The Queen's Secret (The Queen's Secret #2) - Melissa de la Cruz Page 0,61

has too small a fighting force, and too feeble a fighting spirit.

“Forgive me,” he says. “It’s this damp weather. We are too few here, in my opinion. Some of the apprentice assassins have traveled north with the guard, and the ones who remain—well, they’ve made little progress, I’m sorry to tell you. Without someone of your caliber here to drill them, and with all that’s been going on . . .”

“I understand,” Cal tells him. “Have Their Majesties come down to inspect the guards at all? That might be good for morale, especially for the recruits who’ve never seen them in person.”

The captain coughs again, clutching his ribs. He grimaces at Cal.

“To be truthful, I haven’t seen the king or queen at all since . . . since that day.”

“The races?”

“Yes. It’s my understanding that the king has barely left his chambers. He has no appetite for the hunt, even though it’s prime season for hares and a number of boar have been spotted in the hills.”

“Not like him,” Cal says, trying to hide his contempt for Hansen. A time of crisis in his country, and the king is hiding.

“And the queen has been confined to her chambers,” the captain continues.

“She has not been doing her usual training with a Guild member?” Cal tries not to sound too interested, or too alarmed.

“I understand that Their Majesties are hoping to, ah, begin a family. With such safety concerns at present, the Small Council wishes the queen to remain safe indoors. For health reasons.”

“I see.” Cal can barely trust himself to speak. Is Lilac already with child? Does everyone in the entire castle know the king and queen’s personal business?

“From my point of view, they’re both better where we can guard them, rather than roaming about. The portcullis is kept bolted at all hours, and we search all the people and wagons entering the castle. Most of the courtiers have been removed to their manor houses, to curtail the amount of coming and going. We have too many people in this castle with too little to do, and no ability to fight.”

Jander materializes at Cal’s elbow in his usual silent, startling way.

“You’re wanted at the Small Council,” he whispers to Cal. “It’s just the fat duke and Lord Burley.”

The chamber in which the Small Council meets feels blazing hot after the damp cold of the yard. Jander is right: Only the Duke of Auvigne and Lord Burley are present. The room smells of dog, though, so perhaps Hansen has already paid them a visit.

It’s not until Cal draws up a seat to the table that he realizes how much he was hoping to see Lilac here, and how rotten with disappointment he feels when she isn’t present.

“Their Majesties are well?” he asks, and the duke makes a face, as though the health of the monarchs is irrelevant.

“No doubt you’ve heard about our . . . unfortunate incidents,” Lord Burley says, dabbing at his plump cheeks with a lavender-scented handkerchief. “A priest killed in the most puzzling way. And the business with the horse. I don’t know. A terrible business.”

“Trust you to have missed all this, Holt,” grumbles the duke. “Gallivanting around the cesspits of Renovia while we’re beset with terror!”

“You sent me there, sir.” Cal bows his head.

“Be that as it may.” The duke scowls at him. “You’re back now, and you might as well make yourself useful. I don’t suppose you found the Deian Scrolls or anything important?”

“No, sir. But we did engage with Aphrasians, we believe, at Baer Abbey. There’s no doubt they are present there. At the very least, their dark magic is in evidence.”

“And the palace in Serrone, burned to the ground!” Lord Burley exclaims. “Could you not have stopped that?”

“We were at the abbey at the time.”

“Always in the wrong place at the wrong time,” says the duke. “Not a good thing for a Chief Assassin. Why seek black magic in a distant mine when we have more than enough here in Montrice? Half the guard are in the northern lands, dealing with whatever dark deeds are occurring there. Meanwhile, here in the capital we tremble for our lives. The incident at the races reveals that even our own royal family are not immune from these magical impertinences.”

“Again, sir, I traveled to Renovia on your orders.”

“Yes, well, it all looks quite suspicious.”

“May I ask, sir, of the Chief Scribe? Is he well?”

“Poor Daffran,” laments Lord Burley. “He is an invalid at present. He has not even the