“We will ambush his coach.” This was Julian again. “Between here and Largotia. We could assassinate him quietly …”
The knife in Magdala’s hand stilled on the whetstone, her ears straining.
Has Julian lost his mind?
“Not yet,” her father said. “Not today. Our time will come.”
The cottage was a steaming kettle. Magdala lay on her back on the bed and draped her arm over her face. Her hopes that the night would slip by without a riot died.
Another knock sounded on the front door, and feet pattered, everyone scrambling for a hiding place. Magdala got up, slammed her door, and latched it before they spilled into her room like children playing hide-and-seek.
“Huxley,” her father greeted from downstairs.
Magdala let out a long sigh.
“Have you finally come to join the cause?” Seamus asked.
“I’m afraid not.”
“You would be a valuable asset.”
“Yes,” Huxley said with a condescending laugh, “but I’m not ready to commit regicide yet, thank you. No, I’ve come to collect your daughter and my brother for riot duty.”
Magdala descended the stairs, tripping over a man and a woman huddled against the wall. She greeted Huxley witha curt nod and started for the door, eager to get out of the house.
“Don’t take a stray shotfire pellet for the interloper,” Seamus called after her.
“I have to do my job, Da.”
“I know, I know.” He screwed his eyes shut. “But remember that this kingdom would be better off without Asherton Ageric in it, but my life would be nothing without you.”
Magdala softened. “I’ll be careful.”
“And if you can discreetly step aside and allow someone to remove the blight to the kingdom …”
Magdala walked out into the night, her father’s voice ringing in her ears.
Chapter 2
Magdala flew toward the palace, teetering just above the trees on her father’s weary old dragon. Below her, the street choked on sweaty villagers. They surged, torches aloft, along the main road and reminded Magdala of a long glowworm stretching from Owlbright all the way to Largotia.
Beside her, on the sleek red dragon gifted to him by his fiancée, Julian was unusually quiet, his body rigid as a scarecrow.
They landed near the guardhouse, just inside the palace walls. Magdala had never seen the place so chaotic. Servants, guards, courtiers, and ladies-in-waiting scuttled across the gravel courtyard, pale-faced, brows shining with perspiration.
Inside, the guardhouse was a blur of black uniforms and bravado. Magdala wrinkled her nose at a pair of men checking their shotfire chambers while announcing loudly to each other, like performers on a stage, how much weight they lifted during their morning exercises.
Huxley had flown ahead, and Magdala glimpsed him pushing through the crowd toward her and Julian.He leveled his cold eyes on his brother. If Julian’s eyes were blue flames, Huxley’s were glaciers.
“We’re lining the street so the prince’s coach can pass safely through the city,” Huxley said. “I’m up for promotion next year, so I expect that line to hold, Julian. I want it to hold.”
“How violent do you think the people will become?” Magdala asked. Her blood was rising, her skin prickling with excitement. Beside her, Julian was pale as a ghost.
“Very violent. Did you hear me, Julian?” Huxley repeated. “No royalist antics tonight. Do your job. Keep your head screwed on straight. I won’t lose my chance at promotion because of you and your superstitions.”
With a sullen nod, Julian plunged into the press of bodies, heading for the weapon’s closet.
“Rubber pellets!” Huxley shouted after him. “I won’t have you murdering some baker because you’re too absent-minded to load your shotfire properly!”
