A Guide To Murdering A Prince

Rose

The dress had been the work of the finest designers in the country. Red roses bobbed in the mauve silk stream of her hemline. Across the gown’s low bustle and long tulle train, miniature fields of star-like diamonds unfurled in the candlelight. The design had been seamless. As well it should have been, given the steep price. A timid knock sounded on the door. It was the dressing lady and her maid-workers sent, to turn Rose into a presentable woman. Although she was clad in what would probably be the finest ball gown that existed, she had a case of bed hair and shadowed eyes. There was less than an hour left for the ball. The lady who was known as Belle might have guessed what Rose was thinking and said confidently, “Don’t you fret, mademoiselle. My helpers and I will make you a little beauty in no time” The maids crimped and curled her hair, polished her neck and arms with balsam salve, painted her lips red and tightened her dress to a stage where Rose’s cheeks appeared as blushed.

“You are to die for. Your presence will demand the attention of all the men in the ball. Remember, chin up, spine erect” Belle said, admiring her work.

Rose already knew all of that from the many years she had trained as a spy under the regime. This gown although priceless was yet another disguise. Rose was not the one destined to wear the gown. Everyone thought she was Lady Buffella, duchess of Sussex. Everyone was oblivious to the fact that their honourable lady was currently in Hotel La Damilla. Citra, the espionage regime’s most ruthless spy was with Buffella. From what she knew about Citra, she mused that the duchess was probably sleeping with a knife pressed to her neck.

“Thanks, I love it,” Rose said, trying to fathom feminine pleasure.

Belle dipped into an elaborate curtsy and left Rose to her own.

The gown was long enough to obscure her combat boots. In the left boot was a bottle of cyanide, and in the right were her six daggers. She collectively called them ‘bijou’ for, to her, espionage was incomplete without them. On her finger was a ring, a twist of dark thorns. It had a jewelled centre that could record anything she wanted it to and transmit to anyone who had a similar one in their possession. Lastly, she adorned her hair with sharp hairpins. In case she needed to take someone’s eye out. She stepped out of her suite, hoping everything would go her way. Her way, meant killing a few people and leaving others mangled. 

David

David straightened the waiter’s uniform that Rose had artfully stolen for him. Among all the spies from the Regime, Rose was best at stealing things.

On the frescoed ceiling of the ballroom, dead gods stared at him. The orchestra had just begun to play a symphony, and people positioned themselves in a circle to dance, with Prince Tarisai in the centre. The prince was the regime’s target this time. The regime was not a prestigious espionage conglomeration. In fact, few people knew about it. Basically, their target was to kill off rich aristocratic brats after spying on them on occasions such as these. 

Just as the symphony ended, David offered Tarisai a glass of champagne. Tarisai nonchalantly accepted it, obviously unaware of the fact that it wasn’t regular champagne. Out of the corner of his eye, David could see Rose approaching him. She looked beautiful, not that he would admit that to her.

“You’re a minute late,” David said.

Rose rolled her eyes but it was clear that she was hiding a smile.

“Care to have a glass? I just offered the prince one, except, he had a touch of cyanide. I rigged the cyanide to work its magic in twenty minutes” David said, a smug smile on his face.

“You realise we aren’t supposed to kill him right? That’s Citra’s job”

“Relax, I added in healing therapeutics, which will make sure he regains consciousness. All he will have is a splitting headache from drinking all that champagne” David was a mediocre spy but when it came to poisons and chemicals, his level of expertise could not be rivalled.

David almost smirked at Rose’s countenance. She was cute when irritated.

“Tarisai will pass out just when the bell for the eleventh hour strikes. That’s when we make our move. You know what to do”

The orchestra switched from the zestful to a melancholy tune, perfect for the events about to take place.

Rose

David was right. The cyanide “worked its magic” in exactly twenty minutes. The prince dropped unconscious to the floor but surprisingly no one except his guards noticed it. Rose supposed it was better this way.

Rose was an exemplary spy. The heels on her combat boots made no clinking-clanking sound even on the polished marble. It appeared as if they were taking Tarisai to his private chambers. Not surprising. One bodyguard had the prince drooped over his shoulder while the other was just there was defence. Rose’s job was to assassinate his private bodyguards so that Citra could be admitted as one. Tradition stated that princes could choose their own guards. He would definitely choose Citra. He had taken a liking to her at the ball where they had assassinated Duchess Buffella’s husband. Tarisai had actually asked to dance with her thrice.

Rose had already taken out her favourite of the six knives. She wouldn’t be needing any more than that. She pressed the jewel on the ring so that it would record whatever happened next. Just as Tarisai had been put on his four-poster bed, Rose laid her attack. She could have stalled, could have engaged in conversation or pretended to be a concerned relative, but, she didn’t. She had read somewhere that murder became easier with each kill. This just proved it true. She felt a craving to kill in her mind, a creeping sort of hunger in her fingertips. Her attack was sudden, spontaneous. She slashed the throat of one of the bodyguards while he was still facing the prince. It was her most gruesome attack yet.

The other bodyguard retaliated, almost disarming her with his sword. Rose kicked his face with the heel of her boot, smashing his nose to pieces. This just caused him to strike back more savagely. But he was no match for Rose. She flipped in the air, hung on the glass chandelier for a second, and then landed on the windowsill. The glass shards of the fragile chandelier obviously fell on the poor guard and killed him. Her hairpins hadn’t been needed to gouge his eye out. The chandelier shards had done the job very well.

She stood on the windowsill for another second.

Then, she jumped.

Rose had done her job, now it was up to Citra to do hers.

Citra

Citra kissed Tarisai, soft and gentle until he opened his mouth beneath hers and let their lips entangle. The kiss felt cold, almost as if they were being pierced with frigid daggers. The scent of strawberries drifted through the air, beholding a kind of beguiling sweetness. They stood there till their bodies went limp, and their lips felt numb.

The rose adorning Citra’s hair had slipped unnoticed to the ground. The prince bent to pick it up. He clasped it in his hands with such delicacy and perched in a proposal stance. With one knee on the floor and eyes looking longingly at Citra, he handed her the flower. Their fingers brushed lightly as Citra accepted it. Tarisai lived for the way her eyes would glint with starlight, her heavenly smile that could will the moon shine brighter. It was all so romantic, just like Romeo and Juliet.

Citra pulled Tarisai close to her once again. They waltzed in the moonlit hallway like a couple. Together they dipped into the most complicated of waltzing postures, the tilt. She performed a series of elegant ballet turns, noiselessly, her heels making no sound on the marble. Tarisai waited for her to fall into his arms like she did every night. But this time, instead of his Juliet, a knife plunged into him. He never saw the blade, only felt the consequence of it. It was as if a brewing storm of excruciating pain had been unleashed on him. Shock rumbled like thunder and finally, the realisation that Citra had thrust a knife into his throat flickered like lightning.

His eyes which had been shut in agony, opened wide. In front of him, Citra stood with her chin up, her hands gripping the dagger stained in his blood. The severity of her gaze was what caused his heart to come to a screeching stop.