Dawn Cook - The Decoy Princess

ACE BOOKS, NEW YORK

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To my parents, who sort of gave me the idea…

I’d like to thank my editor at Ace fantasy, Anne Sowards, who helped make this a better story, and

my agent, Richard Curtis, for without his efforts, there’d be no story at all.

One

It might have been chance that kept my attention tight across the street and upon the mud-splattered

gypsy van, but I doubted it. Nebulous coincidences like chance aren’t allowed sway in my life, everything

being planned to the moment if I didn’t arrange for spontaneity. No… it was probably my thirst for

something outside my ken, my wish to see what lay around the corner just outside my sight and

understanding. Either that, or I was bored out of my mind.

“Look, Kavenlow,” I said, squinting in the sun at the gaily painted gypsy van. “A palmist. Here.” I

dumped my latest purchase of fabric into his arms. “I want my fortune told.”

“Tess.” The man lurched to keep up with me as I started forward. “We should get back. It’s not safe

for you to be out this long.”

“Oh, may God save you,” I complained. “It’s not even noon yet. I’m safer here than in my own

rooms.” Whether fortunate or unfortunate, it was true, and I confidently made my way across the busy

street, a way parting itself for me as I cut across the narrow avenue for the wood-slatted, horse-drawn

van parked in the shade of the closely packed buildings.

There was a huff of exasperation as Chancellor Kavenlow hastened to catch up, and I slowed. I gave

the thickset man a surreptitious look to gauge his irritation as he came even. His lightly wrinkled face was

taut, his cheeks red from the sun’s heat. The fingers gripping my packages were strong from reining in

unruly horses, their tips stained from the ink I had spilled during my history lesson yesterday. His neatly

trimmed black beard and hair were grizzled with white, as were his thick eyebrows. But his jaw yet

carried the firm sensibility I relied upon. He was still my dear Kavenlow, the one to whom I went first

with my questions and last with my complaints.

Right now, his brow was creased in bother. I winced, thinking I’d reached the balance where my

parents’ anger at him for letting me stay out this long outweighed the scene I would make if he bodily

dragged me shrieking back behind stone walls. It hadn’t happened since I was thirteen, but the

remembered humiliation still brought a warmth to my cheeks.

It had been cold when we started out, and he looked uncomfortable under his cloak; he had been

carrying mine most of the morning. His boots were dusty, as was the bottom half of my dress, the street

having turned the lace-strewn white cloth a begrimed yellow from my knees down. Seeing him so irate, I

resolved to stop at a winery on the way home to bribe him into a better mood. If the truth be told, the

black leather jerkin and dagger on his belt made him look more like a master horseman than a keeper of

books and armed attendant.

“Tess,” he said, his blue gray eyes pinched as he eased into the slower pace. “I strongly suggest we

go back. Your suitor has arrived early.” He glanced behind us as he shifted my packages to his other

arm, squinting from the sun despite his leather cap. “And he’s brought so many soldiers. Twice as many

as he needs. They’re thick in our streets.”

I forced my expression into a carefree smile. I’d noticed that as well, but since there was nothing I

could do but watch and wait, I hadn’t said anything. And I knew Kavenlow was more aware of the

situation than he was of the fly currently trying to land on his nose. “He probably heard what happened to

Prince Rupert,” I said, thinking I could be safely married by now if the dunderhead hadn’t gotten himself

killed a day’s ride inside our borders last year. Just as well. The man had a nose like a potato. “I don’t

think we’ll ever live that one down,” I added, pulling up short to allow a wagon whose driver didn’t

recognize me in time to rattle past.

Kavenlow looked pained as he took my elbow. “The point I’m making is that it’s a mistake to risk

meeting him prematurely in the streets.”

“Of course I want to meet him prematurely,” I said. “I won’t see him for three weeks if my parents

get their way.” Eyebrow cocked in a rather saucy expression, I pulled out of his grip and made my

sedate way to the gypsy van. “I won’t be long,” I said over my shoulder. “While I’m with the madam,

you can get a drink from the tavern across the street. And I need a rest,” I lied. “This heat is doing

terrible things to my hair.”

I fussed with the pile atop my head that I’d made of my waist-length curls. Apart from a few strands

artfully pulled out for effect, the neat topknot was held together by not only hairpins but also needlelike

darts. They were made from the bone of a bird and were hollow to hold a drop of venom. The short

blowtube to launch them bisected the arrangement like a decoration. Kavenlow insisted I have them

when out of the palace, though I’d never had to use them.

Kavenlow watched me check the position of my darts, his craggy face carefully neutral. I had been

wearing them for the last seven years. Assassins plagued my mother’s house. My first few years had

been fraught with near misses, prompting my parents to give in to Kavenlow’s insistence that he be

allowed to teach me how to defend myself should I ever become separated from my guards. Hence the

bullwhip I wore as a belt under a silk wrap and the throwing knife strapped to my thigh. Heaven help me

if I ever needed it—I’d have to lift my skirts to reach it. The darts, though, were Kavenlow’s and my

secret. One sent a person either comatose or into convulsions; two brought death. The weaponry was

very unprincess-like, but then, I was supposed to shatter the world if that damned prophesy could be

believed.

