The Blackslip

Treylen ran his hand along the stonework of the old Harvest Keep

until he discovered a crack wide enough to wedge his fingertips into. Hauling himself up, he found a toehold, then squinted at the narrow balcony overhead and plotted out the path he would take by the glow of the young moon.

The blackslip for the Viscount of Silbray had come down from Tillage on a mule that morning. The young monks of Coops Abbey shrieked when it fell from a peck of berries in the courtyard and wouldn’t touch it lest the queen’s shadow fall upon them. But Sister Ono had snatched it up, jammed it into her pocket and beat them back to their work in the kitchen.

She gave them all a start again by tossing it down in front of Marziel at dinner. The old assassin barely glanced at it before passing it off to Treylen.

Treylen had never received one before, but he knew what it meant and summoned a flicker of dragon sight. The silver script of a name had shimmered over the blackened paper—Gilwin Suleyon. He was on the road before dinner ended.

Rime scrabbled up the jagged wall of the fortress as easily as over cobblestones, chirping at him as he passed.

Quiet. This isn’t practice.

Treylen pushed the thought through the bond of the dragonmind. All he got in response was more chittering. The dragon bounded upwards, finding a perch on the underside of the lone balcony overlooking the queen’s road to the east.

The noises echoed in the stillness of the night and Treylen pressed against the dark stone. Halfway up the wall of the keep, he waited. No lights

appeared, no one peered over the balcony.

He gave it another minute, then resumed his climb.

Harvest Keep was one of the oldest in Iverna. It predated the war, predated the kingdom itself. Built in a time when Iveran fortresses had to resist dragon fire, there was barely a window to be found on it, only arrow slits. It would be oppressively muggy on a warm spring night like this and the balcony doors outside his target’s bedchambers would be open to the night air.

Treylen wondered what the ancient builders would have thought about the viscount knocking holes in their walls to put balconies in. What were they but perches for assassins?

He reached the underside of the balcony just as Rime disappeared over the railing.

Don’t go in before me.

He could feel the dragon’s excitement through their bond, no different than when a lame pigeon waddled past. This was play to him. Treylen had a different sort of feeling.

He gripped the rail and peered over. The doors were open. Of course they were. What had Silbray to fear? Harvest Keep was meant to guard the farm fields just north of Harvest Pass. But there’d been war since his grandfather’s time, and not once had the Jaul breached those mountains.

Squinting up into the mountains and drawing upon dragon sight, he could almost see the ramparts where General Bourin pitched his command tent. If there were battle assassins looking out, it was almost certain they could see him. Treylen tossed his leg up and rolled over the railing onto the balcony, crouching with a hand on the ground, the other on his dagger. Rime moved like a shadow, twining up Treylen’s arm and settling inside the cowl of his jacket.

I’ve been inside. She is sleeping. The dragon’s voice was a rasp that he heard only in his mind.

What do you mean she?

The Viscount. She is a small one yet. The dragon could smell one human from another, but the rules of Iveran society were often lost on him. This boded poorly.

The Viscount is my father’s age. This one smells much younger.

It must be a grandchild. There was no point in educating the dragon. He

didn’t listen anyway.

Stay with me.

Treylen leaned toward the doorway and peered inside. A slash of moonlight fell over the bedroom, and he slipped around it, creeping behind the curtains. The air smelled of flowers. Sour apples. Oil lamps.

A low lamp sputtered on the bedside table, barely flame enough to light the soft features of the sleeping child curled up close to it. Treylen shivered. How many times had he kept a lamp through the night to keep the queen’s long fingers from creeping out of the shadows, only to be scolded by the maid in the morning?

This is the wrong room.

Treylen eyed the window. The east bedroom was the better one. It caught the rare spring breezes and the morning sunrise. You could even see Coops Abbey when the weather was right. He’d have thought the viscount would have taken it for himself.

He must be on the other end. Treylen wondered what the man had done to betray his kingdom…mistreating his serfs, colluding with the enemy, pocketing the taxes that were due to his queen. It was a pity that the girl should be dragged into it. He wouldn’t wake her if he could help it.

Door is open. Rime growled low. Treylen put a hand on his bondmate before he could leap from his shoulder and through the door.

Not that way. Treylen closed his eyes and drew upon the dragonmind, borrowing Rime’s superior hearing. Heavy footfalls echoed somewhere inside. He slipped back out onto the balcony. The battlements of the keep loomed just above. He scooped Rime up and tossed him, Rime disappeared over the edge. Treylen found a foothold and crept after him.

Soldier. Sleeping.

The figure was slumped against one of the stones. This close to the border, the keep would have a full Garrison. But Silbray was a dull posting, and the farther away from the war fields in the northeast, the less disciplined the watch became. Treylen was entitled to execute the soldier for dereliction of duty.

If another assassin were watching, he might have felt obligated to. It was necessary to remind the people of the queen’s ever-presence. But Treylen had slept through enough watches of his own. The guard’s folly would be clear soon enough, when the viscount’s blood wet his bedsheets.

He slipped over the battlements, down the walkway that crossed the stone

roof of the keep. The woman didn’t stir. Just beside the soldier was a hatch into the central hall. That wasn’t his goal. First, he would try the far side. There would be a similar balcony to the first one. Treylen hopped over the hatch.

Let’s hope there isn’t a change of guard.

No sooner had he landed than a flash of motion caught his eye. A second guard had been resting between the stone merlons. They lashed out with a short sword. He let his knees buckle and dropped like a sack on the stone. The blade sailed past, just short of striking his neck. He rolled and found his feet again. He drew his dagger but didn’t strike. He held it high instead, so that the moonlight caught the blade, and he called out quietly.

“Stand down, soldier.”

The blade should have been signal that he was here on the Queen’s business, even if the dragon mask he wore wasn’t clear enough, but the guard didn’t heed it. They swung again, then raised a crossbow as Treylen backed further, tripping on the hatch he’d tried to avoid. He threw the dagger in a flash, and the bow clattered from the guard’s hands. Treylen closed the distance, silenced the man’s howl with a slash to his throat and set him gently on the stones before retrieving his other dagger.

The sching of steel rang out behind him as the first guard woke, then a shriek as Rime sank his claws into the large woman’s arm, she shook Rime off and raised her weapon. She spunk, stumbled, and Treylen darted in, bringing his blade up under her chin.

Wait!

Rime’s voice rang in his head and he halted. She hadn’t stumbled; she had knelt, hands empty at her sides, her weapon lay on the ground.

“My queen’s assassin,” she said, voice shaky.

Treylen eased the blade away and stepped back. The woman should have averted her eyes, but kept them up, staring intensely into his own. She knew better than to stand in the queen’s way at least. Treylen put a finger to his lips, backing away.

“This must be a mistake,” she said, her voice deep with conviction. “There’s no reason for you to be here.”

Treylen scoffed, spun his dagger a moment…debating, then fished inside of his assassin’s toolkit for the dark slip of paper with the single name. He stalked back to the kneeling guard and held it in front her, the silver script glinting in the moonlight.