The Decoy Princess (2 page)

“Be still,” she muttered, shocking me. The fox flowed from her, and I watched, my anger dulling as it sniffed my foot. I wondered what live fur felt like but was too respectful of its teeth to reach. The old woman grunted when it curled up under the table between us. A wisp of its tail brushed my street-dirtied boots, and I froze, unwilling to move and make it leave.

Metal charms jingling, the madam stretched out a flaccid-muscled arm to light a stick of wood jammed between the slats of the wall. She blew the stick out, but it continued to smolder, sending the smell of wormwood to thicken the air. “Show me your hands,” she said.

Not liking her tone, I nevertheless set them onto the knee-high table between us. She glanced at my left—mumbling derisively that love leads to peril—then took my right, gripping it with an uncomfortable firmness. Her paper-thin skin was cool and dry, showing none of the heat coming off the bay. She was from the forest and seemed to have captured its essence in her van.

“What are you called?” she said, gumming her teeth as she leaned over my hand and pulled her candle close. Her wrinkles folded in on themselves in a vision of ugly wisdom.

“Tess,” I said, then gave her my proper name, trying not to sneeze at the fragrant smoke, “Princess Contessa of Costenopolie.”

Her bird-bright eyes flicked to mine. “Oooh, a princess are we,” she mocked, leaning to shift a curtain with a red-knuckled finger. A shaft of light fell over her worn face as she looked out across the street. The curtain dropped. “You aren’t a princess. A princess wouldn’t have one tired man looking out for her; she would have five young men with whips and swords. She would not be on foot, but have a coach to carry her. And her guardian would not be swilling ale while his charge allowed herself to be trapped in a van with a horse harnessed to it.”

I stiffened. “I told Kavenlow to sit over there,” I snapped, my ire rising. “And he’s not swilling ale; he’s drinking water. If your horse moves, it will die. If you threaten me, you will die as well. I’m Princess Contessa,” I said, surprised to find her grip tightening until I couldn’t pull away. “I walk alone because an entourage makes me a target.”

She leaned forward, her bosom pressing up to look flabby and soft with age. “Oh-h-h,” she mocked.

“You’re that Red Moon Princess, eh?”

I fought to keep a pleasant expression. The Red Moon Prophesy was not mentioned in polite company, having dogged my existence like a hungry cur since the month I’d been born.

“Yes,” she murmured, eying me as if it was a grand jest. “A child of the coast destined to rule and conceived in the month of the eaten red moon will make an alliance of the heart to set the mighty as pawns and drive out the tainted blood rising in the south.”

“So I’m told,” I said, trying not to clench my jaw.
And if I ever find out who painted that in blood
upon the doors of every royal family the year of my birth, I’ll have them flogged, keelhauled, and
spitted. Not necessarily in that order
.

She all but snickered at my bothered look, but I didn’t find anything amusing about it. Many ruling families, especially those in the southern reaches, took that to mean I was going to grow up to war on them and decided to kill me as a child. Others were willing to chance that I would marry their son and bring them glory. All I knew is the burning-hell flight of fancy had made my life burning-hell difficult. Just try finding someone nice to dance with you with that hanging over your head.

“Bah,” she said shortly, pulling my hand to her face and sending her cool breath against my palm.

“You’re going on a journey. Quite soon. You’d best prepare for it.”

My anger dulled as she fell into the expected patter. Convinced she was going to say something worth hearing, I eased the tension in my arm, and she brought it closer. “A betrothal excursion?” I prompted, wondering if there might be something other than wood ash in that smoke. And why did she have a rock and a feather on her table? “My suitor has arrived early,” I prompted.

“Do tell?” she said sourly. “Here.” She trailed a begrimed nail down a crease in my palm. “Changes not of your doing. You’ll be traveling by horse, then ship, then horse again.”

I touched my throat and took a pleased breath. “We will be going to the islands? Oh, how splendid!”

I couldn’t help my smile. I’d never been on the water, since Kavenlow had an unreasonable fear of it. I thought it dreadfully unfair. It would be wonderful to see more of the land I would eventually be responsible for, especially if my future husband were with me.

My smile turned sly, quirking the corners of my mouth. Being out of the palace would make for far more opportunities to get to know Prince Garrett better, fewer eyes to catch us “talking,” and a much better chance to make foolish, daring choices that we could laugh about when we were old and gray.

