She's never even spoken to the man. She certainly has no intention of allowing him to court her if she does meet him. But when another woman pretends to be her, Ellis realizes how easy it would be for that marriage to happen after all. 

 

Now Ellis has to gather all the help she can to stave off that possibility. Unfortunately, she has an added challenge: her mother, the Queen of Jenear, has come to Jenesetta. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dream Palace Press
• Release date: Jul 31, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386911432

J. Kathleen Cheney

J. Kathleen Cheney is a former teacher and has taught mathematics ranging from 7th grade to Calculus, with a brief stint as a Gifted and Talented Specialist. She is a member of SFWA, RWA, and Broad Universe. Her works have been published in Jim Baen's Universe, Writers of the Future, and Fantasy Magazine, among others. Her novels, The Golden City, The Seat of Magic, and The Shores of Spain, are published in by Ace/Roc books. Her website can be found at www.jkathleencheney.com

Book preview

Prologue

June 23, 487

Westhills Debtors’ Prison, Verina

The guards escorted Andrew Helton into an interview room, one standing on either side of him as if he posed a threat. The guards generally favored clubs in the confines of the prison. Today they wore pistols, a strategy employed to assure visitors that everything within these walls was under control.

When they walked him to the table, Andrew dared a glance up at his interviewer and suddenly felt very aware of his unbathed condition.

A woman sat next to the warden, a toddler clasped in her arms—without question, the most beautiful woman Andrew had ever seen. Her skin was perfect. She had delicate, even features, and smoky green eyes under smoothly arching brows. She wore her dark hair pulled back from her face in a soft knot.

The toddler in her lap had unruly black curls and inquisitive gray eyes, likely taking after his father. The boy gazed at Andrew and then smiled.

The guard slapped Andrew across the back of his head. Eyes down. Hands on the table.

Andrew lowered his eyes as the guard pushed him into the chair. He knew what to expect in an interview of this sort.

Is this the one? the woman asked in a southern accent.

The warden stood behind her. Yes. He’s twenty-five, healthy enough, educated. Not diseased.

Andrew felt his jaw clench.

Why is he here? she asked.

Taken up for debt, the warden supplied, flipping through some papers. A new warden—the third Andrew had seen in the past nine months—he had to rely on paperwork to identify his prisoners.

May I talk to him alone? the woman asked.

The warden’s watery eyes lifted. You don’t wish to have a guard, Madam?

No, she murmured.

A small hand appeared in Andrew’s limited frame of view. The boy patted his fingers where they lay splayed on the table. Madam, the warden protested, he’s not been dangerous, but I don’t see a need for this.

Please, she said.

It sounded like an order. Judging by her accent, she must be a member of the nobility. The air of command in her voice explained the warden’s grudging capitulation.

I’ll have my guards waiting directly outside, Madam. Should you need anything, you need only call.

Thank you, she said.

The guards vacated the small interview room, leaving the door cracked open so they could hear.

The boy’s hand grasped at his. Papa.

No, he told the boy quietly.

Papa, the boy insisted.

His own son would have been about this age, Andrew realized with a pang.

The woman’s hand tugged the boy’s back out of his view, a clucking sound of reproof following it. No, Kerry, she said, not your father. The warden told me you’re educated.

Somewhat, Andrew answered vaguely. No one ever purchased an educated slave; they were too much trouble.

I need someone educated, she said, surprising him, to teach my son.

To teach him what, Madam?

To read, to write, to do maths.

He would learn that in a proper school, he told her.

Can you teach him that? she demanded.

I taught my sister to read and write.

Your sister?

He probably shouldn’t have admitted to that. Yes, Madam. Our town’s school wouldn’t take girls, so I taught her myself.

He needs to learn other things as well, she said. He needs to learn about the law, and... and manly things. To ride and to hunt, I suppose.

The law? Didn’t she know why the magistrate had been so harsh with him? I can teach him about law, Madam, and to ride. I’ve only hunted for food, though, not for sport.

She didn’t speak for a moment.

Should that not be something his father teaches him?

His father, she snapped, is none of your business.

