A King's Caution

by Brennan C. Adams

  Lastly came those new to the pits. Almost average, these people clustered together, whispering. Despair haunted their faces, and occasionally, one broke from the pack in a fit of uncontrollable sobbing.

  Scanning the crowd, Pointer didn’t find his quarry among them. Unsurprising. Thumb had always insisted on a merry chase. If the big man wasn’t here, it was time to see if he could break into the next holding pen.

  Before he could try, however, the pen’s mood shifted, and Pointer noticed the black-eyed man striding amongst them, his cleanliness instantly differentiating him from the herd. He inspected the caged humans, searching for something in particular. Pointer pulled from the forefront, but for once, his ordinariness didn’t keep those black eyes from locking onto him. Perhaps it was Pointer’s weapons or the fact that he was also generally clean which attracted the Enforcer to him, but whatever the reason, he pointed straight at the spy.

  “You.”

  Turning on his heels, the Enforcer stomped away, and Pointer followed after a short delay. He hadn’t wanted to participate in this shit but fine. If they planned to force him to fight, then that’s what he’d do.

  He loosened his rapier in its sheath, unbuckled the clasps holding his knives in place, and popped the tops on the poison flasks hanging from his belt.

  Beware, against whomever they pitted him. Your time draws near.

  He silently eased open the window to the Queen’s chambers, tenuously clinging to his precarious perch. A prolonged set of years had passed since his family had been murdered to send a message. Something had broken in him that day, and since then, he’d killed so. many. people.

  The rebellion against the King no longer existed, each member teased out and snared until only the Count remained. Despite the skills he’d acquired while planning and executing the deaths of the man’s compatriots, Erinburgh's elimination hadn’t gone smoothly. What a bloody massacre…

  After removing the initial impetus to Madeleine and Lulani’s loss, he’d moved on to higher value targets. Targets like King Belqarim.

  For an instant, the corpse faces of every person who’d died by his hand floated like ghosts in the window’s glass, and he flinched, nearly losing his grip on the sill. Silently, he replayed the chant of reasoning for their deaths.

  He hadn’t killed those people for revenge or for some twisted need to appease a madness his family’s deaths had inflicted. He’d done it because his victim’s continued existence threatened the well-being of Ada’ir’s people. A rebellion would inevitably be long and bloody for all involved, and by ordering the deaths of his family, King Belqarim had further instigated the uprising the murders were supposed to deflect. If he hadn’t diligently eliminated the crown’s enemies, further rumors of why his family had died would have eventually led to fighting in Daira’s streets.

  One final target remained before he could confidently proclaim the kingdom of Ada’ir free of internal threats.

  When a king died, the standard line of succession was for the oldest child to take the throne, but times were anything but normal at the moment. Belqarim’s Queens, both the one long passed and the current foreigner, had failed to produce an heir for him. In such circumstances, who rightfully took the throne became a bit murkier.

  Next in line, after the members of the royal family, was Belqarim’s cousin, Duke Wylumin, but the irresponsible man was currently exploring the frozen wastelands of the north. No one had heard from the Duke in months. Add to that the complication that not ALL of the royal family had perished in recent weeks, and one could see why Ada’ir’s court had been in turmoil since the King’s passing.

  The problem with Belqarim’s wife, Kaedesa, as monarch was no one could say for certain from where she’d come. By the time she’d arrived on the scene, the court had been desperate for Belqarim to show interest in any woman after his beloved wife’s death. The only reason the nobility had allowed the marriage was because they were uncertain whether Belqarim would ever favor another, and the kingdom had required an heir to the throne.

  Kaedesa had gained little popularity when her influence over the King lead to the passage of several laws meant to elevate the common man. These laws had been at the heart of the recently ruined rebellion. Her failure to produce the heir the nobility had desired had further deepened the resentment leveled against her.

  Considering her lack of popularity, Kaedesa should have returned to her mysterious origins following Belqarim’s death, if only for the realm’s stability. Instead, she’d continued to carry out a monarch’s duties as if the question of succession had already been answered.