The woman had started to mumble incoherently, and thinking the performance was wonderful, I resolved to pay her extra. “What of my husband?” I asked slowly, frowning as my tongue seemed thicker than it ought to be.

“Husband?” she murmured, gazing at the rock as if it meant something.

“The man I’ll be traveling with,” I encouraged.

She looked at me, then back down, appearing to be confused. “He’s dark like you. Brown eyes, like you. Brown hair, like you as well, though he has the decency to keep it short.”

I stifled a surge of annoyance. I was a princess. I was supposed to have long hair.

“Good hands,” she was mumbling. “Skillful hands. Tell him to watch what he does with them, or they will be the death of him.”

I blinked. What kind of a fortune was that?

“He’s closed, too,” she said. “Hard to see. Here. Take this.”

She released my hand, and I shivered. Picking up the rock, she dropped it into my grip. My fingers curled about it, holding it gently as I felt its roughness against my skin. “Mmmm,” she said, her fingers brushing my palm as she took it back. “You won’t be able to understand his pride. But he will understand yours. Best I hope he’s patient.”

“Pride?” I questioned. This was the oddest fortune I had ever been told.

She grasped my hand again, and I started at her quickness. “I see—stone,” she murmured, slumping as she fell into a deeper I trance. “Marble and hay. Silk and red ribbons—”

“Gifts!” I jerked my hand from her, alarm jolting me out of the smoke-derived fog in my head. The fox at my feet yawned I and settled itself further. “Saint’s bells and incense. I forgot,” I exclaimed. “I have to find a betrothal gift. Forgive me, madam,”

I said hurriedly as I stood and swung my coin bag from my wrist to my hand. “I have to go.”

The stool I had been sitting on almost fell, and I scrabbled to catch it, flustered. She sat blinking at me, clearly struggling to shake off her interrupted magic. “Please accept this as a show of my gratitude,” I said as I set a coin clattering into the empty bowl. She was quite good. “I’d ask that you come to the palace,” I said impulsively. “I need another entertainer for my betrothal festival, and the women would enjoy speaking with you.”

The folds in the old woman’s face deepened. She took a sharp breath. Gathering her black shawl tight about her shoulders, she gave me a patronizing smile. “No.”

I froze in surprise. No one had ever refused me outright before. I was too shocked to say anything and just stood blinking in the thicker smoke at the ceiling. I felt my breathing slow and found myself unwilling to speak or move. A tap at the door echoed in my head.

“Princess Contessa?” Kavenlow’s voice filtered through the thick wood. “I have your water.” He opened the door, the heat and noise seeming to pool in with the light. The bird in the cage fluttered to be free. The fresh air revived me, and I took a cleansing breath. Kavenlow’s shadow eclipsed the light from the street. “I brought you a drink, Tess,” he said, the van shifting as he entered and handed it to me.

Taking it, I gave him a bewildered smile and tried to shake the fuzziness from my thoughts. My search for the perfect gift would have to wait. Kavenlow’s brow was furrowed worse than the time I broke the guards’ practice scaffold, swinging on it. I knew without asking he wouldn’t let me stop anywhere on the way home.

“If you want a token of love,” the old woman said, “I have it.”

Kavenlow’s face went slack and empty. He gave the gypsy a curiously anxious look from behind his beard, then slowly— reluctantly—shut the door behind him.

“You don’t understand,” I said, glancing into my cup of water. “It has to be something unique, something my suitor has never seen.”

“Something from far away,” the old woman said, waving at the still-glowing stick of incense.

“Something of value. Something small. Something you like as well?”

My eyes teared, and I tried not to breathe that foul smoke. “Yes. Exactly.”

She chuckled, lumbering to her feet and reaching for a pouch hanging from the ceiling. “I know what pretty women like,” she said, taking it down and untying the binding to show the bag was really a square of fabric as she opened it up on the table.

I leaned close: a bundle of silk woven with the likeness of seaweed, a bone knife, a pointed rod of black metal the length of my forearm, a metallic cross inlaid with red wood, a flat black stone that seemed to draw in the candlelight, a plain ring of gold, a string of tiny bells, and a palm-sized puzzle box of colorful wood. But it was the knife my eyes lingered on.

“Not money,” she said. “Give me something of yours.”