Ah, so a fallen noblewoman, Andrew reckoned, who’d borne a love child, or one who had left her husband. Given her beauty, he suspected she might be the former. Why would you purchase a slave for this, Madam? Why not hire a tutor?

Do not question me, she said in an irritated tone.

Her attitude left no doubt that she expected him to obey without thinking. He kept his tone calm, reasonable. It makes no sense, Madam.

Stop it, she said, sounding frustrated now.

She didn’t like to argue, he decided, not being very good at it. A slave will be far more expensive in the long run than hiring a series of tutors, he added.

The warden says no one wants you, she said, her tone turning nasty. He says you’ll be here until you rot.

You cannot come up with a good explanation, Madam, so you resort to insulting me? It’s a poor way to argue.

Look at me, she hissed.

That’s not allowed, Madam, he reminded her.

Look... at... me, she spat out. It sounded as if her teeth were clenched.

He looked up, meeting her eyes. She was magnificent when angry, color flaring across her cheeks. Her narrow nose had gone white around the nostrils.

I know I am stupid, she said. I need someone to teach my son not to be. I need someone who can’t be bought. A slave can’t be bought.

It is the very definition of a slave to be bought or sold, Madam, he reminded her.

The boy reached out and grabbed Andrew’s hand again. Papa.

No, Kerry, the woman said, snatching his hand back. He is not your papa. She sounded angry now and near the verge of tears. You have already proven you’re smarter than I am, she said to Andrew, getting herself under control. You do not have to do so again.

She sat back in her chair, gazing at him with angry eyes. A tutor can be bought, she said. A teacher can be hired away or threatened. I need someone who will be faithful to my son, no matter what he’s offered.

The boy gazed up at him with his bright, inquisitive eyes. This woman worried about someone betraying her son. She wanted someone to love her son. How old is he?

Three, she said. He’ll be four next August.

The same month as his own son. Andrew wondered if his son would have looked like this child if he’d lived. Not much, he decided. I can teach him, Madam.

I need you to swear to me you’ll never betray him.

I’m a slave, Madam. I could only do so at your bidding, in peril of my life. She didn’t know that, he decided, given her baffled look. A slave’s life is forfeit if he disobeys his mistress.

You wouldn’t be mine, she clarified. You would be his. I am buying you for him, under his name.

Did she truly intend to hand him over to a three-year-old master? Madam, do you think that’s wise?

If... if I buy you under my name, you become my husband’s property, don’t you? Or my father’s. But in trust for him, with me as a... a...

Trustee, Andrew supplied.

Yes, a trustee. Then you don’t answer to them.

Andrew had to admire her strategy. Why risk putting him under a stranger’s control, Madam? You could simply educate him yourself.

I’ve already said I’m stupid, she said.

No, Madam, I don’t think you are.

Her eyes met his, narrowing. Are you trying to flatter me? It won’t change anything.

Madam, he said, I will teach him. All the same, if you don’t review what I teach him, you’ll have no control over how I mold him.

I know, she admitted, spots of color showing on her cheeks. I can’t think of any other way.

Andrew licked his dry lips. She’d held something back and probably couldn’t be tricked into revealing it. She was a clever woman. You will have to trust me, then.

I know.

The boy clambered down from her lap and came around the table to him, holding up his hands. Don’t touch, he warned the boy. I’m dirty.

Helton, the boy said, I wanna go home now.

Is... is that your name? the woman asked. Helton?

How could he know if his mother didn’t?

The boy patted his grimy trouser leg—the same pair Andrew had worn for nine months now. Helton.

Is he good or bad, Kerry? the woman asked.

Good, the boy insisted. He’s good, Mama.

Andrew glanced up to catch a relieved expression on her face. It amazed him; the woman had just accepted a character judgment from her child.

Guards, she called.

Andrew turned his eyes down, not wanting them to catch him looking at her.

The warden followed the guards into the small room. Are you well, Madam?

Perfectly fine, she told him in an imperious tone. I have decided this one will do. We need to discuss his price.

For a woman who thought herself stupid, she haggled well. Still, he couldn’t be worth the price she paid, even with the twenty-five-year term. She clearly didn’t worry over spending money. In the end, she argued the warden out of a bath and a fresh change of clothing as well, claiming she didn’t want anything that smelled as bad as he did in her coach.

