Treacherous Witch

2. Infiltrating the Palace

Malkoha frowned at her. "Your magic will aid in the task, but for the deed itself we require a professional. Perhaps a mercenary—"

"I know the palace," said Valerie. "They'll let me in."

Finally, she had their attention. The others stared at her. Iora leaned forward, swinging her legs.

"That's right," said Bakra. "Of course, and the staff would not suspect you."

"Forgive me," said Quintus. "Valerie may practise some petty magic, but she is no assassin."

There was the faintest note of disapproval in his voice at the words 'petty magic'. As captain of the guard, he would have dealt with petty sorcerers, hedge witches and the like, those who had escaped the attention of the priesthood. He'd never believed that her blessing was legitimate.

Markus stepped forward and she felt a spark of gratitude when he spoke up. "She doesn't have to be. We only need someone who can lead us to Avon. I'll cut the bastard down."

"Two of us?" said Iora, glancing at the prince. "Is that enough?"

"It's an assassination, not an invasion," said Malkoha. "If Valerie can get Markus in..."

"Why risk both of us? Give me a knife and I'll do it myself."

Markus shot her a look. "Val, come on. You don't want blood on your hands. Let me do my job."

"We shan't risk you in a fight," said Bakra. "Markus is our best shot. I only wish I could be there too."

She bit her tongue. Frankly, she thought she had a better chance than any of them but Bakra still clung to the idea that he and his men were responsible for winning this war.

Valerie nodded. "Yes, Your Highness."

It would have to do. She might not strike the killing blow herself, but she would be instrumental in taking down Lord Avon and bringing them one step closer to the restoration of Maskamere.

*

On the eve of the assassination, Valerie boarded a boat to the palace and headed to the servants' quarters. Here she claimed to be delivering a dress that had been ordered by the dead queen. That much was true: three years ago, Queen Shikra had requested a dress to be made for Maska's millennium jubilee. But the jubilee celebrations never happened, nor did she ever see the dress, for she had perished at the feast of the harvest along with the rest of the royal family.

When she'd discovered the half-finished dress at the back of her uncle Koel's workshop—he hadn't the heart to finish it, he said—she had asked if she could work on it in her spare time. The shape of the gown was there, but it was missing the detail, and embroidery was Valerie's speciality.

Now she had finished it, and she had poured her heart and soul into this gown, wishing that somehow it could bring the queen back, though of course that was impossible. Made of the finest porcelain silk, it was cut precisely to Queen Shikra's measurements, with a halterneck that left the midriff bare in the Maskamery style, and an ankle-length skirt with a slit on either side up to the thigh. She'd had half a mind to present it to Prince Bakra when she was done, in memory of his dear sister. Maybe she still could. When Avon was dead, when Bakra had mustered his forces and retaken the capital, then he could hold a proper vigil for his sister. Maskamere had never gotten to truly mourn, not in public.

The palace steward, however, seemed not to care for her efforts. "What are you bringing us this for? The queen is dead. She's hardly going to need it, is she?"

He glanced over the roses that she had so painstakingly embroidered from collar to hem—her personal signature—and showed not one whit of appreciation for the deep red of the petals studded with real rubies or the golden leaves and stems. Red and gold: the royal colours.