The Queen's Assassin (Queen's Secret #1) - Melissa de la Cruz Page 0,75
entrance, his arms clasped behind him, awaiting further instruction.
The vizier is draped in furs—so many furs that I become confused trying to count them. At least two of them match the fur of the heads on the wall. In fact, one of them still has a head on it. A mink, I believe. I try not to think about that. Or look at it.
He reaches up to shake Cal’s hand. I notice he wears amber rings on almost every finger. The largest one, on his left thumb, has a petrified wasp suspended in it.
I hate wasps. Once a swarm of them invaded our beehives and wiped out most of the colonies. They are predators masquerading as something they’re not—something friendly.
Cal nods his head and presents himself. “Grand Vizier,” he says. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“Lord Holton,” says the vizier, shaking Cal’s hand. “The pleasure is all mine.”
He offers his hand out to me—“This must be the lovely Lady Lila!”—and I offer mine in return, but he doesn’t shake it, he pulls me toward him and kisses me on each cheek—with sloppy, wet lips. He smells like mothballs and rose water. I try not to gag. His entire persona is overwhelming. Something about him puts all my senses on alert—and rather than just experiencing the underlying sounds and feelings around me, I get the sensation of something being drawn out of me. As if he’s inspecting me. Sizing me up. When he backs away, I have to force myself not to wipe my face. The last thing I want to do is offend him. But I don’t have to be his friend; I don’t even have to see him again. I just need to stomach him long enough to get access to the king’s courtiers.
“Imagine my surprise. We have so few visitors in Montrice,” he says. “And even fewer who’ve journeyed all the way from Argonia.” His voice is friendly, but I sense the challenge behind it. He wants to know what we’re doing here; if we’re even who we say we are.
“We’re only passing through,” I explain. “On our way to see to our grandfather’s estate in Stavin.”
“Yes. So I’ve heard. An inheritance, is it?” He gestures for us to sit. We take the chairs offered to us previously; he sits on a larger one across from us. He uses a little step to climb onto it. Once settled, he’s sitting higher than we are. He places his hands on the armrests as if trying to look regal. He stretches out his stubby fingers and begins tapping them against the wood. I get the feeling he’s trying to draw attention to his rings.
“Our grandfather’s estate.” I keep my answers short. I don’t want to encourage too much prying, or draw the conversation out any longer than it needs to be.
“Backley Hold,” Cal adds. “Have you heard of it?”
“Hmm . . . yes, yes, of course I have. In fact, I believe I attended a hunting party there in my youth. Lovely place. So sorry to hear about the elder Lord . . .” He waves his hand around in circles, as if he’s trying to conjure up the name.
“Holton,” Cal and I say at the same time.
“Lord Holton, yes. Fine fellow. It’s been quite a while since I’ve seen him, so he wouldn’t have remembered me anyway, you know. Tell me, what favor do you require?”
Both of us are taken aback by his sudden bluntness. “Favor?” I say. The footman opens the door. A maid walks in carrying a silver tray. She sets it down on the table next to the vizier, curtsies, and leaves. The footman closes the door and returns to his position.
“Yes, of course. I assume you’re here for that reason. Tea?”
We don’t respond, but he places a porcelain teacup and saucer in front of each of us anyway. Neither of us moves to pick it up. The vizier takes a sip of his, places the cup back on the saucer—it spills a little—then turns his attention back to us. He folds his hands in his lap and waits.
“No favor,” says Cal. “But perhaps an introduction.”