Three hours later, he stood at the doors outside of the prison for the first time in years. He’d lost so much weight that he hadn’t recognized the gaunt, bearded man he saw in the mirror. That had quickly quelled any concern that the lady had purchased him as a toy, despite the guards’ ribald suggestions otherwise.

Her coach was a plain one; no arms blazoned the sides. The groom gave him an evaluating glance before opening the door and folding down the steps.

Mr. Helton, her cross voice said from inside the carriage, do not keep us waiting.

Andrew climbed into the carriage. The lady sat on the facing bench, an older woman with her. Kerry sat across from them, and Andrew settled next to the boy. The older woman rapped at the ceiling with a cane and the coach began to move.

Mr. Helton, the lady snapped, if I’d known it would take you that long, I wouldn’t have had you change. Now we’ll have to drive after dark.

Clean clothes were difficult to come by, Madam, and I did appreciate the chance to bathe. I am grateful.

You smell better, at least, Mr. Helton.

The boy settled next to him and seemed inclined to sleep against his arm. Madam, Andrew said, I believe I should properly be addressed as Helton.

I can address you however I please, she snapped.

To keep from offending your servants, Madam, he advised. They will know I’m a slave and not a proper tutor.

The servants in my house are my father’s, Mr. Helton. I do not care about offending them.

Elspeth, the older woman said, Helton is right. If you don’t make his status clear from the beginning, it will be difficult for him to work into the household.

Andrew smiled. The name Elspeth suited her, an old-fashioned name that also belonged to one of his great-aunts. She’d been the kind of woman who bullied little children and waved her cane at them.

I am Miss Abigail Cranhallow, the older woman continued, extending a gloved hand for him to shake. I am the lady’s companion.

Andrew Helton, he responded.

Keep your head down when addressing your superiors, Helton, Miss Cranhallow said. In our household, we are observed at all times. Should you step outside the lines of proper behavior, toward me or any member of the household, the guards might react before anyone has a chance to intervene. Do you understand that, young man?

Yes, ma’am, he mumbled, wondering what sort of household needed guards.

The guards, you understand, work for her father. They act on his instructions, not ours. The footmen, grooms, and maids all answer to him, not us.

And it was a hostile place to live, Andrew divined. Why?

There is only one thing I control in my life, Mr. Helton, the younger woman said, and that is my son. I will not let my father raise him. I will not let Kerry’s father raise him either; I have already lost my daughter to that man. I must do the best I can alone.

And I am the best you can do, Madam?

I just hope you are, Mr. Helton, she said with a hint of apprehension in her voice.

The boy had fallen asleep, one little hand worked trustingly into his calloused fingers. The two women leaned against one another as if it had been a very long day. They drove through the evening with hardly a word further said. Andrew watched the women sleep, amazed at the strange reasoning that landed him in their company.

They arrived on a well-manicured drive hours later, the driver going around to the servant’s entrance. Andrew carried the sleeping boy up darkened stairs to a nursery under Miss Cranhallow’s instructions. She pointed out a door to a nearby room and explained that it would be his for the time being. He went willingly and undressed before crawling into the marvelously clean bed and falling dead asleep.

Andrew woke before dawn, dressed, and set about exploring the nursery rooms his new charge inhabited. The boy slept on, so Andrew decided to risk going down and introducing himself to the cook in the hope of getting something to eat.

The house was a fine one. He estimated each of the woolen carpets running the length of the hallways cost more than his parents had ever made in a year. The draperies felt like heavy silk with a touch of wool for strength. The sheer expense of the furnishings astounded him.

Guards stood in the hallways, liveried in gold and burgundy, splendid in their own way. Andrew kept his eyes down but didn’t miss the sabers and pistols. He understood Miss Cranhallow’s warning better now.

No one said we had to feed you, boy, the cook told him in a surly voice once he located the kitchens. Her apron and dress were of good quality, reinforcing Andrew’s perception of a wealthy household. Give me a reason, and maybe I will.

It was almost like being in the prison—he wasn’t above bullying. Because if you do not, I’ll talk to Master Kerry. He’ll send down to have you bring up a meal, which means sending a servant twice. This will save you time and work.

