Merciless

by Jacqueline Pawl

“Time for us to be off, too,” Amir says, nodding a goodbye to Mercy. “Can’t say I envy your job, but yeah, you’re good.”

  “Try to not get yourself killed,” Nerran adds, and Oren elbows him. “What?”

  Calum steps close and rests a hand on Mercy’s shoulder, his voice low. “Be careful. Remember what I said earlier—don’t draw any undue attention to yourself.”

  “I won’t.”

  “I know you’ll do great, love.”

  Mercy punches his arm. “Don’t call me that.”

  He grins.

  “See you next spring?”

  “Of course, Mercy the Assassin.” He winks and Nerran groans.

  “All right, let’s go before you get all sappy and shit.” He grabs Calum’s collar and drags him down the street, where the rest of the Strykers stand, waiting. They wave goodbye, then disappear around the corner.

  Aelis and Sorin turn to her. “Ready to go?” Sorin asks.

  Mercy takes a deep breath, then nods. “Absolutely.”

  “You’re going to impersonate a royal,” Sorin says without preamble fifteen minutes later. “We’ve already sent a forged letter to the castle that a member of the Feyndaran nobility is going to be visiting for the Solari celebration in a few days. Fortunately, we were vague about the details.” Their carriage bumps and bounces on the cobblestones. Mercy stares out the small, slatted window as they ride through the city.

  “Quite fortunate, indeed,” she says. “Who will I be impersonating?”

  “Lady Marieve Aasa. Familiar with her?”

  “Not really, not beyond the name. Her grandmother is Queen Cerelia.”

  “Who is the king?”

  “Prince-consort. It’s a queendom. His name is Dion Kanan-Aasa.”

  “Good. Study their family tree and history. You need to be able to answer any question without hesitation. A contract this important isn’t one where you can slip in and out. It could be weeks before you find an opportunity to strike.”

  “And you expect me to . . . what? Sip tea and attend balls while I’m waiting? I’m an elven assassin with no family name and not a drop of royal blood. You’d have better luck sending in Hewlin wearing a ball gown and convincing them he’s royal.”

  “If you’re serious about your dedication to the Guild, you’ll manage. Are you serious, Mercy?”

  She shoots Sorin a look. “You should know better than to ask that.”

  “Then you’ll have no trouble at all. Just remember your lessons, and you’ll be fine.”

  “What about these?” Mercy pulls back her hair, exposing her ears.

  “The ruling family of Feyndara is elven, which makes your impersonation of Marieve strategically ideal.”

  “A queendom and ruled by elves—no wonder Beltharos wants nothing to do with them. What do you need me to do?”

  “Prince Tamriel will turn eighteen in little over two weeks from now. He will be eligible to ascend the throne that night, but his father will never abdicate while the prince is alive to wear the crown. Nevertheless, the nobles have begun pressuring Tamriel to find the woman who will become the next queen, and that’s where you come in. An alliance between Feyndara and Beltharos is a sound political strategy—much better than marrying some nobleman’s daughter off to the crown. Perhaps you can use the pretext of an alliance to get him alone, somewhere the guards won’t find him after you kill him. In the meantime, follow him, get to know him,” she says. “Queen Cerelia is the only member of the royal family to visit Sandori since she ascended the throne, so no one should realize you’re not Marieve.”

  “Clever.”

  “I thought so.”

  Mercy hesitates, then asks, “Sorin, who paid for this contract?”

  “You can guess who. You know Illynor’s rules.”

  “. . . The king?”

  “Only a royal can buy a contract on another royal. If the commoners had their way, there’d be no royals left to rule.”

  Mercy nods. “It makes sense. If the court is pressuring Ghyslain to abdicate, why not have his sole heir murdered? Remove the threat to his power. If he’s truly as unstable as people seem to think, it’s not hard to believe he’d do it.”

  “Fathers have done much worse things to their sons.”

  “Why not have me pose as a servant, though? The guards would never notice one more—there must be hundreds in the castle.”

