A Kiss for Queens. Морган Райс
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past the spaces where the ordinary soldiers lay, heading for the space where her target would be.
Rose opened doors in silence in the dark, looking at the sleeping figures there, watching for the one she’d been sent for. She found her target in a room marked with Ishjemme’s colors: the room of a leader, the room of a ruler. She pushed open the door in silence.
Ahead of her, a candle flickered into being, revealing Lars Skyddar, sitting on a sea chair, a sword across his lap.
“You’ve come for me,” he said.
Rose considered her options. Could she run? Could she get clear of this ship before this man brought a whole crew to face her?
“How did you know I was coming?” she demanded. “I know I made no sound.”
“A long time ago, I was told that I would face death on the night before our greatest battle, and that I must face it alone. I’ve known this moment was coming since my nieces arrived.”
“Are you going to call for them?” Rose asked, her hands moving down almost imperceptibly to her belt, considering which of the poisoned darts there might do the job best. Their deaths weren’t the plan for tonight, but Milady d’Angelica would probably reward her well if she managed it.
“I will not risk their lives,” Lars Skyddar said. “Yours, on the other hand…”
He leapt forward, almost fast enough that Rose couldn’t do anything. If he’d been twenty years younger, perhaps she wouldn’t have been able to do anything, and the sword would have hacked deep into her. As it was, it still caught her flesh as she dove aside, still left a smear of blood as she rolled back to her feet.
Ishjemme’s duke was already turning to attack her again, but Rose’s hand came up from her belt, flinging a handful of darts without caring which poison was on them, only caring that some, enough, would strike home.
Her foe gasped as they hit him. The darts held everything from sleeping poisons to the quickest of killers, and even the assassin had no clue what so many would do at once. It was enough that they were doing something. Even as she watched, the sword went clattering to the ground.
She slipped in close, drawing a dagger, not wanting to leave it to an uncertain combination of alchemy to finish the job. She pulled back her arm to deliver the fatal thrust…
And Lars Skyddar pulled her close, dragging one of the darts from his flesh and into hers.
Rose stabbed him on reflex, thrusting up into the man’s heart before abandoning her grip on the blade. She stared down at him, then at the dart sticking from her flesh, unable to contain her shock. He’d poisoned her with her own weapon!
Rose all but staggered from the cabin, trying to stay quiet but having no time for it. She didn’t know which poison had been on the weapon, but already she thought she could feel a sluggishness invading her limbs, numbness reaching into her fingertips.
She grabbed an antidote vial from her belt, not knowing if it was the right one, or if it would make things worse. She slipped up onto the deck, moving with graceless steps now, not even sure which way her small boat lay for her escape. She staggered to the railing, turning back briefly, glimpsing sailors looking in other directions, none seeing her.
She toppled from the ship, no art to it, no skill. She imagined that the splash of it would be enough to draw attention from all around if it weren’t for the press of so many ships in such a small space.
As the water closed over her, she had one thought: she’d done what was required of her. She’d killed the leader of the invasion, leaving only the untested and the young to do the job. She’d cleared the way for other plots too, the ones that Milady d’Angelica thought she didn’t know about.
She’d done all of that, and not one piece of it helped as the water swallowed her up.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The wedding was not what Angelica would have hoped for from her nuptials. She stood at the entrance to the church of the Masked Goddess, only recently scrubbed clean of the evidence of the funeral, and trying to ignore all the imperfections. When she had dreamed of this day as a girl, imagining the triumph of it, it had not looked like this.
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