Master Kerry. The cook wiped her hands on her apron. Is that how you’re to address him? It’s always ‘Your Highness’ to us.

Andrew covered his mouth, trying to disguise his surprise as a yawn. Perhaps if I spoke to him, he might unbend a bit.

She gave him an odd look. The staff hardly ever sees the prince at all.

The prince. No mistake. Do you like him?

Don’t know him from the post, Helton.

Then I’ll suggest he come down and meet you, ma’am. It’s unnatural for a little boy not to be in the kitchens at least five times a day.

Her Highness doesn’t trust us, you know. The cook ladled out a cup of oatmeal and handed it to him.

Andrew blew on a spoonful of the oats, thinking. This is the best I’ve had in a very long time, ma’am, he said once he’d tasted them.

Wherever you’ve been, boy, the cook returned, it doesn’t seem they’ve been feeding you.

No, ma’am. I’ve lost a good fifty pounds.

She gave him an appraising look before returning to her chopping, Well, s’pose I’ll have to put it back on you.

He finished the rest of the delicious oatmeal. May I bring Master Kerry down and introduce him to you properly later?

Well, the woman allowed, if you think his mother would allow it, I suppose I would be honored.

He’s a boy, ma’am. He needs to eat. Frequently.

The cook laughed. Andrew wrangled a promise out of the woman and then returned to Kerry’s rooms to rouse him.

When he got there, the boy had already woken. Catching his hand with little fingers, Kerry dragged him over to the wide-paned windows to show him a meager collection of books. Andrew admired them as expected, recognizing a few of the same volumes he’d read as a child. Some things remained constant between wealthy and poor households, evidently.

Can you read them all to me? the boy asked.

One at a time, Andrew said. Now, Kerry, I need you to tell me something. What is your given name?

The boy flipped through one of the books, perusing the carefully hand-painted illustrations. Kerris, he said absently.

Kerris what?

Kerris Dantreon, the boy supplied.

Andrew sat heavily on the floor next to him, staring at the crown prince of Jenear.

1

October 13, 495

Jenesetta

The morning was a fine one for an assassination. For once, the city of Jenesetta had woken to clean air and sunshine. The grip of the winter’s first cold snap had eased, the ice melting away in the early hours.

Even so, Ellis Dantreon wished she hadn’t left her greatcoat at the garrison. Her blue uniform jacket might look splendid with its silver braid and buttons, but it didn’t keep the chill at bay. She tightened her hand on the reins and dropped her other hand to the butt of her pistol. Five shifted under her, anxious to be off. The gelding didn’t mind the parade-like duties entailed in guarding the king, but he disliked the waiting. So did she.

Ellis glanced across at her partner. Llelas Sevireiya always looked perfectly alert, even first thing in the morning. He dug his silver watch out of its pocket and clicked it open. Turning it so she could see the time, he raised one dark eyebrow, as if to ask what kept the king. Ellis shrugged. It read eight, but Llelas’ watch always ran fast.

Llelas took off his hat and raked a hand through his hair, irritated now. His hair had gotten even grayer over the summer, belying his twenty-three years. He always claimed it came from working with her, but he’d already had gray mixed in his black hair when he’d first arrived at the War College of Amiestrin two years earlier. It wasn’t solely her fault.

The king appeared at the doorway then. A tall man with the same gray eyes that Ellis had, he had a far more serious mien. He climbed into his carriage, and the entourage set into motion precisely on time. Ellis and Llelas took the lead, passing through the grand iron gates of the palace’s massive walls and out into the city streets, some distance ahead of the others. The more experienced guards rode nearer the king, forming a protective knot about the carriage.

Although the Versh Governance Treaty had been in effect for almost two decades, every year the approval of the Council became less willing. King Karsyas Dantreon had made enemies among the Separatists by his continued cooperation with the Versh throne—enough that the vote today would be close.

Partisans wanting to make a statement through the use of violence might consider this a highly symbolic day on which to do so. That wasn’t the reason that swayed Ellis to believe an attempt would happen today.

She knew it because her half-brother Jesse said it would happen.

