Page 102 of Pawn of the Cruel Princess
“I have been remiss in my investigations of this matter, leaving it in the hands of others,” Vienne continues. “I relied on people who were supposed to be keen and trustworthy. But they failed me.” She rises, setting the sword-tip against the tiles. “No longer will I leave this responsibility to incompetent fools. My investigation begins now, with the elimination of suspects.”
She nods to her personal guards, and they begin moving through the crowd—to collect suspects, I assume, for questioning.
And then—the scrape of metal on leather, swords whipping from their sheaths. The horrific squelching sound of blades punching into guts and chests. Crunch after sickening crunch.
Screams erupt through the room, but my sister’s voice carries over it all.
“Be at peace, nobles and thralls. Only the servants are being removed.”
No. No, no—Meldare—
I lurch to my feet, still unsteady from the effects of thecinnar. Ducayne rises, catching my waist, but after a night of poison, he’s not at his full strength either.
“Meldare!” I cry, but my voice is submerged in the shrieks and groans of the dying servants as they are slaughtered at my sister’s command. The smell—gods, the smell—
Ducayne is heaving great breaths, his pupils dilated. He’s been in battle. He saw his soldiers killed, all of them. This must be an even worse horror for him. He’s swaying on his feet, his gaze unfocused.
“Ducayne.” I clutch his arms. The rapidity of his breathing scares me. “Hold onto me. Don’t look.”
He shakes his head, over and over, muscles rigid, jaw clenched.
Where is Meldare? I have to find her, to protect her—
But it’s already done. Bodies, bodies everywhere, blood pooling across the fine carpets and painted tiles, blood splashed on the walls and the game tables, blood spattering the suits and gowns of the nobles, drenching the feet of their thralls.
And then I see Meldare, slumped over another servant’s body. Her eyes are sightless, and her chest gapes from the slash of a sword. Penn’s sword. He’s standing over her, wiping the blood from his blade with the hem of her skirt.
He lifts his eyes to mine, a mild regret shining in his gaze. He is a little sorry. But he is also loyal to my sister, above me.
I will kill him.
My knives, my knives—I need my knives.
I’m wearing the corset with the hidden blades, but I don’t dare draw them openly. I turn, hiding one side of my body against Ducayne, and I begin easing one of the tiny daggers out of its secret sheath. Once it’s out, I press my hand into my skirts, concealing the blade among its folds.
Gods only know what my sister has planned next. Ducayne has no weapons, and I need to protect him. I will defend this man’s life with mine. And I will look for a chance to kill Penn.
Vienne lets out a sigh of relief. “There now,” she says. “For those whose favorite servants were just disposed of, my deepest condolences. Your thralls will serve you in all ways until we can leave the palace. And now, the next phase of the inquiry.” She lifts a hand to her personal guards and they act immediately, turning their swords on some of the other guards.
“We are eliminating anyone hired locally,” says Vienne. “Your personal bodyguards will be spared.”
No one challenges her. Two of the noble women seem to have fainted—they lie in the blood while their thralls try to revive them.
My sister stalks over to the trembling Master Thranwright, and drives her sword into his gut. She wrenches it back and forth before pulling it out. As he expires with a groaning gurgle, she walks over to the healer, who stands with her head down.
“Wait.” The word bursts out of me. “We need her.”
Vienne whirls, narrowing her eyes at me.
“She’s from home, from the Royal Seat. And we need her, in case the killer is still alive. Someone might need healing.”
“I’m aware, Ruelle,” Vienne snaps. “I was not planning to end her. Keep silent.”
She passes by the healer and continues walking around the room, stopping in front of the occasional guard, thrall, or noble to peer into their faces. Her sword drips blood and bile onto her gown, onto the floor.
“Ward,” she says suddenly. “You have concoctions that can make people more prone to truth-telling, yes?”
Ward is shivering in a chair, a collection of bones and misery. He’s still wearing the pants that he soaked with his release during the drug-induced ecstasy.