  “There are, but there is no guarantee you would ever have contact with him. You could be stuck in the kitchen or assigned to clean the streets, neither of which would help us. Aside from the meaningless dispute over the Cirisor Islands, there is no contact between Feyndara and Beltharos. Marieve visiting the castle could appear to be a step toward peace between the two countries. At first, they’ll watch you, but give them no reason to suspect you, and their curiosity will soon abate.”

  “As soon as it does, I’ll lure Tamriel somewhere private and kill him.”

  “A castle that large must have hundreds of hidden alcoves and forgotten rooms. Play your cards right and they may not find his body for years. Use your judgment and do what you must. Throw him in the lake, the dungeon, the cellar—I don’t care. Fulfill the contract and get out. If you somehow get trapped in the city, don’t let them see that anything has changed. Some will point the finger at you, the granddaughter of a foreign queen, but you must not give them an inch. Cry if you must—”

  “I don’t cry.”

  “—but do not breathe a word of your true identity to anyone. Do not even think it. Remember your vow. No matter the circumstances, your loyalty belongs to the Guild until your last breath.”

  15

  Riding in the carriage all day and straight through the night, it still takes them four days to reach Sandori. The two drivers—servants who had accompanied Sorin from the Keep—take turns sleeping and steering, complaining to each other in the dead of night when they think both women are asleep. They’re usually right about Sorin.

  Mercy can’t stop looking out the window.

  The gentle green plains surrounding Ellesmere give way to rolling hills, each meadow and valley a sea of vibrant summer flowers, the buds having already burst to life under the warm sun. The climate of Sandori is very different to that of Ellesmere; the northern region of Beltharos is not as close as the marshy land of Gyr’malr to the equator, but enough so that in winter, the nearest flake of snow is hundreds of miles south. Quaint one-room cottages dot the landscape, most surrounded with flocks of sheep or goats grazing in the fields. The houses grow larger and closer together until the gray smear of Sandori stains the horizon.

  Against the cloudless blue sky and the long green grass, the silhouette of the capital rises from the ground like a wound. A wall nearly twice the size of Kismoro Keep’s encircles the city, blocking all but Myrellis Castle and the Church spires from view. Wood-framed houses of the commoners too poor to afford property inside the city spill across the open land and over a nearby hilltop, where, just beyond, lies the Alynthi River.

  “We’ll be coming up on the southern gate shortly,” Sorin says. “From there, it’s a short ride to the house where you’ll be living in the Sapphire Quarter. I’ll stay with you for a day to make sure you have everything you need, but then it’s up to you. Creator knows I can’t be away from the infirmary for too long.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  Sorin stares for a moment too long before she nods. “I know.” She jerks her chin to the daggers, resting on the seat beside Mercy. “Hide those.”

  Mercy shoves them under the bench on which she sits, and a moment later, the carriage jolts to a stop, joining a line of traders’ caravans eager to enter the city. Sorin draws the curtains over the windows.

  A few minutes later, someone raps on the side of the carriage. “What is your purpose for entering the capital?” a soldier asks the drivers.

  “We have been charged with transporting a royal to the city to attend the king’s court,” one of the girls says. “Lady Marieve A
asa of Castle Rising of Feyndara, granddaughter to Her Majesty Queen Cerelia Aasa.”

  “A Feyndaran, here?”

  “As real as you are,” quips the other driver.

  “The king sent for her?”

  “No, Her Ladyship came of her own volition. She wishes to speak to the king about a solution to the long feud over Cirisor. Plus”—the driver pauses, and paper rustles as it is pulled out of a bag—“we sent a copy of this letter to the council announcing her impending arrival. She has come in response to your king’s invitation to the Solari festival. Now, I’m terribly sorry, but Her Ladyship is very tired from her long journey. May we enter the city?”

  There’s a moment of silence, during which the guard mostly likely scans the letter. “We are under strict orders not to let anyone pass without checking her carriage. May I?” After confirmation from the driver, the door to the carriage swings open and a lean young man peers inside. “Apologies, my lady. Standard check, nothing to be concerned about. D-Did you bring nothing with you?” he asks, eyeing the small bundle of clothes at Mercy’s feet. His eyes sweep over her simple linen top and black pants next. “If I may be so bold, that’s . . . not what most would wear to meet the king.”