She’d told her superior what Jesse claimed. She felt foolish repeating it, but Sub-marshal Korileys took the prediction seriously—even if it had come from a nine-year-old boy.

The King of Jenear himself, for all his vaunted prescience, didn’t look concerned. He’d entered the carriage impeccably dressed, not a single steel-gray hair out of place. He hadn’t spared a glance for any of his guards, least of all her. He never acknowledged anyone who didn’t have immediate importance in his plans—even his own daughter.

When they reached the stone steps of the Council Hall, a small crowd waited, kept to one side by the Council’s guards. These would mostly be Separatist partisans, displeased that the treaty would be renewed once again. So far there had been no riots, but that might happen one day.

A man stepped out of the group, calling Ellis by name, asking anxiously about the treaty vote. Ellis turned her mount to block him at the base of the steps, recognizing him as a writer for one of the local papers. Exasperated, she waved him away. He returned to the side, likely still trying to get back into her good graces after the less than flattering comments he’d written about her last month.

One of the Council’s grooms took the reins of her horse and she dismounted, Llelas only a second behind her. She took a last glance at the crowd and started up toward the Council Hall to assume her usual position near the doors. At the second step, Ellis turned back, puzzled.

Two of the lieutenants stepped down from the carriage. They surveyed the small crowd just as she had. A second groom opened the carriage’s door and lowered the steps. The rear squad of the bodyguard began to dismount behind the carriage. The king leaned out of the carriage, one foot on the steps.

It hit her with visceral clarity—the assassin was among them, but where?

Llelas spotted him before she did. Always faster, Llelas cleared the steps and tackled the groom as he raised the pistol in his hand. The impact of Llelas’ body caused the assassin’s aim to go awry. Splinters sprayed out from the carriage’s door. The pistol fell to the steps, and Llelas and the assassin tumbled onto the cobbles.

Pandemonium broke loose. At the sound of the shot, pigeons flew every direction from the slate roof of the Council Hall with the flapping of a thousand wings. The gathered crowd broke into terrified yammering, several scrambling past the Council guards, down the steps and into the traffic. The King’s Bodyguard placed themselves between the king’s person and the crowd, herding him up the steps into the building.

The groom-cum-assassin broke away, then rolled under the carriage and out the other side, accompanied by Llelas’ fervent curse. Ellis dashed around the horses but Llelas followed the assassin’s route and ended up a few steps ahead of her.

Clearly expecting a mounted pursuit, the man shoved his way through a hedge and ducked down a narrow alleyway between two buildings. He cut through the cathedral’s courtyard and headed toward Jeniser Park.

Wrong decision. If there was anything both she and Llelas could do, it was run. They could keep close, even if the mounted pursuit lost him.

The man must be heading for the rail station. It would be packed with arrivals at this time of day, the night-train from Perisen just coming in. They would lose him if he got there first. Llelas gestured for her to head to the west gate of the park while he stayed in pursuit.

Ellis split away from him and ran around the side of the park, toward the terraced gardens. She skirted the northwest corner and arrived at the west gate, breathing hard. Looking down from the highest terrace, she spotted Llelas and his quarry coming her direction. The assassin ran toward the gates, straight at her.

Ellis stepped to the middle of the path, pistol drawn, blocking his access to the station. The assassin met her eyes, perhaps fifteen yards away. He scrambled and turned, then jumped down one level nearly onto the pursuer coming up from behind. Unable to stop his momentum, Llelas slammed into the man. They tumbled to the ground, and the assassin ended up on top.

Ellis saw the knife then. Llelas had a grip on the assassin’s wrist and managed to slow him, but she wouldn’t reach them in time to stop the knife from falling.

It came down to practice. Mid-stride, she slid to one knee, braced the pistol in both hands, and took a shot. The report echoed through the park, sending starlings bursting from the trees with frantic calls. Smoke clouded around her hands and face. The assassin jerked and went still, pinning Llelas beneath him. For a moment, Ellis knelt frozen in place, sickened again. Would the man’s skull would make that same hollow sound when it hit the ground?

Llelas pushed the heavier man’s body away and struggled to his feet. He glanced down at the corpse and then rounded on her. What do you think you were doing? he yelled, coming her direction.

