King's Blood

by Jill Williamson

  “What is the meaning of this interruption?” Sâr Janek asked, maintaining his compromised position. “You have no right to enter my cabin without permission.” His tone was authoritative and crisp, but the corner of his mouth quirked into a smile.

  Kal strode across the small room, grabbed Janek’s warrior tails, and dragged him off the longchair.

  “Kal, don’t!” Amala yelled.

  Kal punched him. Janek staggered back against wall, and when he got his balance, he grinned.

  Before Kal could make sense of that smile, Janek’s guards were wrestling him to the floor. Kal did not fight them. He cared only for Amala’s safety.

  “Take her back to the queen’s cabin,” he yelled to Novan. “Keep her away from Sâr Janek!”

  The young man jumped to obey. He took hold of Amala’s arm. When she resisted, he picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder. She screamed and kicked her heels and pounded her fists against Novan’s back as he carried her out the door.

  At least she was safe.

  Kal, however, was not.

  “We must teach this man a lesson,” Janek told his guards, looking down on Kal as he circled him. “One does not barge into a sâr of Armania’s cabin uninvited, strike him, and abduct his company.”

  “I have every right,” Kal said. “She was unchaperoned. Not even of age! I will do what I must to safeguard the honor of my ward.”

  “That sounds like a threat, Sir Kalenek. You should really be more careful. Guards, show Sir Kalenek how I treat threats against me.”

  Two of the guards held Kal while the third used him as a pell. The violence took Kal back to the war, and he did all he could to escape. When he failed and understood that he had been beaten, he pretended to pass out, knowing it was not so easy to hold an unconscious man upright.

  “Enough,” Janek said. “I tire of watching this abuse. Take him to the hold to finish your work.”

  On that order the guards hauled Kal away.

  Kal slumped against the walls of his cell, eyes closed. Everything hurt, including a sharp pain in his nose. One of the guards had likely broken it on purpose. Normally such a disfigurement was a humiliation, but on a man whose face had been scarred long ago . . . effort wasted. No one would likely even notice a broken nose or a blackened eye on Kalenek Veroth.

  “You attacked my brother?”

  Wilek’s voice startled him. Kal rose, and one short step brought him to the door. He looked through the fist-sized hole in the top and met Wilek’s eye, seeing the disappointment there, the fatigue.

  “Forgive me for causing you strife, Your Highness, but I did what I had to. If I am to be executed, please move Amala to the Rafayah with Mielle and don’t tell Sâr Janek where they’ve gone.”

  “You are not going to die, Kal, but to ease your worry I will ask Rayim to assign both girls personal guards immediately.”

  Relief eased the throbbing in Kal’s nose. “Thank you.”

  “Do not thank me yet. There are protocols to deal with when someone attacks a sâr, and I have not yet determined how to protect you.”

  “Had I waited on protocol, Amala would be ruined.”

  “I know my brother well enough to believe that. Your sacrifice will not be for nothing. I will make sure Janek stays far away from Miss Amala.”

  “She will hate me now more than ever,” Kal said.

  “If she hates anyone, let it be me. This is my order, not yours.” Wilek stepped back from the window. “Open the door,” he told a guard.

  A key jangled and the door scraped open. Kal stepped carefully out into the corridor. The rocking of the ship knocked him off balance without the cell walls to lean against.

  “Steady, Kal,” Wilek said. “The sea has been growing ever more fierce.” He frowned, his gaze flitting over Kal’s face. “Oh, Kal.”

  Kal hated when men looked on him with pity. “It can’t be worse than usual.”

  “I’m afraid it can, my friend. Let’s get you cleaned up and into bed. Perhaps the swelling will lessen by morning, when I will have no choice but to call you before the Wisean Council.”

  Kal submitted to Wilek’s demands that he wash, change, and allow Rayim to set his nose. Two guards then escorted Kal to his chamber with orders that he sleep. Kal obeyed without protest, though sleep eluded him as always. He thrashed about until a noise captured his attention. With the growing storm, the usual creaks and groans of the sea pushing against the wooden ship were louder and more frequent than normal.

  But this was something else.