  “You think a lady and her maid would travel for days in their finest silks?” Sorin scoffs. “The bandits would be upon us as soon as we entered their sight.”

  “You’re . . . quite right, miss.”

  The other guard calls to the drivers, “You’re free to enter.”

  “Thank you.”

  The soldier begins to close the door, then hesitates. “If you sailed from Feyndara, why are you entering through the southern gate instead of the east?”

  “I sailed on my grandmother’s ship from Rhys, not Castle Rising. The carriage is too difficult to maneuver across the rivers in the east.” Mercy raises a brow. “Now, may we go? Or do you have any more inane questions for me to answer?”

  A flush creeps up the guard’s neck. “Not at all, my lady. I meant no offense.”

  The other guard steps forward and lays a heavy hand on the soldier’s shoulder, pulling him backwards. “There are merchants waiting in line, Errol. Enjoy your time in Sandori, my lady, and steer clear of Beggars’ End if you value your belongings.” He closes the door and, a second later, the carriage jolts into motion, carrying them through the wall and into Sandori.

  Sorin quirks a brow. “You play the entitled princess well. Will you be able to keep it up the whole time?”

  “Child’s play.”

  “Mm.”

  “And Marieve isn’t a princess.”

  Sorin leans forward, propping her elbows on her knees. “Speaking of which, we might as well use the time to prep you for meeting the nobility. They’re a group of whiny, self-absorbed pricks who seem to have nothing better to do than drink wine and gossip about each other, but be wary. Do not underestimate them. They have connections and resources. Each of them has his own agenda, so don’t fall for anything anyone says to you, and be careful who you take into your confidence. A man with a sharp tongue is often more dangerous than a man with a sharp sword.”

  “As I have said, I can take care of myself.”

  “Evidently.” A few minutes later, Sorin points out the window. “This is Myrellis Plaza. Middle-class. Most of the people are artisans, craftsmen, shopkeepers. The schools are too full, so most children are educated at home until thirteen, when they can apprentice for a trade. The market district stretches from the Plaza to the junction of Lake Myrella and Alynthi, where the boats dock near the dam. The castle and Sapphire Quarter are to the north, and Beggars’ End is to the west—home to cripples, slaves, orphans, and—of course—beggars.”

  “Where will I be staying?”

  “The Guild owns a house in the Sapphire Quarter called Blackbriar—a base of operations, one might say. You’ll have an attendant who will accompany you to the castle. She knows about the Guild, but don’t involve her in anything too serious. Elvira can be . . . flighty.”

  Mercy dismisses the words with a flick of her wrist, too distracted by the sights outside to listen to most of what Sorin says. Sandori dwarfs Ellesmere by a factor of ten, houses upon houses upon houses, stores and stalls jammed onto every street corner. It’s a marvel of engineering; the logistics of housing hundreds of thousands of citizens within these walls is mind-boggling. Some of the buildings date over a thousand years back, constructed when people still spoke the old tongue and the continent was divided into city-states. The main street they follow is a two-lane cobbled road, merchant carts and private carriages moving in slow procession to the heart of the city, pedestrians and peddlers weaving around and between them like fish in a stream. Men with sweat-slicked faces carry crates of product to the docks, sometimes slipping into alleyways for a reprieve from the sun’s rays.

  Finally, the carriage lurches to a stop in front of Blackbriar mansion. It stands three stories tall in the middle of the Sapphire Quarter—only a ten-minute walk to the castle gates, according to Sorin. Aside from the small patch of grass between the mansion and the street, the only greenery is the plants which bloom in the planter boxes on each window, the bright flowers stark against the white limestone which makes up most of the city. The house has the luxury of glass windowpanes which have been flung open to allow the breeze to sweep through, sheer curtains flapping. Flourishes of gold and silver have been painted around the windows and door frame. Despite all its grandeur, it’s one of the most modest on the street.

  An elf named Elvira greets them at the door. Her hands do not stop moving as Sorin introduces her to Mercy and the drivers, Emryn and Quinn; she fidgets with the hem of her shirt, the thin silver band on her ring finger, the strand of hair hanging from the bun at the nape of her neck. She leads them on a quick tour of the house, somehow finding a piece of furniture to straighten or arrange in every room.