  Which was why he hung outside her window this evening. Kaedesa couldn’t garner enough support to retain the crown, and when she eventually lost it, blood and death would inevitably follow.

  So, he ignored the dead faces in the window and slipped into the Queen’s chambers. His knife cleared its sheath without a sound-there was no need for subtlety with this kill-and he approached the four-poster bed which dominated the room.

  “So you’re the one who assassinated the King,” someone murmured from a dark corner. “We knew it was a noble, but Duke Lysinthir?”

  A tongue clicked. He twisted toward the sound, brandishing the knife.

  “Who are you that you must hide in the shadows?” he asked.

  “Oh! Apologies. My intention was not to catch you off guard.”

  The voice’s owner stepped into the moonlight, and he marveled. Finally, he’d found someone homelier than him!

  “My name is Aramar, my lord Duke,” the man bowed, “and I am spymaster of the Hand.”

  He snorted, partly from surprise-everyone knew of the infamous King’s Hand, one of whom this man looked nothing like-but mostly with contempt.

  “I hate to inform you of this, but your work protecting those you serve has been less than astounding.”

  “I recently fell into the job,” Aramar said, rubbing the back of his neck. “A small changing of the guard has taken place since Belqarim’s death. Thank you for that, by the way. Old age had allowed touches of senility into the King’s mind.”

  The words granted him more comfort than he was willing to allow. Further justification for the King’s murder helped soothe his conscience, but they came from someone he must soon kill.

  “What do you want?” he asked. “Your first intention obviously isn’t to stop me from my purpose, else you’d have done so before making yourself known.”

  “We’ll get to that. First, may I ask why you wish to assassinate the Queen?” Clasping his hands behind his back, Aramar cocked his head. “We were certain you'd solely aligned your killing spree with the realm’s protection.”

  Killing spree? How much did this spymaster know? He’d been meticulous with the rebel kills, completing them such that investigators would attribute them to natural causes or accidents. Had he made a mistake? And how had this Aramar parsed his purpose? Most would assume the killings were random.

  “You’re correct,” he acknowledged. “As for the Queen, the reasons are the same. She’s a threat to the realm as she doesn’t possess enough influence to remain in power.”

  “In that, you’re wrong.” Aramar chuckled. “She already controls Ada’ir’s army. Who do you think convinced the King to position Marcuset as commander rather than the other seemingly more competent candidates?”

  He hadn’t known Kaedesa held the army’s support, but that backing would only help so much. What would she do when the nobles stopped paying the taxes which funded her soldiers’ salaries?

  Why was he taking the time to converse with this man? Every minute he delayed was another a palace guard might notice the lock he’d broken. Perhaps this spymaster intentionally delayed him. Perhaps a retinue of guards even now approached the Queen’s chambers to take him into custody.

  “Don’t-!” Aramar started, but he’d already lunged.

  A hand snaked around his neck, forcing a clear mask over his nose and mouth. The hold was quickly followed by
the sound of a suppressed hiss. Surprise and shock made him gasp. When had someone gotten behind-?

  His throat protested the foreign substance which circulated it, and he coughed and coughed and coughed and-

  Warm droplets splashed the mask’s interior, and it fell from his face just in time. He dropped to the ground, clawing his neck, as his overworked lungs expelled filth from his body. Clean air exacerbated the fire sweeping his airway, and blood splattered the floor with each jerking exhalation.

  When the fit stopped, he lay twitching, too stunned to do more than that.

  “How do we restrain him?” a new voice asked. “I didn’t bring rope.”

  “Drapes, Oswin.”

  Next came the sound of fabric ripping, the feel of hands dragging him upright and silky cloth binding him to wood. In his daze, the sensations slid above his focus.

  “Apologies, Duke Lysinthir, but I did try to warn you.” Aramar sounded almost sorrowful.

  “What-?” a strange voice emerged from him.

  Before he could marvel at the change, a shorter, more rapid coughing bout wracked his frame once more.

  “Might not want to use that for a while,” the stranger said while moving into his field of view.