  A shadow shifted near the door, the shape of an arm and dagger just visible from the darkness.

  Come, then, if you must.

  Kal made a show of groaning and shifting in his sheets so he could secretly retrieve the dagger from under his pillow and bring it down to his side, where he could better use it.

  A creak of the floorboards as the assassin paused.

  Kal quickly flexed his fingers to check their strength, then gripped his weapon.

  Seconds passed. A full minute. Neither man moved. An unseasoned soldier might think the assassin had somehow slipped away. Kal knew better. An assassin had incredible patience.

  But Kal was an assassin no longer. “The king wants me dead, does he?” he asked the shadow.

  A stretch of silence passed, but the shadow finally answered. “The king isn’t the only one to employ assassins,” a man said, his voice disguised. “Sâr Janek thanks you for dying and bids you watch from the Lowerworld as he stakes his claim on both your wards and the prophetess.”

  The figure dove toward him. Kal rolled aside as a blade plunged into his mattress. He twisted around and stabbed his attacker in the back. A scream of pain carried Kal back to the war. His vision flashed bright with sunlight. Kal swung up on top and straddled the enemy. He lifted the man’s head and slashed his blade across his neck.

  The enemy made a funny noise in the back of his throat as the life and breath rattled out of his body. Kal’s hand tingled and he lost his grip on the blade. It slipped from his hand and fell.

  Kal wasn’t certain how much time had passed before he returned to the present. He could smell death; too much blood had spilled. He was in his cabin, in the dark, on his bed, sitting on the back of a dead man. Janek’s assassin. By their positions Kal surmised he had killed the man. He needed to move, to do something. He jerked off the man’s hood, but in the darkness could not see who he was. He climbed off and lit a candle, held it close to his attacker’s face.

  Lebbe Alpress, captain of the King’s Guard.

  Unsurprising, really. Alpress had never been an honest man. His blackmailing Kal had long ago shown what kind of a man he was. That he would knife for Janek seemed to fit.

  Kal had grown tired of Sâr Janek’s games. He did no good in life and caused nothing but mischief and strife. If the sâr were dead, he could cause no more problems. Not for Wilek, not for innocent young women, not for the whole of Armania.

  Kal had not started the Heir War. But he would end it. Now.

  He knew what he had to do.

  He dug into the bottom of his trunk and located his kit, set the dusty box on his bed, and opened it. It had been a decade since he’d looked inside. Gloves first, always. He pulled them on, then strapped his belt around his waist and buckled the various leg and arm harnesses, loading them with knifes. His short sword he strapped to his back. A jar of white powder contained a powerful soporific. He added a few drops of water, then loaded three quills into pinch holders and dipped the tips into the liquid.

  He picked up the vial of ream snake poison, wondering how long the toxicity lasted. He couldn’t rely on it, but it wouldn’t hurt to be prepared. He poisoned the blade of his belt dagger and carefully sheathed it.

  When the quills had dried, he slid them into the sheath on his belt, hooded himself, then set out.

  By the time he reached the main deck of the ship and the chilled night air, the shock of having killed Alpress had lessened. Yet even in
his calm, his agenda remained certain. There was only one way to stop Janek and only one man willing to do the job.

  No moon hung in the sky tonight. No stars either. Thick clouds had blotted them out, and in the surrounding darkness, the waves roared and splashed, rocking the ship like a leaf riding the ream.

  Kal made his way from the main deck toward the stern, stealing a length of rope as he slinked past a locker on the quarterdeck. A Knife did not simply barge in to an unknown situation. A kill was usually planned days ahead in meticulous detail. Kal had no time for that. He would stand before the Wisean Council in the morning, and while Wilek would plead for mercy, Kal knew better than to expect it. He had done nothing in his life that would cause the gods to step in and spare him. He was ready to die. He had been ready for a very long time.

  Kal took a page from Sâr Trevn’s book and used the rope to scale down the stern of the ship to the balcony of Janek’s cabin. It had not occurred to any of Janek’s guards to monitor that entrance.

  A mistake they would never make again.