  “I’m sorry, it’s not as clean as I’d hoped it would be when you arrived.” She blushes and looks down at her feet. “I’d have liked it to be cleaner.”

  “I can’t imagine it cleaner than this—it’s practically spotless,” Mercy says.

  Elvira’s blush intensifies, and she turns abruptly on her heel. Emryn and Quinn excuse themselves from the tour the moment Elvira shows them to the guest room, each of them grumbling about not having slept in the past four days. Sorin clucks her tongue disapprovingly but permits them to leave.

  “You’ll be taking your usual room?” Elvira asks Sorin.

  “Yes, just for tonight.”

  “Then I will prepare lunch while you two get settled. Mercy, the third floor is yours to use as you see fit. There is a bedroom, bath chamber, and fully-stocked closet, as well as a writing desk and supplies. Should you need anything else, please let me know.” She flashes a shy smile and retreats to the kitchen, leaving Mercy and Sorin alone.

  “Okay, from the top,” Sorin says half an hour later, pacing in front of Mercy, who is seated on the corner of her bed. “And this time, don’t hesitate. Family tree.”

  “My grandparents are Queen Cerelia and Prince-Consort Dion. They have three children: the heiress Nymh, General Cadriel—my father—and Lord Justus. Cadriel sent me to live with my uncle Justus and cousin Alistair at Castle Rising when I was four so he could focus on strengthening the military after the Aasa family came to power. My mother was a soldier named Ayven. She died protecting Nymh from an attack by the former royal family. I don’t remember her.”

  “And your childhood?”

  “Spent almost exclusively in Castle Rising, schooled alongside Alistair by private tutors. Justus is a guardian of the Cirisor Islands and uses his personal army to defend the islands from Beltharan attacks. My father visits when he has the time, but he is often occupied with business in Rhys, the capital.”

  “Good. You know the history well enough already, and Elvira can help you with anything else you need. The king is holding public court tomorrow, where you will have your first glimpse of the prince. Elvira wil
l accompany you to the castle.”

  Mercy narrows her eyes. “Why does she know so much about the Guild? Can we trust her?”

  “Why couldn’t we?”

  “The Guild is taking the risk of one elven woman not cracking the moment one of those soldiers starts to pry. If they discover my identity, they’ll question everyone I meet here. She doesn’t exactly seem fit for interrogation.”

  “She won’t talk.”

  “Don’t you always tell us not to trust anyone? That if we place our trust in the wrong person, we’ll next find ourselves on the chopping block?”

  “Did you consider perhaps she is the one taking the risk?” Mistress Sorin’s jaw sets, her temper flaring. “The danger she faces is no less than yours. She is aware of the possible consequences and works with us regardless. As for her reason for working with us, that is her story to tell or withhold,” she says. “You would be wise to remember the Guild’s reach is much larger than you think. We have people in every city and sector. Kismoro is one of several strongholds and you are one Assassin. A thousand came before you and a thousand will come long after you’re dead. Do not think because you cheated the Trial you know better than those who have been doing this far longer than you.”

  Mercy scowls and moves to the writing desk, where her daggers rest in their sheaths. She slides the shining, slightly curved blades from the leather and twists the pommels together, forming the double-bladed staff. Ignoring Sorin’s weary expression, she lunges forward and slashes, grinning wickedly when the blades cleave the air with a shrill whistle. She pivots and stabs behind her, then arcs the weapon over her head and around, muscles rippling as she moves. Her feet fall into the rhythm naturally, practiced in this lethal dance. “Tell Elvira I’ll take lunch in my room today. I haven’t trained enough recently.”

  Sorin runs a hand through her hair, her anger sapped. “Neither of us has had enough rest the past few days, cooped up as we were for so long. I’ll have Elvira bring up your lunch and I’ll leave you to your own devices for the rest of the day.” Mercy grunts in response as Sorin moves to the door. Just before she steps through, Sorin glances back. “I should not have lost my temper, but, Creator’s gaze upon me, the next time you dare to order me around, I will bind your wrists and leave you walking back to the Keep tied to the back of my carriage. Understand?”