  “This is Middle,” Aramar said, gesturing to the stranger. “I’m sorry for not introducing him sooner, but I wasn’t sure how cooperative you’d be. It appears my caution was warranted.”

  Indeed. The spymaster had taken him by surprise with his subordinate, but once he was free… Flexing against his bonds, he grunted.

  “Yes, I’m afraid you’ll not free yourself anytime soon. In the meantime, you’ll have to listen to me.

  “If you’d waited a moment longer, I planned to explain how Kaedesa intends to corral the nobility under her thumb. You will be essential to that task.”

  He snorted, belatedly grateful the noise hadn’t triggered another fit.

  “You’d make a worthy addition to her growing Hand,” Aramar continued as if oblivious to the scorn. “You possess a unique position as the assassin with a conscience while retaining a high standing among the nobility. She possesses an army, one which keeps the Southern Kingdoms’ hordes from invading and patrols the roads so trade may freely flow. By combining our resources, Kaedesa hopes to quickly convince your peers she can lead this country to greatness. But a large part of her plan relies on you.”

  The spymaster fell silent, allowing him time to think. Could this foreign Queen do the impossible? She’d already proven herself resourceful, logical, and far-sighted within a single meeting, all excellent qualities in a monarch.

  Meanwhile, what did he know of Wylumin, the next in line? The King’s cousin had run off to explore the ruins of dead civilizations, neglecting his role in the one which had produced him.

  Meeting Aramar’s eyes, he very obviously nodded. Better the woman with whom he’d experience than the man of whom he knew nothing.

  “Excellent!” Aramar exclaimed, clapping his hands together. “Middle, release our new Pointer.”

  While the subordinate followed orders, Aramar crouched before his chair. “I should tell you, your goal aligns with Kaedesa’s almost exactly. She too wants to provide safety for her people, however, she envisions a far greater blanket of protection. She desires security for the entire world.” Aramar paused, narrowing his eyes.

  “Tell me, what do you know of Auden?”

  The portcullis rumbled open, and Pointer tried to prepare his mind for the struggles ahead. A bolt of gloom tore past him in such close proximity the clothing covering his arm ripped. Glaring at the Enforcer who’d thrown it, Pointer stepped into the arena.

  Having so many people’s eyes locked on him was a strange sensation. For years, he’d worked in the shadows, more so the further he’d transitioned from a prominent Duke of Ada’ir to Pointer of Raimie’s Hand. An assassin wasn’t much good to the one he served if others took note of him while completing a job. Now, thousands, each one indistinguishable from the frothing crowd, intently watched him, some with glee, some with newly piqued interest, and some with undisguised hunger.

  Half of the arena erupted into a confusing mix of boos and cheers, emanating from the humans who’d come to watch the evening’s entertainment. This city, of all those large enough to host the fights, actively encouraged the average citizen to participate in the spectacle. The Dark Lord thrived on chaos and corruption. If the humans toiling under his reign wished to add to it with their betting pools and their enthusiastic blood lust, he wouldn’t deny them.

  From the other half, unnaturally blackened and roped skin surrounded glittering eyes. Their appearance exacerbated their absolute silence and lack of movement. The view was quite creepy, even to him. Pointer turned his back on them, facing the empty void on the other side. He’d force his opponent to face the unnerving sight, taking every advantage he could get.

  Speaking of opponents, his first came loping over the sand to join Pointer on center stage. They’d sent a slavering, gibbering husk of a man, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe this fight would give him enough time to search for the valve to his conscience in order to twist it closed.

  Someone barked, “Begin!”

  Pointer didn’t bother to fight his opponent. A throwing knife protruded from the crazy man’s eye before he’d had time to move.

  The crowd loudly booed as Conscripted moved forward to drag the body and toss it into the void. What had they expected? For those forced to participate, the point of the pits was to survive as long as possible while retaining a grip on sanity. Pointer wasn’t about to waste effort on a fight he could end before it began.

