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Copyright© 2021 N.J. Walters
ISBN: 978-0-3695-0326-8
Cover Artist: Jay Aheer
Editor: Audrey Bobak
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
DEDICATION
Thank you to my amazing family. Your love and support means everything to me.
Thank you to all the readers who love the Assassins of Gravas series as much as they did the Marks Mercenaries series. Your encouragement and support allow me to do what I love for a living.
And last, but certainly not least, thank you to the incredible team at Evernight Publishing—especially Stacey and Audrey—for working hard to bring this book to life.
ZAXE’S RULE
Assassins of Gravas, 4
N.J. Walters
Copyright © 2021
Chapter One
The sweet and savory aromas of the bustling marketplace teased Zaxe’s nostrils. The rainbow of colors—from the clothing worn by the people and the awnings over the vendors’ stalls—reflected the brilliant sunlight, making him glad he was wearing sunshades.
He was home.
Only he’d been gone so long he no longer claimed it as his own. But the scents and sounds triggered memories long suppressed and forgotten.
“You’ll ruin your dinner,” his mother scolded, even as she smiled and held out the plate of sweets to him. “Just one.”
“What’s this?” his father’s large voice boomed, filling the room. “Save one for me.” He kissed his wife and swung his son into his arms.
“You’re blocking traffic.” The rough male voice brought him back to the present. He glared at the man, who put his head down and hurried on.
Being on Zaxus, the planet he’d been named for, was already messing with him. Zaxe wasn’t the name he’d been born with, but it was the one that had been given to him by the woman who’d taken him and his sister in after they’d been orphaned.
He slammed the mental door on all memories. He was here to do a job for the king of Gravas—find and kill Helldrick, the final perpetrator behind the kidnapping and torture of the king’s son. The quicker that was done, the faster he’d be out of here.
Zaxe eased into the shadows, where he was most comfortable, and lowered the hood from his head. Most people would find the heat oppressive. He embraced it. It seeped under the skin, warming all the cold places inside. The light breeze ruffled his short, wavy hair.
He was not the same boy who’d left this planet with his parents two decades ago. His youth and innocence stripped away by the harsh realities of life.
For the first time, his appearance would make the job easier. His size, coupled with his dark skin, made him stand out in many cultures. Here, he could get lost in the crowd—another dark-skinned face in a sea of them.
His communicator vibrated with an incoming call. He knew who it was without checking and thought about not answering, but she’d only keep trying until he did.
And, truthfully, he missed his sister.
“Are you there?” Delphi asked as soon as he connected.
“Yes.” Her face filled the small screen. They were twins, had the same dark skin and black eyes, but that was where the similarities ended. His sister was almost a foot shorter but was no less deadly, her delicate appearance hiding a skilled assassin.
“I should have come with you.” Her voice quivered, and she bit her bottom lip. “You shouldn’t be there alone.”
“You need to be on Gravas.” Their home, at least for now. “You have responsibilities.” Which included a new husband. “I’ll handle this and be back before you know it.”
A shiver skated down his spine, as though Fate mocked his confidence. He ignored it. He was the master of his own destiny now. No one or nothing would change that.
“Promise me you’ll be okay.”
“I’ll watch my back.” It was the best he could do. The life of an assassin was a precarious one. He could have, maybe should have died so many times in the course of his life. But he was still here. The gods weren’t done with him yet.
He ended the communication and slipped the device into a pocket on the side of his pants. His cloak had pockets, but he kept nothing important in them. If he had to run or fight, he’d have to lose the covering. He didn’t want to risk leaving behind anything that might identify him.
He strolled through the marketplace, letting the familiar lyrical language drift into his ears, separating the different dialects—Northern, Southern, Eastern, and Western. The planet was divided equally, each territory ruled by a single family. He was in Northern Zaxus, the place he’d been born and lived the first six years of his life. After leaving his ship at the docking station of the capital city of Badwa, he’d come here to get his bearings.
“Harira. The best in the city,” a voice promised.
Mouth watering, he eased to the side of the dirt and stone street, stopping in front of a stall off to the side. “I’ll have one.” He hadn’t had the hearty soup since he was a boy. The tomato, beans, rice, and spices made it something truly special.
The man’s hair was steel gray and lines radiated out from his eyes, but his step was spry as he ladled up a serving. “Five amants.”
Zaxe dug the local currency out of his pocket. He had that, along with Alliance credits. Handing over the money, he took the small recyclable bowl and spoon.
The elderly man grinned, the money slipping quickly into the pocket in his apron. “You will enjoy.”
Zaxe scooped up a spoonful and blew on it before tasting. Cinnamon and turmeric exploded on his tongue, along with the tang of the tomatoes. A slow smile spread across his face. “You’re right. I will enjoy.”
