Page 98 of Pawn of the Cruel Princess
“So either they were washed away by a flood, or they decided taking their chances with the weather was better than reporting back to this death-trap.”
Grimacing, Meldare nods.
“You’re sleeping in a little room down the hall, beside the guards’ room, yes?” says Ruelle. “Stay there with the door locked unless I call for you. Ducayne and I will remain in here, with my bodyguards outside, until all this is sorted out.”
“I suppose the orgy continued without us?” I say cheerfully. “How sad.”
Meldare gives me a faint smile. “It did continue, yes. I’ve heard some hard things about it from the other servants. That poor girl Nonni.”
She doesn’t volunteer any further information, and neither Ruelle nor I press for details. Knowing Bazra’s perverse taste in pleasure, the story Meldare heard can’t be anything good.
When the maid leaves, Ruelle turns back to me. “You are forbidden from dying, thrall. Do you understand?”
“I’ll do my best to avoid it.”
She rises abruptly, pacing the room. “This is madness. So many dead, and not a single solid clue as to the perpetrator! Just suspicions and questions.”
“After what Cowen said to me, I thought it might be him, but now—” I sigh. “Ward, maybe?”
“Maybe. But why would he kill his own brother?” Ruelle chews her lip. “My sister isn’t doing a thorough investigation. She’s leaving it all in the hands of Master Thranwright, who is either incompetent or in league with the killer.” She paces again, then whirls on me. “Are you feeling well enough to be left alone for a bit?”
“I am, but—”
“I should go to Ward. Express my condolences for his brother and feel him out about the murders. Maybe Ward wanted Cowen out of the way so he could be the sole heir to what little his family has, or to simplify the making of a match between him and me. And even if he is innocent, even if Cowen’s death was an accident—I should go speak to Ward because he was kind to me. That is what people do, isn’t it—express condolences after a friend has suffered a loss?”
I try not to smile because she might think I’m mocking her, when in reality I am simply charmed by her energy, her spirit. She is adorable and terrible at the same time. Irresistible.
“Take your knives, and a bodyguard,” I tell her. “And be careful.”
31
I’m not the comforting type, so I’m not sure what I’ll say to Ward when I find him. What does one say to a man whose brother saturated himself with mind-addling substances and then keeled over into a fireplace?
I’m sorry your brother was such a fool. He had a nice dick. Altered, I’m told. Any idea who changed it for him? No? Did you kill him? Ah good. I was afraid you might have. Well… may he rest in Arawn’s arms.
None of that is appropriate. Except maybe the last sentence.
I’d rather be strapped to a torture table and given a hundred tiny cuts than do this thing. But as the Second Princess, a friend of Ward’s, and possibly his future match, I need to make an appearance and express my condolences. And perhaps also accuse him of murder so I can gauge his reaction. If only I could lay him out on a table and apply just a little bit of delicate pain! The answers would come so easily then.
I take Penn with me as an escort, leaving my other bodyguard to watch over Ducayne while he recovers. Ducayne had a difficult time last night. For a few hours I was afraid I’d given him too much of the poison. But when Ward and I spoke about poisons on the beach, he was very specific about lethal amounts versus debilitating doses; and I followed his instructions to the letter when I tampered with the tea. Not a lethal dose, but enough to make my thrall violently ill.
Perhaps it was cruel of me to put Ducayne through that agony. His interlude with Cowen probably would have taken less time and been less painful than his recovery from the poison. But I couldn’t bear the thought of giving up his gorgeous body to be used by someone else.
He would have gone through with the tryst, for me, but he didn’t want to do it. And since I was too proud to go back on my tentative agreement with Cowen, this was the only way. A fake assassination attempt, to gain me sympathy and banish any lingering suspicion, and to keep my thrall out of Cowen’s bed.
Ducayne made it through the effects of the poison. And now Cowen is dead, so there is no bargain to fulfill.
After inquiring among the servants, I’m told that Ward is in his chambers, near the end of a long second-floor hallway. When we finally locate the suite, I’m surprised to see that there is no guard outside, and no servants to be seen.
“Wait out here,” I murmur to Penn, and he nods, taking up a post beside the door.
I knock sharply.
Within seconds, the door opens, and Ward’s hollowed face and swollen pink eyes peer out. “Your Highness,” he whispers. “Come in.”
Cautiously I step into his room, placing a hand against my side so I can feel the comforting stiffness of my corset and its hidden knives.
Ward’s suite is thick with smoke, a haze through which the fireplace is a barely-discernible glow. He coughs, stumbles against a chair, and nearly collapses on the rug.
