Conditions had improved since the Nationalists’ recent victory. The imperial guards were gone, and without them the regular patrols had stopped. The town lacked even an experienced sheriff, as the new mayor refused to hire seasoned men or members of the military to administer so-called law and order. Instead, she had opted to make do with grocery clerks, shoemakers, and dairy farmers. Merrick thought her choices were ill-advised, but he expected such mistakes from an inexperienced noble. Not that he was complaining—he appreciated the help.
Despite this shortcoming, he admired Arista Essendon’s accomplishments. In Melengar, her brother, King Alric, reigned, and as an unwed princess, she possessed no real power. Then she had come here and masterminded a revolt, and the surviving peasants had rewarded her with the keys to the city. She was a foreigner and a royal, yet they thanked her for taking rule over them. Brilliant. He could not have done better himself.
A slight smile formed at the edge of Merrick’s lips as he watched her from the street. A candle still burned on the second floor of City Hall, even at this late hour. Her figure moved hazily behind the curtains as she left her desk.
It will not be long now, he thought.
Merrick shifted his grip on the weapon. Only a foot and a half long, with a bow span even shorter, it lacked the penetration strength of a traditional crossbow. Still, it would be enough. His target wore no armor, and he was not relying on the force of the bolt. Venden pox coated the serrated steel tip. A deplorable poison for assassination, it neither killed quickly nor paralyzed the victim. The concoction would certainly kill, but only after what he considered an unprofessional span of time. He had never used it before, and had only recently learned of its most important trait—venden pox was invulnerable to magic. Merrick had it on good authority that the most powerful spells and incantations would be useless against its venom. Given his target, this would prove to be essential.
Another figure entered Arista’s room, and she sat abruptly. Merrick thought she had just received some interesting news and he was about to cross the street to listen at the window when the tavern door behind him opened. A pair of patrons exited, and by the sway of their steps and the volume of their voices, he could tell they had drained more than one mug that night.
“Nestor, who’s that leaning against the post?” one said, pointing in Merrick’s direction. A plump man with a strawberry nose whose shape matched its color squinted in the dim light and staggered forward.
“How should I know?” said the other. The thin man’s mustache still glistened with beer foam.
“What’s he doing here at this time of night?”
“Again, how should I know, you git?”
“Well, ask him.”
The tall man stepped forward. “Whatcha doing, mister? Holding up the post so the porch doesn’t fall down?” Nestor snorted a laugh and doubled over with his hands on his knees.
“Actually,” Merrick told them, his tone so serious it was almost grave, “I’m waiting to appoint the position of town fool to the person who asks me the stupidest question. Congratulations. You win.”
The thin man slapped his friend on the shoulder. “See? I’ve been telling you all night how funny I am, and you haven’t laughed once. Now I’m getting a new job … probably pays better than yours.”
“Oh yeah, you’re quite the entertainer,” his friend assured him as they staggered off into the night. “You should audition at the theater. They’re gonna be doing The Crown Conspiracy for the mayor. The day I see you on a stage—now that will be funny.”
Merrick’s mood turned sour. He had seen that play several years ago. While the two thieves depicted in it used different names, he was sure they portrayed Royce Melborn and Hadrian Blackwater. Royce had once been Merrick’s best friend, back when the two of them were assassins for the Diamond. That friendship had ended seventeen years earlier on that warm summer night when Royce murdered Jade.
Although he had not been present, Merrick had imagined the scene countless times. That was before Royce had his white dagger, back when he had used a pair of curved, black-handled kharolls. Merrick knew Royce’s technique well enough to picture him silently slicing through Jade with both blades at once. Merrick did not care that someone had set up Royce, or that he had not known his victim’s identity when it happened. All Merrick knew was that the woman he loved was dead and his best friend had killed her.
Nearly two decades had passed, and still Jade and Royce haunted him. He could not think of one without the other, and he could not bear to forget. Love and hate welded together forever, intertwined in a knot too tight to untie.
Loud noises and shouts from Arista’s room pulled Merrick back to the present. He checked his weapon, then crossed the street.
“Your Highness?” the soldier asked, entering the mayoral office.
Her hair a tangled mess and eyes wreathed in shadow, Princess Arista looked up from her cluttered desk. She took a moment to assess her visitor. The man in mismatched armor displayed an expression of unabated annoyance.
This is not going to go well, she thought.
“You sent for me?” he asked with only partially restrained irritation.