The man tilted his head to one side. “Forgive me, but do I know you? You seem familiar.”
Once again, an icy claw raked down his back. He had to lock his knees in place and clench the muscles in his thighs to keep from running. In spite of the almost oppressive midday heat, chill bumps raced down his arms.
He set the bowl down on the ledge of the stall. Information was critical to his mission, and starting here was as good as anywhere. “I have not been in Badwa since I was a child.”
“Let me see your eyes.” The old man waved at his sunshades.
Taking orders went against every cell in his body, despite the fact he’d been controlled by others his entire life. Even now, this mission was under the command of the king of Gravas.
Would he ever truly be free?
It went against every tenet he’d learned as an assassin to expose himself in this manner. His job was to infiltrate, eliminate the target, and get out before anyone knew he was there.
I should leave.
This wasn’t part of the mission. There were other ways to get information. Even as he ordered his feet to move, his hands were removing the shades from his eyes.
The vendor’s eyes widened. He slapped a hand to his chest and staggered back a step. “Dagmar.” He dropped to his knees and lowered his head.
Confusion swamped Zaxe. “That was my father’s name.” One he hadn’t heard or uttered in decades. When his life had changed in the blink of an eye, he’d shoved his past away. It was easier to survive if yo
u let go of the memories. His sole focus had been on keeping his sister alive.
She was safe now, protected by the might of her husband’s family.
It was the main reason he’d taken this job and come alone. It was time to face the past, to dig out what he’d lost. And if a threat to his sister still existed here, it was up to him to eliminate it once and for all.
“Get up, old man.” His words were harsh, but his hands were gentle as he took the man by the arms and helped him to his feet.
“You have come home,” he whispered. “Praise the gods.”
They were starting to draw a crowd. Zaxe slipped his sunshades on and pulled up the hood of his cloak.
The man noticed the gathering people and shook his head. “My apologies.” He offered them all a slight bow. His smile was strained and sweat beaded on his brow. “I am an old man and was faint for a moment.” He waved his hands in this air as if to move them along.
Zaxe was impressed at how quickly he recovered. Suspicious, too. Most people went back to their own business, but a few lingered. The back of his neck itched. There were definitely eyes on him.
“Araman,” the man yelled. A younger version of him ducked his head out from the curtained-off section of the stall.
“Yes, Father.” He glanced at Zaxe and frowned.
“Watch the stall. Come.” He waved at Zaxe, pointing to the area his son had just left.
It was risky to go into a place without scoping it out first, but the vendor could have no way of knowing he’d been going to stop since Zaxe hadn’t known it himself.
He was skilled enough to get out if things went bad. The deciding factor was this elderly man had information that might prove useful.
Decision made, he ducked behind the curtain.
****
Jamaeh pretended to study the colorful scarves for sale at a stall, but all her attention was on the tall stranger by the harira vendor. She’d lived in the city of Badwa her entire life and was as familiar with the marketplace as she was her own home. Strangers were common, but this one stood out, in spite of him looking like a local.
There was something about the way he moved, his alertness that set her on edge. He was no merchant or trader. A smuggler or a mercenary, if she was taking bets. Just the kind of man her father might do business with. And right now, she was looking for any scrap of information that might help her find him.
“You buying or just looking?” The voice was sharp, the tone filled with derision. The young woman manning the stall didn’t even try to pretend to be cordial. Jamaeh was used to it. Growing up as a child of mixed heritage was bad enough. Being a bastard child in a world that prized family only made it worse.
“I’m buying.” She held up the light fabric saturated in tones of orange, yellow, and red, all flowing together like a brilliant sunset. It could be worn as a headscarf, wrapped around the neck, or draped over the shoulders as a light shawl. It was truly a thing of beauty.
“One hundred and fifty amants.”
It was highway robbery plain and simple. Fingering the garment, she shook her head. “The quality is poor.” She made sure her voice was just loud enough to be overheard. And just her luck, one of the biggest gossips in the market was walking by and watching with interest. “When your mother ran this stall, the fabric was vastly superior.”
“Fine,” the vendor hissed. “One twenty-five.”
“One hundred, because of the insult.” Jamaeh held her ground, staring at the woman until she glanced away.
“Fine. One hundred.”
It was still overpriced, but she really wanted it. She dug out the money, paid, and wrapped the scarf around her neck. Too many times when she’d been growing up, she’d only been able to look at the beautiful things adorning the tables in the market. Scrounging enough food to eat had been a priority.
As she walked away, she cursed herself for her weakness, for allowing herself to get waylaid by something so frivolous. She removed the scarf from around her neck, folded it, and slid it into the front of her shirt for safekeeping.
Ducking between two stalls, she crept around to the back of the harira stall where the stranger had disappeared with the vendor. The murmur of voices got clearer the closer she got. Crouching, she edged her way along, careful not to make a sound.
