The Seven Markets by David Hoffman Page A

his dark uniform. The Prince removed mask and goggles in a single motion. As he stared up at them from the floor, the assassin’s eyes met Ellie’s. For an instant, she saw a flash of recognition cross his face. And something else: fury.
    “You,” he said, his voice scarcely more than a croak.
    And then, with a scream that was equal parts rage and agony, he turned to dust before their eyes, crumbling as if aging whole centuries in the span of a single heartbeat. Cutter thumped heavily to the floor, his knee suddenly unsupported by the man or his odd armor.
    The Prince stared at the mask and goggles in his hands. It might have been the assassin’s head he’d removed and not his garments.
    “Sire?”
    “Strange evening, Cutter,” the Prince said. He dropped the mask and goggles onto the empty pile of clothes and reached to examine the man’s weapons. He picked up the blade by its bone handle, turning it over in his hand, appraising the workmanship. “Exquisite,” he said, a smile growing on the edges of his mouth.
    He picked up the pistol and shrieked in pain. The Prince fell back. The pistol clattered to the floor, its single hollow eye still searching the ballroom for a fresh target.
    “Sire!”
    The Prince panted, tucking his injured hand into the folds of his jacket. Ellie could see beads of sweat forming on his forehead. He licked his lips before speaking.
    “Iron,” he said, gasping in pain. “A child’s mistake, really. To survive the attack unscathed and then suffer so foolish an injury . . .”
    Cutter stared across the floor at the discarded weapon. It seemed to have its own gravity, its own unspoken strength. A faint steam rose from its dark skin, and the wood floor beneath it sizzled.
    “The girl. Cutter, she must—”
    “Yes, sire. I understand.” Cutter waved to two of his men, who’d been lingering nearby. “Return the Prince to the inn at once. Search his rooms thoroughly before allowing him to enter. Make sure the windows are secured, then stand guard until I arrive to relieve you. Do you understand?”
    “Yes, sir,” they said, speaking as one.
    Cutter extended a hand to help the Prince up. “Go with them, sire.”
    “Thank you, old friend.”
    Ellie thought she’d never heard her Prince sound so haggard, so frail. She watched him depart with the two guards, leaning on one for support, holding his injured hand close, taking short, unsteady steps as he went.
    Cutter turned to her. His face was grim but resolved.
    “Ellie, I need you to do something.”
    “Anything for my Prince,” she said. It occurred to her this might be the first time he’d addressed her as anything but “my lady.”
    “Yes, of course.” He indicated the pistol, the assassin’s clothing, and his blade. “You are human. The iron will not burn you. I need you to collect these items and aid me in disposing of them.”
    “It would be my honor.” Her face was alight with joy at being able to help. At being, according to the bodyguard, the only one who could.
    Working with care, afraid of triggering the weapon again, Ellie gathered the pistol and blade into the assassin’s dark uniform. There was no separation between the pants and his shirt. She was able to bind it all together with a pair of simple knots.
    “Good, good,” Cutter said. He motioned for her to follow him.
    They walked through the Market, and as they had years ago, the assembled guests and vendors parted at their approach. This time it was not from a sense of reverence or honor; it was fear. She heard whispering from the crowd as they passed. Ellie paid them no mind. She was protecting her Prince. What more could she ever do?
    “Wait here,” Cutter said, leaving her outside the entrance to their inn. He disappeared inside and was gone for several minutes. Ellie waited with a glad, patient heart. Her arms did not tire, nor did she consider for even an instant lightening her load or setting the bundle of armor and weapons down on the