A frown pulled my brow tight. All I had with me of value was the ring Kavenlow gave me last summer and my favorite necklace with blue stones and rubies—and she wasn’t getting Kavenlow’s ring.

Bothered, I set the cup down and reached for the clasp of the necklace. But the old woman shook her head, her gaze upon the circlet atop my head. My eyebrows rose. She wanted my circlet?

I glanced at Kavenlow to gauge how this particular trade was going to go over with my parents. He was staring at the wall most helpfully, already trying to divorce himself from the coming furor when it was found I’d “lost” my crown again. But burning chu pits, I wanted that knife.

Knowing I’d pay for it later in spades, I took my circlet off and set it on the table. It was only a bit of twisted metal, worthless in my eyes. She nodded her acceptance, and I eagerly reached for the knife, pleased to no end. “Tell me about this,” I demanded, knowing the story behind it was probably more valuable than the knife itself.

Immediately she bunched the fabric up, retied the binding, and hung it from the ceiling. My circlet was inside the impromptu bag, and I felt oddly naked without it. She sighed heavily as she settled her bulk back into her chair, and it creaked in protest. “It’s from the east,” she said, apparently not minding the smoke she had stirred up. “It belonged to a young man searching for unfailing love. He became a sultan; that’s a king of the desert. He found a good use for the ring I gave him in return. The knife of a king makes a fitting gift, don’t you think?”

My fingers seemed slow as I turned it over in my hands, and I wondered if I ought to ask Kavenlow to open the door. But it seemed like too much effort. Engraved upon the knife were large beasts with noses as long as their legs and ears as big as their backs. Fanciful. It was perfect, especially with the story that went along with it. I blinked lethargically, trying to decide something. But I couldn’t remember what my last thought was…

Her hand darted out, grabbing me. I gasped, jerking away as she pricked my finger on the blade.

Shocked, I lurched to my feet. My stool crashed to the floor.

“Tess!” Kavenlow shouted. The van dipped as he put himself between the woman and me. The fox darted under the dresser. The table hit the wall as he flung it aside.

My heart pounded like the beating of the bird’s frantic wings as it tried to escape. Instinct backed me to a corner. My face went cold, and my grip tightened on the knife still in my hand. The smoke swirled through me, numbing me. I should do something; I couldn’t remember what.

“Get back, Kavenlow!” the gypsy cried shrilly as she rose. Her rough accent was gone. “If you dart me, I swear I’ll pull your insides out through your nose!”

I clasped my throbbing finger to my chest.
She knows him
? I thought, forcing the concept through my muzzy head. She knew Kavenlow?

“How am I going to explain a cut on her?” Kavenlow exclaimed. Red-faced, he stood stiffly between the gypsy and me with his hands clenched at his sides.

The large raggedy woman sneered at him, her stubby fingers sending the jewelry about her neck clattering. “That’s your problem, not mine. And you’ve made a mistake. She has no defensive reactions at all. Her thoughts revolve around men and buying things.”

Kavenlow’s shoulders were tense with anger. The smoke seemed to fill my bones. I couldn’t move. I heard my pulse slow, and I forced my eyes to remain open. “Just recognize her so we can leave,” he said tightly.

My lassitude deepened with every breath, and I wondered how I could still be standing.

Concentrating fiercely, I shifted my head to see my finger and the drop of blood there. My knees felt shaky. The gray smoke pooled in my head. “Kavenlow?” I whispered, hearing nothing.

“Pick my table up,” the gypsy woman commanded, and Kavenlow obediently righted it, replacing the candle and the shawl covering it. The rock and feather were sullenly placed in the center along with the bowl.

Grumbling in complaint, the gypsy settled herself in her chair and relit the candle from another. “Do you dream, woman-child?” she said, fixing a sharp gaze on me.

I blinked, dizzy. “How dare you address me like… that…” I whispered, my voice trailing off to nothing.

“Answer her, Tess,” Kavenlow said as he pulled me from my corner.

“You want a fortune, dearie?” the gypsy woman said in a mocking falsetto. “I can give you a fortune to make your hair turn white.” She leaned forward, running her eyes over my dusty clothes. “Tell me if you dream.”

I swallowed hard. “Yes, of course,” I said, hearing my voice as if it came from across the room. The smoke was turning my head, making my mouth work when my mind said to be quiet.