“I knew your father.” It was the old man talking.
Silence, followed by the faint whistle of a tea kettle boiling and then the flow of water. The vendor was making mint tea for his guest. Jamaeh’s stomach rumbled, reminding her she hadn’t eaten yet today. She’d meant to grab something in the market when the stranger had caught her attention.
“Thank you.” Chill bumps raced down her arms at the sound of the stranger’s voice. Deep and low, it seemed to vibrate through her. She placed a hand on the ground to steady herself and took a shaky breath.
What is wrong with me?
Having this kind of reaction to a stranger, to anyone, was unheard of. She should leave. There were plenty of places to dig up information, and she was familiar with them all, but curiosity shackled her feet to the ground.
Who is this man? Why is he here?
“Where have you been all these years?” the vendor asked.
“Surviving.”
Jamaeh inched along the back of the stall, searching for a rip in the heavy canvas or a crack in the wooden frame supporting it. Her diligence was rewarded with the tiniest hole. Leaning in, she placed her eye against it and sucked in a quiet breath.
Her vantage point gave her the perfect view. The area was small and comfortable, but the stranger dominated it simply by his presence.
His hood was down, displaying a thick crop of black silky hair. Even though it was cut short, there was still a hint of a wave in it. His sunshades were tucked into the neck of his shirt, allowing her to get her first good look at every inch of his face. And what a face it was. Strong was the word that came to mind. His chin was square, cheekbones heavy slashes, forehead high and wide. It gave him an almost austere appearance, as though life had honed him to a very sharp edge.
Sitting cross-legged on one of the oversize pillows the locals used as seats, he appeared quite at home. The pottery tea cup looked tiny and fragile in his big hand. Though at rest, he reminded her of a wild cat, every muscle coiled and ready to spring at any given moment.
He wasn’t handsome, in the traditional sense, but he was compelling. Wild and strong and dangerous.
The vendor, who sat across from him, bowed his head. “My apologies. I did not mean to pry.”
“No, it is I who must apologize. You said you knew my father?”
“Not personally, you understand, but I knew him. Such a great man. So missed when he passed. He and your beautiful and kind mother.”
Who were they talking about? Who were his parents?
The stranger’s gaze drifted over the interior of the stall. She held her breath as it passed over her, worried he’d sense her presence. When he lifted his cup and raised it slightly in her direction, she jerked back and swore under her breath.
He knows I’m here.
How? Years of training had taught her to be stealthy, to move unseen unless she chose otherwise. The back of her neck tingled, a primitive warning of danger she’d never failed to recognize.
Time to go. She’d pull back and trail him from a distance. She couldn’t resist one final close-up glimpse. He was still looking in her direction. One corner of his mouth was tipped upward. It wasn’t a smile, but he was amused.
Heat crept up her face, leaving her feeling hot and stupid. What was she thinking? Sneaking around in the marketplace like some common thief. Cursing her impulsive actions, she forced herself to leave, making her way back to the main concourse. She waited in the shadows between the stalls, making sure no one noticed her slipping back into the flow of humanity.
Head up, eyes constantly scanning for trouble, she made her way to a stall not too far away and bought some flatbread with honey to calm her stomach and
a glass of mint tea to soothe her spirit.
Gods, why was life always so complicated? All she’d ever wanted was a small home and peace. Instead, she’d been forced to scratch and claw for a right to live in this world, taking care of her beautiful, but sickly mother and younger brother, Esau. Things had gotten worse when her mother had passed. Their father had visited a few times, showering money and attention on Esau and mostly ignoring her. Then he’d go away again, leaving a brokenhearted boy and them on their own with no one but her to support them.
She hated his guts. But Esau was barely eighteen, not a boy but not quite a man, wanting any sort of male attention and guidance. If their father showed up while she was away on business, Esau would have gone with him without question.
And that was exactly what had happened.
She had to find him before he was embroiled in one of their father’s many schemes. That would only end badly. She was under no misconceptions about Helldrick. He’d use his son and abandon him if necessary, leaving him to deal with the mess he’d created.
It was a scenario that had played out again and again her entire life.
“Not going to happen.” She licked the remnants of the honey from her fingers and finished her tea just as the stranger emerged from the stall. Turning her head away, she watched him with her peripheral vision.
Let him go.
Chances of him being involved with her father were slim. Watching him had mostly been a distraction from the disaster of her life. Tossing her cup into the nearest recycler, she went in the opposite direction.
A man shoved past her, not breaking stride. She bit the inside of her mouth rather than yell at him. Samar was well known to everyone in Badwa. He ran with a group of young men who made trouble for all. The authorities did nothing. If someone dared complained, misfortune rained down on them.
Zaxe's Rule (Assassins of Gravas Book 4) Page 1