In the quiet park, it seemed indecently loud.

You might consider thanking me, she yelled back. She jumped down to that level.

I have a corpse instead of a prisoner. Llelas stood within arm’s distance now. He grabbed his crushed hat by the chinstrap, yanked it over his head and threw it to the ground.

The second squad found them and started dismounting at the west gate of the park, witness to their clash.

You weren’t going to have a prisoner anyway, Ellis informed him. You were going to be dead. Haven’t you noticed that you’re bleeding? Blood darkened one arm of his blue jacket. A ragged tear in the wool allowed enough bloody white sleeve to show through to confirm Llelas’ injury.

He stabbed me in front of the carriage, he said.

He’d been bleeding from the start, then. That was how the assassin had gotten away from him in the first place. Llelas would never have let him loose otherwise; he was far stronger than his lean frame suggested.

When are you going to learn not to aim for the head? Llelas hissed, waving one arm toward the unmoving body.

When are you going to learn not to let a bigger man get you to the ground? Ellis spat back.

He stepped away, scowling. She’d thrown one of his own fighting tenets in his face. Someone from the second squad laughed, reminding her that four other guardsmen stood nearby. She turned her back on Llelas and went to survey the dead man.

The white coat with its gold braid stretched tight across his unmoving chest, the buttons straining. His livery didn’t fit well enough, the sleeves too short for current fashion. The Council would never own so poorly uniformed a servant. Ellis had seen that on the steps but hadn’t processed it quickly enough. Sighing, she tucked her pistol into her coat pocket and knelt to take a closer look at her victim.

Ellis forced herself to gaze at the man’s face. The last time she’d killed a man, he hadn’t looked like this. She hadn’t seen that body until the next day, neatly laid out in the war college’s stables. This man’s blue eyes stared sightlessly up into the morning sky, almost as if he were watching the clouds go by. A neat hole in his temple showed where the ball had entered, but she didn’t see an exit wound. The last time she’d shot a man, it had been at very close range.

Captain Berien came to stand behind her, surveying her victim.

Ellis rose. I’m sorry, sir. I’ve deprived you of a prisoner, she told him. I acted as I thought necessary at the time.

Berien clapped her on the shoulder. Fortunately, the captain always treated her like one of his other guardsmen, not a swooning girl. The king is secure so all’s well. We’ll find out who he was. Don’t worry. He gave her another perusal and then surveyed Llelas, who’d come over to peer down at his erstwhile prisoner. The two of you, head back to the garrison and get patched up. If the surgeon releases you, join us at the morgue afterward.

Spectators began to trickle into the park from the station. Ellis could pinpoint the moment when the thin crowd realized who’d shot the assassin. They could hardly miss her long braid, even if otherwise she looked like all the other guardsmen. She turned away, trying not to hear the whispers. The horrified stares would begin all over again.

No girl should be serving in the Guard, people said, much less the king’s daughter. They would discuss her behind their hands at balls, hinting about the decline of the royal family. It didn’t matter a whit to them that her father ordered her to become a soldier.

Sighing, Ellis recalled Llelas’ bloody arm and proceeded to annoy him by insisting he let her look at it while the other squad prepared to remove the body from the park. She met Llelas’ eyes, level with hers. She stood the same height as him now. The surgeon’s going to want to look at this, she said.

Ignore them, he told her in his deep voice, bypassing her words.

It doesn’t matter, Ellis said, suspecting he knew better.

Captain Berien eyed the growing crowd and suggested they return to the garrison. With his permission, they took two of the other guardsmen’s horses and rode back to find their own, falling into a grumpy silence along the way.

It would be all over the papers in the morning. She could just imagine the headline—The King’s Daughter Kills Again.

2

The palace garrison was an old building, near in age to the palace itself, but had a modern no-nonsense infirmary on one end of the ground floor. Other than the pervasive smell of old stone, the surgeon, Captain Queron, kept his domain sparkling clean, or rather, a half-dozen or so orderlies did that for him.

