*
Lieutenant Fester would be the first man Valek assassinated. As he waited for the perfect opportunity, he carved a statue, transforming the ugly gray rock into a black figure with sparks of silver. His chance came a week later. No squads were due to arrive that night and Fester had just returned from a long sweep.
After finishing his stable chores for the night, Valek lay on a stack of straw bales and waited for Reedy and the Stable Master to fall asleep.
The soon-to-be dead man had headed straight to the garrison and, Valek hoped, to bed. The lieutenant frequently complained about the uncomfortable travel shelters and run-down inns the soldiers overnighted in, and each time he returned home, he made a beeline for his own bed.
The ragged snores from the Stable Master’s room at the far end of the stable soon joined the soft nighttime noises of the horses. Valek slipped out the window of the empty stall he shared with Reedy. The boy didn’t move.
A half-moon provided enough light for him to navigate the compound even though he stayed hidden in the shadows. He wore all black, and once he was well away, he stopped to cover his face and hands with black greasepaint. The air held a chill. However, by the time he reached the main building, he’d sweated through his clothes.
Leaning against the wall below Fester’s third-floor rooms, Valek pressed a hand to his chest, willing his heartbeat to slow. Emotions jumbled together, clouding his thoughts. Fear mixed with anger. Hate churned along with trepidation. One thing to think about killing a person, quite another to do the actual deed. Could he?
He focused on the image of his brother Vincent lying in a pool of his own blood and intestines. Vincent’s expression frozen in surprised pain as he clutched his stomach. His skin as cold as the snow underneath him. The echo of Vincent’s laugh thumped in Valek’s heart as the memory of their mother chasing them after they’d knocked down her clothesline full of sheets. Neither one of them could resist the lure of fresh, clean sheets blowing in the breeze. Stealth tag had to be played despite stern warnings to keep away. And that time a rowdy collision led to a collapse. They’d bolted and hid behind the shed until their mother had cooled down.
Vincent had been fifteen when Fester’s sword cut him down. Their mother had held Valek back as his brother staggered to the snow. Her fingernails had pierced his shoulders, drawing blood. Small half-moon-shaped scars still marked his skin.
Valek pulled in a breath.
Lose the emotions.
The man murdered his brothers. Justice would finally be done tonight. And experience gained for the ultimate goal—the King. Pushing the fear, doubt, hate and anger away, Valek drew icy determination into his heart.
He scaled the wall to the third story, slid the window open and paused, listening. The creak of a bedspring and sleep mutterings sounded from the bedroom. Valek eased into the room. The dim moonlight outlined a bulky shape beneath a blanket. He grabbed his knife, advancing on Fester.
By the time Valek reached the bed, his heart rate had returned to normal. With one quick hop, Valek knelt on Fester’s chest and pressed the blade against his fleshy throat.
“What the—”
“Shut up and listen,” Valek said in a low voice. “Do you remember the tanner’s sons? Three boys, Vincent, Viliam and Victor? Ages fifteen and seventeen-year-old twins?”
“Look—”
“Yes or no?” Valek cut into the skin. Blood oozed.
Fester hissed in pain. “Yes.”
“You missed one. Sloppy.”
“Orders.” Panic sharpened his voice. “I was under orders.”
“To murder?”
“To make an example out of them. The blizzards had been so bad...no one in Icefaren wanted to pay their taxes.” The words tumbled from his lips in a rush. “Boss said the King needed his money and we had to show them what would happen if they didn’t pay.”
“He targeted my family?”
“No. Just said to pick—” Fester realized his mistake. “I didn’t—”
“What’s the boss’s name?”
“Captain Aniol.”
“You should have told your boss to go to hell.” Valek sliced deep into the man’s throat.
Blood sprayed, soaking Fester’s shirt, sheets, blanket and Valek’s sleeves. A hot metallic smell filled the air along with the stink of excrement and body odor. The shine in Fester’s eyes dulled as all color leaked from his skin.
Valek stared at the dead man. No regret pulsed inside him. Just a deep feeling of satisfaction.
He wiped his blade and hands on Fester’s blanket. Then he removed the statue from his pocket. The figure resembled Vincent. He placed it on Fester’s still chest before Valek climbed out the window. Sliding the pane back into place, Valek descended the wall. The compound remained empty at this time of night. The soldiers patrolled only the outer perimeter.
Before he had reached the stable, he had stripped off his shirt and thrown it into one of the still-smoldering burn barrels. Then he had washed the greasepaint from his hands and face. Slipping back into the stall, he had donned a clean shirt and reclaimed his spot on the hay bales.
No sense running away and tipping them off about the culprit. Better to stay and watch and learn all he could about Captain Aniol.
Hedda had called it hiding in plain sight.
A sudden notion jolted Valek from his memories. Maybe the reason he couldn’t determine Maren’s whereabouts was because she’d been hiding in plain sight all this time? No. Maren had a distinctive stride, and he’d have spotted her by now.
The reason must be because the Commander was up to something. And the only thing that he wouldn’t inform Valek about or include him in was something big involving Sitia. Something that would ruin their diplomatic relationship if the Sitians found out.
Valek didn’t know what was worse, the Commander not trusting him or the fact that more trouble between the two countries could lead to war.