The attempts on my life had slackened off after my tenth year when my parents began searching for

suitors, but now that I was in danger of actually marrying someone, they had started up again. This time

the assassins had switched from me to anyone I had shown a liking to. It made for very nervous suitors. I

couldn’t blame Prince Garrett for bringing so many men.

My eyes rose to search out the unfamiliar black and green uniforms of the Misdev prince as I rose up

onto the first step of the van. I wondered if Garrett was as young and handsome as his portraits made

him. If they were anywhere truthful, I wouldn’t complain. “Besides,” I added, my gaze dropping to

Kavenlow’s as a thrill of anticipation flashed through me, “I want to know what Prince Garrett is like.”

“Then let’s go back to the palace, and you can ask the maids.” Kavenlow’s sea gray eyes were

weary with a repressed exasperation. But the tiny scar above his eyebrow wasn’t red yet, so I knew I

had some leeway.

“The maids! They won’t know anything except what color his stockings are.” Giving him a wicked

smile to dare him to stop me, I climbed the last two steps and knocked dead center of the red circle on

the door. A flash of expectancy struck through me and settled to a steady burn as a tremulous greeting

came from inside.

I’d been waiting what seemed like half my life for a husband. And by all that was holy, it wasn’t fair to

procrastinate into my third decade, shaky political situation or not. Papers had been signed, and now that

I was mere days from meeting my intended, I was nervous. Gypsies were well-traveled. The madam

might be able to tell me things about Prince Garrett my parents couldn’t— or wouldn’t.

I reached for the simple latch, hesitating when Kavenlow grasped my sleeve. I looked down,

astonished not that he had touched me but at his troubled expression. The gypsy van had to be safe; he

wouldn’t have let me come down this street if he hadn’t investigated it already. “I’m coming in with you,”

he said, worry tightening the corners of his eyes.

My lips parted in surprise. Kavenlow hated gypsies almost as much as he hated the ocean, always

turning overly protective when I invited them to the palace to entertain. “It’s just a foolish woman’s

fancy,” I said, mystified that my harmless entertainment had him concerned. “Go have a drink. I’ll be fine.

Perhaps you could get me one as well?”

He made a small sigh of surrender. “Very well, little miss,” he said, and I smiled. He hadn’t called me

that in years. He hesitated before leaving, looking up as if fixing me into his memory. His thick,

salt-and-pepper eyebrows bunched, but it was the glint of apprehension in his solemn eyes that made my

stomach clench. Something was wrong.

“What is it?” I asked, my gaze roving over the noisy crowd as I came down the stair, my instincts

flashing into a wary caution at the tension he was trying to hide.

“It’s nothing. Go on. I’ll wait across the street.”

Still unsure, I watched as he turned away and, with slow steps, crossed the street to sit at an outside

table in the sun. I slowly mounted the stairs again, taking a long, appraising look at the street. I wasn’t

convinced all was as it should be anymore.

A puff of exasperation escaped me when I spotted the blue and gold of my father’s soldiers tucked

into the shadows. They were like rats; see one, know a dozen more were out of sight. Upon seeing my

attention on him, the guard waved merrily. My nose wrinkled in bother, and I gave him a sour,

pinky-wave back. They knew I hated them shadowing me when I was out of the palace, but I could

ignore them if they remained hidden.

Kavenlow had settled himself, watching everything with his hands free and his eyes roving. Still not

comfortable, I accepted the call through the door to come in. A chill enveloped me as I opened the door

and stepped into the van’s darkness. Immediately I moved from the opening to let my eyes adjust to the

light of two candles. It was quieter than it ought to be, the noise from the surrounding market dulled. A

forest bird fluttered against the bars of its cage. Vermillion curtains and drapes hung from the ceiling to

insulate against the heat and noise. A red rug spread dusty and worn, the tassels tattered.

“Close the door,” the madam whispered, and my attention jerked to a corner. She was in red, the

gaudy color and her chains of jewelry blending into the bloodred background draped around her. There

was a fox on her lap, and her swollen fingers gentling the animal and the tips of her stringy gray hair

swinging were her only motion. I eased the door shut to seal myself in the ash-scented dark.

“Sit, girl,” the heavy woman said, her ugly voice rasping.

My eyebrow rose, but I accepted the slur in the spirit of the moment, feeling her magic gave her more

latitude than most. On a small table between us sat a lit candle, an empty dish, a jagged rock, and a

feather. I eased myself onto the folding stool across from her. “You wish your fortune?” she said, her

harsh accent pulling my eyes to hers.

I nodded, pausing at the creased, leathery look of her face. “Yes. I’m soon to be—”

“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 Costenopo-lie.”

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 j 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.

Dawn Cook - The Decoy Princess

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