  He crept into the cabin. A candle lantern swayed on a hook near the door, its wax nearly burned to nothing. It gave Kal enough light to see that Janek did not sleep alone. He crept slowly around the bed, dagger ready, and examined the occupants of the framed mattress. The prince and his concubine, Lady Pia. Because Lady Mattenelle had been arrested along with Sir Jayron.

  Kal was glad Sir Jayron would not be an obstacle.

  What to do? Kill the girl too?

  Kal could not bring himself to slaughter a woman. He would drug her with the quill, wait for it to take effect, then kill the prince.

  He removed a quill from the sheath on his belt, grasping the pinch holder between thumb and forefinger. He glanced toward Lady Pia and found her place in the bed empty. She was on her feet, a dagger in each hand, crouched into fighting position. The combination of her grip on the daggers and the twist of her foot gave her away.

  Another assassin? Janek had likely surrounded himself with trained killers.

  Thankful he’d worn his mask, Kal slipped the quill back into his belt, all the while keeping his eyes on the concubine.

  “I can’t let you do this,” she said.

  Kal lowered his voice to mask it. “You cannot stop me.”

  “Guards!” she yelled, then screamed, low and throaty as if she were in pain.

  Janek groaned and opened his eyes. The door burst in, and three guards ran inside, the same three who had beat Kal hours ago.

  Kal drew the short sword from his back sheath, knowing that he had made a mistake in letting the concubine live. His malady might allow him to kill one or two of the guards before he dropped his blade, but with the third guard, Lady Pia, and Janek, who had jumped from the bed and retrieved his own blade, Kal would never succeed. He would die for nothing, and Janek would live to wreak havoc on Kal’s loved ones.

  Arman, help me.

  That he would release a desperate prayer to Onika’s god surprised him. He doubted Arman would have mercy on an assassin.

  The three guards swarmed, and it was all Kal could do to block their strikes. For a flashing moment he felt overwhelmed. The cabin’s walls kept him in close quarters with his attackers. He caught a brief glimpse of Lady Pia standing beside Janek, the two of them watching. The smile on Janek’s face ended Kal’s fear. He steeled himself to finish the job he came to do. These guards were young, like Novan. And while they were good fighters, Kal was better—had fifteen years’ experience over them.

  Still, he did not want to kill these boys. He’d come for Janek alone. He kept back, teasing the guards with quick thrusts, judging their speed. The slowest of the three went down quickly with a deep cut across his thigh. With him on the floor, the other two closed in, working together. Their swords jabbed at Kal so fast that he parried constantly. He blocked a low cut to his stomach, spun away from the second sword coming at his left temple, and struck like a viper at the first, his blade snapping down over the boy’s extended arm. Kal twisted away, picturing Onika’s face to avoid the gory sight behind him that would rip his mind to dark places.

  He found the third guard frozen, eyes glazed, the tip of a dagger protruding from his throat. Just over his shoulder, Kal could see Lady Pia’s extended arm gripping the hilt and the snarl on her small mouth. Behind her, Janek leaned against the wall, staring at the handle of Lady Pia’s second dagger, which stuck out from his chest, a fatal blow.

  What in all the realms?

  “Why?” Kal asked the concubine as the guard collapsed between them.

  “He was about to kill you,” she said.

  Kal had meant Janek, but before he could clarify, the sâr, dagger still in his heart, pushed off the wall and raised his sword up to stab Lady Pia in the back. Facing Kal as she was, she did not see the attack coming.

  Kal’s world swam, and suddenly he was back there again, in the place from which he could never escape. The yeetta dared lift his sword to a defenseless woman? Kal sprang forward, pushed the woman to the floor where she would be safe, and drove his sword into the yeetta’s chest. The man dropped his blade at the same time that Kal’s clattered to the floor. With his left hand Kal drew a dagger from his belt and slashed again and again at the man’s face, making scars worse than his own, scars that would follow this yeetta filth all the way to Gâzar’s throne. There was no honor in such a thing, but Kal needed to make a statement. Evil men had butchered too many innocents. It would no longer be tolerated. With this kill Kal would send a message of Justness throughout the Five Realms. Sheep for sheep, hand for hand, life for life.

