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Part two of The Dying of the Dark. Fun with Princess Shirin and the Assassins, who are really more like ninjas. I think this might be the end of chapter one.
The king and queen had six children.
They may as well have had five, for all the attention they paid to their youngest.
Princess Shirin had discovered at the age of nine that there was a hollow space under her parents' thrones, accessible by one of the many deserted tunnels in the cellar. Seven years later, she found it considerably more difficult to curl up inside, but it was well worth it for being able to hear the muffled talk in the throne room.
Of course, even now she didn't always understand or care about what they talked of - tax percentages, the need for maintenance in the hedge maze, what to give the Master Assassin for his retirement (poor man, losing his hand like that, they would surely find out which student had thrown the knife and punish him), who to hire to build the new dungeons.
As usual, not a thing about their youngest daughter.
Shirin dropped back into the tunnel and brushed dust off of her skirt. All of her sisters had been betrothed by the age of sixteen, but her parents weren't even entertaining the thought. Not when the ambassador from Ravell and his son were visiting, not when the prince of Jussa dropped by while circumnavigating the world.
She understood perfectly, of course. Every royal family only needed one intelligent, healthy child, and they had that in their eldest, Yavash. The girls had all been...mistakes. But at least they'd been beautiful mistakes. Shirin's hair was mouse-brown with a tendency to fluff. She freckled easily and couldn't stop chewing her nails off. She was too tall and too chubby and she couldn't walk in high heels.
Everyone said that she pulled the wizards' robes off very well, but even magic didn't make Shirin interesting. It ran in the family, however desperate her father was to stamp it out completely.
She emerged back into the hallways grey with dust, eyes watering. Now what?
Now she would try to find the little space behind the wall in the Assassins' practice room. There was a small hole in the wall that enabled her to watch them. She had only done it once, on the day she'd found it, but it was quite exciting. Injuries were apparently quite common.
~~~~~
Master Arek, the stump of his right hand encased in bandages, waved his arms for silence in the practice room. The thirty young men in training, all dressed in typical Assassins' black, stopped whatever they were doing - generally tormenting others or being tormented themselves - and looked at him respectfully.
Not even a twitch among them, he thought. Nothing to show who had thrown the knife which had cost him his hand and forced him into early retirement.
A speech was expected of him, but he was in too much pain to manage it.
"One of you did this, and I'm going to find out who," he said serenely - or, at least, as serenely as he could manage, given the desperate need for more painkillers. "Be assured that I will be watching. While I cannot teach, I will always be watching. Manoush will be taking my place - or, should I say, Master Manoush?"
Scattered applause greeted the man who stepped into the room, a surprisingly short man dressed entirely in black leather, including knee-high boots. He smiled brightly at the student Assassins. "Hello," he boomed. "I'm Manoush. Some of you might remember me - I was a student myself, until three years ago. Now, I'm going to whip you into shape. Have you seen the army lately? A bunch of pathetic farmers. We're elite! We're the best! We are the last line of defense that the king has!" Manoush kept smiling throughout the speech, but it grew even wider when he added, "And I won't tolerate any knives aimed at my extremities, either, not like good old Arek here."
Good old Arek glared at Manoush's back. "Enjoy your position," he hissed, and trotted out of the room.
Manoush looked around, eyeing the targets painted on the walls, and suddenly shouted, "Throwing disc practice for ten minutes, go!"
The room was a sudden flurry of sharp steel and black-gloved hands flicking said steel at the cork walls.
Inside one of those walls, Princess Shirin pulled back. Well, well, well. So Manoush was the new Assassin Master. The last she'd seen of him he was courting her sister Parmida, before Parmida was married off to that prince of Ravell. He'd vowed revenge on the monarchs who had taken Parmida from him and had been exiled. When had he been allowed to return?
And why were her parents chattering about hedge mazes when one of their greatest enemies was right under their noses?
The king and queen had six children.
They may as well have had five, for all the attention they paid to their youngest.
Princess Shirin had discovered at the age of nine that there was a hollow space under her parents' thrones, accessible by one of the many deserted tunnels in the cellar. Seven years later, she found it considerably more difficult to curl up inside, but it was well worth it for being able to hear the muffled talk in the throne room.
Of course, even now she didn't always understand or care about what they talked of - tax percentages, the need for maintenance in the hedge maze, what to give the Master Assassin for his retirement (poor man, losing his hand like that, they would surely find out which student had thrown the knife and punish him), who to hire to build the new dungeons.
As usual, not a thing about their youngest daughter.
Shirin dropped back into the tunnel and brushed dust off of her skirt. All of her sisters had been betrothed by the age of sixteen, but her parents weren't even entertaining the thought. Not when the ambassador from Ravell and his son were visiting, not when the prince of Jussa dropped by while circumnavigating the world.
She understood perfectly, of course. Every royal family only needed one intelligent, healthy child, and they had that in their eldest, Yavash. The girls had all been...mistakes. But at least they'd been beautiful mistakes. Shirin's hair was mouse-brown with a tendency to fluff. She freckled easily and couldn't stop chewing her nails off. She was too tall and too chubby and she couldn't walk in high heels.
Everyone said that she pulled the wizards' robes off very well, but even magic didn't make Shirin interesting. It ran in the family, however desperate her father was to stamp it out completely.
She emerged back into the hallways grey with dust, eyes watering. Now what?
Now she would try to find the little space behind the wall in the Assassins' practice room. There was a small hole in the wall that enabled her to watch them. She had only done it once, on the day she'd found it, but it was quite exciting. Injuries were apparently quite common.
~~~~~
Master Arek, the stump of his right hand encased in bandages, waved his arms for silence in the practice room. The thirty young men in training, all dressed in typical Assassins' black, stopped whatever they were doing - generally tormenting others or being tormented themselves - and looked at him respectfully.
Not even a twitch among them, he thought. Nothing to show who had thrown the knife which had cost him his hand and forced him into early retirement.
A speech was expected of him, but he was in too much pain to manage it.
"One of you did this, and I'm going to find out who," he said serenely - or, at least, as serenely as he could manage, given the desperate need for more painkillers. "Be assured that I will be watching. While I cannot teach, I will always be watching. Manoush will be taking my place - or, should I say, Master Manoush?"
Scattered applause greeted the man who stepped into the room, a surprisingly short man dressed entirely in black leather, including knee-high boots. He smiled brightly at the student Assassins. "Hello," he boomed. "I'm Manoush. Some of you might remember me - I was a student myself, until three years ago. Now, I'm going to whip you into shape. Have you seen the army lately? A bunch of pathetic farmers. We're elite! We're the best! We are the last line of defense that the king has!" Manoush kept smiling throughout the speech, but it grew even wider when he added, "And I won't tolerate any knives aimed at my extremities, either, not like good old Arek here."
Good old Arek glared at Manoush's back. "Enjoy your position," he hissed, and trotted out of the room.
Manoush looked around, eyeing the targets painted on the walls, and suddenly shouted, "Throwing disc practice for ten minutes, go!"
The room was a sudden flurry of sharp steel and black-gloved hands flicking said steel at the cork walls.
Inside one of those walls, Princess Shirin pulled back. Well, well, well. So Manoush was the new Assassin Master. The last she'd seen of him he was courting her sister Parmida, before Parmida was married off to that prince of Ravell. He'd vowed revenge on the monarchs who had taken Parmida from him and had been exiled. When had he been allowed to return?
And why were her parents chattering about hedge mazes when one of their greatest enemies was right under their noses?