Ellis waited while the surgeon scowled over Llelas’ stab wound. The knife had gone in neatly but tore on its way out, leaving a jagged edge. Wary of puncture wounds, the surgeon cleaned it and then cleaned it again. Llelas looked annoyed but allowed it, knowing how quickly that sort of injury could become infected.

Then Queron insisted on cleaning and bandaging Ellis’ leg. Where she’d gone to one knee on the bricked pathway to take her shot, a flap of blue wool hung loose. Gravel, dirt, and blood had congealed in an untidy mess down the front of her shin. It hadn’t hurt until the surgeon pointed it out.

Once done, she and Llelas headed down to the garrison’s makeshift morgue, both of them still out of sorts and out of charity with one another. The morgue was rarely used in these days, as the capital’s police handled most dead bodies. This small set of rooms was used primarily when guardsmen died. Ellis had only been here once before, when her father’s advisor, Jonathan Overton had been murdered in the cells farther down the hallway. The stone walls and cold tables didn’t look any more welcoming now than then.

Berien’s squad had carted the blanket-wrapped body of the assassin there already. Someone had closed his eyes and laid him out carefully prior to searching his ill-fitting clothing. Berien had set those bits aside and gestured for the two of them to come in and look at the body.

Ellis concentrated on the man’s garb instead of his face, taming the slow roll of her stomach. This time there was almost no blood, a strange thing. The last time, there had been blood everywhere.

Captain Berien laid a hand on her shoulder. Well shot, he said.

Ellis spared a glance up at the older man. He’d probably been in the King’s Bodyguard longer than she’d been alive. His approval seemed genuine, so she thanked him, the words falling out of her mouth by rote.

It had been an uphill fight for all the cadets, coming up from the War College of Amiestrin and trying to work into an established corps of guardsmen. The men of the King’s Bodyguard were mostly older men, officers handpicked for the assignment. To have eight cadets suddenly thrust into their midst on the king’s orders had been almost as irritating for them as it had been difficult for the newcomers.

For Llelas and the others, acceptance had been far less grudging than for Ellis. The only reason they tolerated her was that she was her father’s daughter. At least now, it seemed she’d done something right in their eyes.

Ellis returned to her survey of the body. The man’s livery looked a bit worn at the cuffs, but still the current cut and colors of the Council, which changed almost seasonally. It couldn’t be a discarded set of livery.

Captain Berien ran a hand through his graying hair. The other grooms confirmed he’s one of them—named Myan Terien.

Ellis regarded him with brows drawn together. But his uniform doesn’t fit.

Llelas scowled at the body. Perhaps he has a terrible laundress.

A faint smile twisted Berien’s lips. We’ll ask when we talk to his family, he said. Other grooms had no idea Mr. Terien harbored any ill will toward the king, which makes me wonder why he suddenly opted for assassination.

Money, Llelas said, cynical as always. Terien is the short form of Teriendenes, he added then.

Many Menhirre shortened their names when they came to the capital, an attempt to assimilate into the Versh-influenced culture dominant in the central provinces of Jenear. We’ll consider that, of course, Berien said.

"I would think it less likely for him to be a Separatist if his family has changed its name," Ellis pointed out.

Just because a family has changed their name doesn’t mean they’re not volatile, Sub-marshal Korileys said, walking into the morgue, his hat in hand. We’ll talk to the family, see if we can find out what provoked this. Leave this to us.

After giving them both a stern appraisal, the sub-marshal ordered the two of them to take the remainder of the afternoon off. Llelas gave one of his eloquent shrugs. He didn’t take orders well. Ellis doubted he would rest.

Ellis retrieved her greatcoat from the garrison, and then Llelas walked her from the garrison to the palace kitchens, grumbling on the way about his uniform. He hated to spend money. The heir of the dukedom of Sandrine Province, Llelas still never had a penny to his name. Under the morning’s bright sunlight, Ellis glanced down at the blue wool flapping loose at her shin, the white of her bandage showing through. She would definitely have to replace these trousers, too.

Llelas left her at the servants’ entry to the kitchens, heading back toward his quarters in the garrison, he claimed. The kitchens were a series of large rooms full of metal and fire and bustling cooks, washers, and servers. They all worked with the joint purpose of making certain the king’s luncheon appeared precisely on time, as if this