“So it would seem.”
Was that all his brother would say? Did he truly not see it? Cas spoke bluntly. “Ventillas. That includes you. You could be in danger.”
Ventillas smiled thinly. “When am I not, little brother?” And when Cas opened his mouth, Ventillas added, “This has nothing to do with me.”
“You can’t know that. Why are you—?”
“Later, Cassia. Now is not the time.” He turned to Lena. “Lady, I’ll see you back to the keep.”
It was like trying to talk to a tree. Frustrated, Cas turned away. The innkeeper hovered by his front door, deeply unhappy. A guest, mysteriously dead. Not the sort of thing a man of hospitality would wish to be known for. Ventillas’ men surrounded the coroner’s wagon, keeping the shrouded Abril away from prying eyes. Merchants gossiped from their doorsteps, their backs turned on the city inspector, who kept somber companionship with the priest, Father Emil. There were people on horseback and people in carts. Across the square, diagonal to where Cas stood, was a woman on a horse. Cas looked past her.
And then he looked back.
She wore a riding dress the color of rust. Her posture was straight as a trained soldier’s. Her hat reminded him of the sweeping head covers worn by rice farmers in the fields. Only this hat, the same autumn shade as her dress, was far larger. It swooped two feet on each side of her head and was low enough to shield her eyes. All Cas could see was her smile. A woman alone, smiling as a corpse rolled away in a death wagon.
Cas stepped forward, silencing whatever it was Ventillas said to Lena. They turned to see what Cas looked at. The lady on the horse tipped her head back, too quick for Cas to catch more than the briefest glimpse of her face. She saw Cas staring and her smile vanished. Even as she turned her horse around, Cas was running.
Cas had not forgotten his city. The streets and back alleys, the market squares. He knew exactly where he was as he chased after the woman. He rode a horse that was not his own, for he had stolen the closest one. Its owner had been too shocked to protest when Cas had flung himself into the saddle and ridden off. A quick glance over his shoulder showed a man standing by Ventillas, shaking his fist and shouting.
The woman veered right and disappeared from view. He could not ride as fast as he wished. There were children playing and women with market baskets, all clogging the streets. Cas’ warning cries only slowed the people further. They looked around in confusion before the sight of him sent them leaping out of the way in a panic. He turned the corner just in time to see a horse tail whip into an alley behind a butcher’s shop.
The alley was dangerously slick with blood and discarded body parts. Flies swarmed. Cursing, he slowed the horse. The butcher poked his head out a window. First in curiosity and then in pained resignation when Cas, glaring, pointed to the rabbit heads and tails strewn everywhere. If he did not break his neck, he would be giving City Inspector Gaspar this address. The horse picked its way to the end of the alley. The woman was nowhere to be seen, but a boy standing in a doorway called out, “Lord Cassia!” and pointed left.
Offering a salute, he went left. The horse gained speed; Cas could see her now, up ahead. This street led to the western gates. Beyond them, the road ran straight across the valley into the forest. If she reached the shelter of the trees, he would lose her. But the gap between them had narrowed. She glanced back at him with greater and greater frequency. The gates loomed ahead. Wide open. Guarded by men in Palmerin red.
This was Abril’s false sister. This was Faustina’s archer. Riding on that horse was the answer to a great many questions.
“Help!” the woman cried suddenly. “Please help me!” She waved at the guards, then pointed behind her. At Cas. “He’s trying to hurt me!”
In disbelief, Cas watched her race right through the gates while a line of guards closed behind her, blocking his path.
“Stop!” a guard shouted.
Cas slowed the horse. They did not give him a chance to explain. One man grabbed the reins; another yanked Cas right out of the saddle and thumped him into the dirt. A kick to his side followed. Stunned, Cas could think only that it had been a long time since he had been beaten like this. How easily one forgot the pain. “Who do you think you are, chasing decent women in the street—?”
“Stop! Ho!” Another guard came running over, horrified. “Let him go, man! That’s Lord Cassia!”
“What!”
Snarling, Cas shoved aside hands that were suddenly helpful and solicitous. Clutching his ribs, he half stumbled, half ran to the gates.
Too late.
She raced down the road. Away from the city, and a reckoning. She grew smaller in the distance until, just shy of the forest, she stopped. She turned the horse around and faced the gates. Cas knew she saw him. A second later, she raised her hat high and waved.
Cas braced a palm against the wall, breath coming in sharp, angry pants. He could not see her face. She was too far away. But he knew, without a shred of doubt, that she was laughing.
17
How could they not recognize you? Look, just look at you! You were gone for three years, not twenty!”
Lena wrung out the cloth with a violent twist, but her hands on his face were gentle. They were back at the keep in Master Jacomel’s work chambers. Cas perched on a table while Lena cleaned the blood and dirt from his cuts. Over by the window, Master Jacomel stirred something foul-smelling in a cup.
Cas inhaled deeply, past the pain. “They thought I would hurt her. You would have believed her too if you had been there.” A terrified woman in need of rescuing. She had played the part brilliantly.
The soldiers had been shamefaced and full of mumbled apologies. And when they learned they had allowed the prince’s near assassin to ride right past them, their mortification had been complete. Cas had almost felt sorry for them when Ventillas had ridden up to the western gates.
“I don’t blame them for stopping you. But this”—outraged, Lena took in his battered face and leather tunic, worn once, now beyond repair—“without giving you a chance to speak. What will happen to them, Master Jacomel?”
The steward tapped a spoon against the cup and set it on a plate. He headed their way, cup in hand. “Oh, I think they are already punishing themselves quite thoroughly. The other men will not let them forget, and seeing as there’s nothing broken—” He stopped, having caught the grimace Cas could not quite hide in time. “What is it?”
The pain along his ribs felt like fire. “Nothing.”
Now two sets of eyes looked at him with suspicion. Lena set the cloth aside. His tunic, ripped and torn, was subject to such close scrutiny he thought she could see right through it. “Cas, are you hurt somewhere else?”
“No.”