  All would be even now.

  Wilek

  The scene in Janek’s cabin was beyond anything Wilek could have ever imagined. Blood covered the floor in puddles, smears, and bootprints. One dead guard, another missing a hand, and a third with a leg wound that would likely leave him crippled. Lady Pia sat against the bulkhead, hugging her knees.

  Janek was dead. His face bloodied to the point of hardly being recognizable.

  When Dendrick had awakened Wilek with the news, his first fear was that Kal had taken vengeance. He certainly had motive. One look at the cuts on Janek’s face seemed to confirm it. Who but Kal would inflict scars like his own?

  Rayim approached Wilek, face pinched in thought. “Could the unknown rebel have done this?”

  “Why would he? The rebels want the king dead. Maybe me. But not Janek. He is Rogedoth’s heir.” All yesterday they had searched the ship for the missing evenroot and Janek’s newt. They’d found neither. None of the rebels had escaped. “I don’t see how killing Janek would aid their cause.”

  Rayim sighed. “I must question Sir Kalenek. His attack on Janek last evening makes him suspect.”

  Wilek hesitated, worried that Rayim might find something to incriminate his friend, but he had no reason to refuse the request. “Of course you must speak with Kal.”

  “I can’t imagine he had anything to do with this, Your Highness,” Rayim said. “Lady Pia told me that the assassin remained professional until he killed Sâr Janek. That the kill changed him somehow. He went mad, as if he were somewhere else. That doesn’t much sound like Sir Kalenek.”

  Oh but it did. The man had confessed to hallucinating in moments of violence, and Wilek had kept it a secret. Had Kal, in his madness, killed Janek?

  Arman, let it not be so!

  Wilek returned to his room and left Novan and two other guards standing watch outside. It was not yet dawn. The sea had been rocking the ship hard all night. Several items had fallen from Wilek’s desk and onto the floor. He left them there and sat down.

  Janek was dead. Forever. He was never coming back.

  That Wilek had no tears for his brother made him feel callous. Had he truly hated the man so much?

  “Your Highness.”

  Wilek jumped at the whisper and thought his startled heart might give up altogether.

  Kal stood in the shadow of the office—had stepped out from the doorw
ay that led to the king’s royal cabin. He was dressed all in black with an assassin’s belt around his waist. One of the daggers had a bloody tang. He sank to his knees at Wilek’s feet, a black hood clutched in one fist.

  “I’ve come to confess,” he whispered.

  “Oh, Kal.” Wilek’s eyes flooded with unshed tears. “Why?”

  “Last night Janek sent Alpress to kill me,” he whispered. “His body is in my cabin. He said Janek wanted me dead so he could have Amala and Mielle and Onika. He would have ruined them and a hundred others after that. I could not let it happen.”

  The reasons didn’t matter. “What you have done I cannot undo.”

  Kal hung his head. “I know.”

  “You were more a brother to me than Janek ever was, but I . . . Kal, I . . .”

  “Killing Alpress was self-defense. I didn’t know it was him. But I went for Janek willingly. I—”

  “I killed Janek.” Lady Pia stepped out from the darkness. Appeared to have come from the same place Kal had.

  Confusion knotted Wilek’s thoughts. “Explain,” was all he could muster.

  “He was going to stab Sir Kalenek in the back. I felt Sir Kalenek too worthy a man to die in such a way.”

  “You knew it was me?” Kal asked.

  “It was clear to me that one of them was going to die,” Pia said. “I took a guess as to which you would have wanted to live. Did I choose wrong, Your Highness?”

  Sands, what a mess. Wilek would have chosen Kal over Janek ten times out of ten, but he could not admit that to anyone.

  “I want to hear what happened again. Kal first. Then Pia.”

  Kal told how he had snuck inside and planned to drug Lady Pia, but she was awake and called the guards. “I did not see what happened between Pia and Janek, but by the time I downed the second guard, one of Lady Pia’s daggers was in Janek’s heart.” According to Kal she also fatally struck one of the guardsmen to save him. And when Janek had revived enough to attack Lady Pia, Kal had stepped in to save her, then lost himself.