The Queen's Assassin (Queen's Secret #1) - Melissa de la Cruz Page 0,34
young men don’t garner much attention at all. It occurs to me they probably believe I’m a page or errand boy, the background of their daily routine and nothing more.
After the row of shops, there is the town square, where I set up our market stand a few times a week. From there the main road forks left toward merchants’ homes and farms beyond; it forks right toward other towns in northeast Renovia. And it continues straight to the palace. The stables, along with the prison tower—a temporary holding cell for housing the accused before they go to trial—are situated on the west end of the property. That’s where I need to go.
Before stepping any closer to the castle grounds, I pause. If I go back right now, I can fix everything. My hair can be covered with a wig. I won’t miss the royal carriage that has been sent for me. It’s not too late to change my mind.
Except, it is. My decision has been made, and I know that this is what I have to do, risks and all.
I follow the ancient stone wall, once tall, now a ruin barely to my waist, that runs through the grassy field toward the stables. Once there, I linger alongside the building, collecting piles of hay. I need to look like I belong.
A couple of boys show up for work, their breath steaming puffs in the frigid morning air. One of them shoves the other, both laughing. Birds land in the grass searching for their breakfast. A mourning dove sits on a fence post; it coos back and forth with others hiding in the trees of the garden.
Shortly after, two transport guards stomp across the grounds, heavy leather boots squelching in the damp lawn. The birds scatter. The men disappear into the stable building, likely to check on the horses and the transport wagon. Stable hands will feed the animals first, then check their shoes and prepare their bridles and reins before hitching them to the wagon. Only when everything’s in order and the wagon pulls out onto the gravel path will the guards board the prisoner. He’ll take the same route through town as Caledon.
I have to time my appearance exactly right. If I approach them too soon, they may expect me to do work I don’t know how to do, or they might want to check up on my story before departing. They’re more likely to accept it if they don’t have much time to think about it.
My hands are dirty, so I smear some of the grime on my face. That will help disguise me. One of the guards shouts out to the other and my stomach feels as if it’s leapt into my throat. I take a few deep breaths. Slow, deliberate, like my aunts always tell me to when I’m upset or scared.
Once they’ve inspected the transportation, the guards return to the castle, following the winding garden path rather than cutting across the lawn. They turn left and enter a creaky back entrance that leads down into the cellar dungeons.
A whip cracks. Hooves clop. Two chestnut horses come out of the stable, dragging the wagon behind them. A stable boy pulls the wagon up on the path to pick up the prisoner, as predicted. He jumps down and walks over to the horses, strokes their backs.
Minutes later the guards reemerge, holding the prisoner between them, the Montrician spy. The guards load him into the cart—or rather, they shove him onto it.
The driver snaps the reins. “Hyah!” The cart lurches forward.
I hesitate for half a breath before running out of the garden toward the cart, yelling, “Sir! Sir!” and waving.
The cart slows and the driver scowls at me. “What is it, boy?”
“Sorry I’m late, sir,” I say, my voice raspy. I should be pretending to be out of breath from running, but the truth is that I’m simply terrified. “I’ve just received this.” I’m brandishing the forged work order.
“What’s this?” the older and heftier of the guards says.
I hold the paper up to him. I hope that he will read it from a distance since he’s in a rush.