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  Beneath the Veil

  Megan Hart

  Chaos Edition.

  Copyright 2011 Megan Hart

  Chaos Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Chapter One

  War is not a woman's game. And yet, to save their children and those they love, they will play it. Men might plan and scheme and strategize, but those are skills they must learn. In women they are instinctive, inherent...and inexorable.

  I wasn't thinking of war the day I became Daelyn Avigdor's fetchencarry. I was thinking of my cramping belly and aching head. I passed off the illness as too much green joba melon for dinner the night before, but when my symptoms grew worse instead of better, I knew my gut wasn't protesting my overindulgence. Before the sun had climbed halfway across the sky I felt sick enough to face my uncle's wrath and close the joba stand early.

  I'd just put my hand to the ropes that would lower the stand's curtains when Prince Regent Daelyn Avigdor and his friends entered the marketplace. I froze, staring. They stole my breath with their fine-cut silks and feathers and lace, their gleaming swords and flowing, unbound hair.

  I'd seen them before, the fine young lords. They came often to the marketplace to buy luxuries I couldn't afford. They were everything I dreamed of being. They were rich, they were beautiful, they were strong and privileged and joyful...but most importantly, they were men.

  At the age of ten and eight, my hair flowed to my waist just like a man's. My arms and legs were muscled like a man's from lifting and sorting the dense joba melon and carrying crates and packages. I pissed standing up like a man, I worked like a man, I wore a man's clothes. But I wasn't a man, merely a girlchild playing a dangerous game I hadn't chosen for myself.

  My mother wasn't the first desperate woman to raise a daughter as a son. She'd taught me to bind my breasts and take care of my monthly flow, but she'd also dressed me in boy's clothes, given me a lad's name, and kept my hair long. I'd seen enough public floggings to know the price we'd both pay if I were discovered.

  I would never be a man, but if I could be, I wanted to be one like Prince Daelyn. Slight, but with a height created by vast, platformed shoes rather than length of leg, he carried himself without faltering even when a toe encountered a rolling pebble or an uneven patch of ground. His circlet, engraved but without other ornamentation, held tightly bound braids the color of sunset, orange and amber and shimmering gold, on the sides of his head while the rest of his hair fell in loose waves to brush his upper thighs. He wore a doublet of brilliant blue, with a loose white undershirt beneath creating the effect of a summer sky strewn with clouds. His wore breeches of tight sateen in the same blue, gartered at the knee and extravagantly padded in the codpiece, sheer white stockings with a seam down the back of his calf, and shoes to match. He carried a pair of simple white gloves in one hand, and in the other, a carved wooden walking stick topped with a glittering globe the size of my fist.

  I was heartsick with adoration.

  As he passed, laughing, I cast my eyes down at the lines of joba melon piled on the counter. I tidied the smooth purple globes with shaking hands, suddenly aware the pain in my gut had grown much worse. I pressed my fingers against my stomach, uncertain if I was going to vomit or faint. My head spun. The place between my legs, the place I tried to ignore as best I could, ached so sharply I shifted my legs to try and relieve it.

  "Here, lad. How much for one of those jobas?"

  The man speaking to me had been standing by Prince Daelyn's side only moments before. Now he stared at me with narrowed dark eyes. His ebony hair had been braided tightly back from his head into a thick cable that fell over one shoulder. His tunic of deep midnight blue carried the Prince Regent's crest, but I didn't need to see the gold-embroidered emblem to know him.

  Lord Lir Akean.The Prince Regent's Fight Master. I'd watched him many times when he visited the marketplace, envying him his skill and his closeness to our beautiful prince. He cocked his head to stare at me, and I looked away.

  "An arro apiece, my lord. Unless of course, the prince would like his friends to enjoy them for free."

  "No, lad, I'll take three and pay the price. Are they ripe?"

  My throat convulsed at the thought of last night's meal. "These are, aye."

  He bent closer, and the breeze carried the scent of him to me. "You look a mite pale. Are you all right?"

  "Fine. Take your pick." I waved a hand at the pile.

  "Those things again? Don't you ever tire of that fruit?" Prince Daelyn had left his group watching a man make a monki dance on the end of a rope. Even with his high shoes on, he only came to Akean's chin. The prince put a possessive hand on Akean's shoulder and nudged him with his hip. "Two more for me, laddie."

  I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. As I passed the fruit to the prince, his fingers brushed mine. I looked up involuntarily, and his gaze snared me like a rabbit in a trap.

  "Well, well." His lush mouth curved into a grin as he tilted his head to stare me up and down. "I see why you stopped here, Lir."

  Heat burned my cheeks, and I couldn't meet his gaze. They laughed, and the sound sent another rush of fire to my face. I waited miserably until they'd left my stand before I dared look up to stare after them.

  A movement from the corner of my eye caught my attention. A hand slipped under the stand's side wall and grabbed at the box of cash I'd taken in that day.

  Fruit I could stand to lose, but not the coin. "Stop, thief!"

  The hand, clutching its clinking prize, withdrew and a figure took off into the crowd. Without thinking, I jumped over the counter and ran after it. I'd been distracted by the prince and his handsome friend, but that excuse would earn me a pair of boxed ears and worse unless I could catch the culprit and get the money back.

  I jumped a pile of baskets heaped with cloth and ribbon, darted around the man with the monki, and grabbed at the back of the thief's cloak. It tore in my fingers, the material ragged and full of holes. I grabbed again, determined, and yanked the thief backward.

  The man turned, fist full of coins. His pale eyes darted back and forth, set deep in purpled sockets above pink-spotted cheeks. I recognized his lank hair, his chalky complexion. An addict, stealing to pay for the oblivion his body could no longer live without.

  For a moment, pity nearly made me let him go. Then I thought of my uncle's fists, and how he'd not hesitate to use them on me if he discovered I hadn't tried to get back his profits. Worse, how he'd take out his rage on my mother. I jumped toward the man.

  "Drop it."

  His lip curled, revealing stained and rotting teeth and assumed a fighting stance. My heart sank, just a little. Addict he might be, but clearly a trained fighter. I wasn't.

  I gave it my best effort, anyway, and managed to get in the first hit. The man, more than a head taller than I and much heavier, didn't even rock with the blow. With a quick jab, a one-two punch, he got my gut and my chin. I fell backward but was able to keep my feet.

  A crowd had gathered to watch us, but I couldn't care. That he'd stolen but a few arros only didn't matter. My uncle would have my hide for the loss of a single coin, much less three or four. We came together again, but he fought without rules and with an addict's lack of concern for pain. His foot caught my side, and I stumbled again. I forced myself upright and swung. I missed.

  "Sinder's Balls," the thief muttered, his gaze caught by so