  His next opponent was a teenager, and this ‘battle’ proved somewhat more challenging for him. His conscience strained against the barrier containing it while he killed the kid, but somehow, Pointer kept it in check. He could self-flagellate later. At this point, guilt would only get him killed, and he couldn’t help Thumb if he was dead.

  Next came a grim-faced woman, a man who screamed and begged, and another who’d lost the battle for her sanity. They began to blur together, each a reiteration of a previous adversary.

  At some point, the crowd, more and more restless with boredom, significantly shifted, a wave of unease and discomfort spreading like a plague. While he waited for his next opponent, Pointer searched for the source of this change and landed on the slim, handsome Eselan settling into a seat near the front.

  An Eselan in Auden? Pointer had thought the race wiped out, a specific target of the Dark Lord and his armies. Add to that peculiarity the strange behavior of the Kiraak surrounding him. They visibly recoiled, scrunching as far away as possible, even while darting glances of desire his way.

  They’d given him plenty of room, almost enough for two, which was a marvel in this crowded arena, and if Pointer squinted hard enough, he thought he could see someone else-no, something other-sitting beside the Eselan. Before he could ponder the oddity to the extent he desired, his next fight began, and he was too caught up in killing his victims as quickly and painlessly as possible to return to the question of the Eselan in the crowd.

  Just when he’d begun to think he’d never encounter a challenge, they pit him against a woman who looked as if she might have been a soldier in the past. She successfully made two exchanges with him before the third killed her. The crowd quite literally roared in a feral manner when her body hit the ground, and after that, the enemies forced upon him proved more and more difficult.

  The night grew late, and Pointer was out of breath when the surprise came. The portcullis rolled up, the next poor sucker sauntered in, and Pointer gasped.

  What have they DONE to you, my love?

  The big man stopped opposite him, exactly as every other adversary had. He met Pointer’s fervent gaze, and recognition failed to flicker.

  “Thumb?” Pointer asked, pitching his ruined voice to carry over the raucous cheering.

  Alouin, Thumb must have quickly gained popularity with the crowds in
the days… weeks… How long had he been here?

  “Begin,” the voice called.

  Thumb immediately sprang into action, and Pointer scrambled backward, caught off guard. He was accustomed to the other spy allowing his opponent the first few blows in order to assess the ‘pattern’ of attack. Thumb and his obsessions.

  “Thumb!” Pointer gasped again.

  For the first time this day, he drew his rapier to keep the big man’s answer from splitting his skull in half. After that, he was too busy avoiding the other man’s blows to say anything else.

  He switched up his method of attack and defense as much as possible. Thumb excelled at detecting an opponent’s weaknesses, and that ability had gotten Pointer’s ass handed to him on multiple occasions in the past. He flowed through the standard soldier’s thrust and block, the bobbing weave of the Southern Kingdoms, and the whirlwind of motion favored by the Zrelnach.

  It wasn’t enough. Smashing through his defenses, Thumb kicked him across the arena. Pointer felt something crack when the big man’s foot impacted, and he rolled several times before he could scramble to his feet.

  Thumb advanced on him with purpose. Damn it! If this continued, Pointer would be forced to fight seriously, and a loved one would die. Again.

  Not again!

  “Marsuvius!” Pointer yelled at the closing man. “Come on! Remember me, big guy!”

  Nothing from Thumb. Shit!

  “’Suvi!” Pointer screamed as loudly as he could, and Thumb stumbled to a halt, something flickering across his face.

  Pointer, however, was too obsessed by his long ruined vocal chords to notice. Falling to his knees, he raked at his neck while blood flew to cover the distance between him and the other spy. When he collapsed to his side, Pointer knew this fit would be bad. The coughs came in such close proximity to one another they stopped his breathing’s flow. His lungs screamed for air, and he was vaguely aware small, fleshy bits had joined the blood escaping his body via mouth. Would this be it? The one that killed him?

  No. The fit eventually calmed, and Pointer shuddered in the sand. The arena had gone quiet, nothing except the occasional scrape of bodies against stone filling the air.