Page 13 of The Uncrowned Prince

An assassin.

Someone had sent an assassin to strike directly at the Throne of Iria.

Could it have beenhim? The one who called himself Melger? All signs had been pointing to the Garimoran king’s intention to create unrest, so that he could step into the vacuum of power. But an assassin was so blunt and bloody. So obvious. And why now?

Perhaps it was not what Vaniell feared. Perhaps it was simply an angry Irian citizen. Perhaps the attack had imperial roots…

A chill struck him as he remembered his late night visitor. Not yet acclimated to these shores, if he was any judge, with both the skills and the weapons expected of an assassin. The timing was too close to be coincidence, wasn’t it?

But then why bother to lie about searching for her father if she intended to murder the royal family? Unless King Trevelian was linked to her father, and this was a revenge killing…

No, that was all speculation. The woman had drawn far too much attention to herself for one bent on vengeance, and she was missing the ice-cold, razor-sharp edge of a soul who made a living off of death.

Or maybe he just didn’twanther to be responsible, which was a maudlin impulse unworthy of consideration. Even if she was startlingly attractive, with an unselfconscious air of both innocence and deadly skill…

No, he dared not rule her out entirely, but he needed to know more. He needed to know what other attacks might be occurring, even now.

If he were still Prince Vaniell of Garimore, he could have merely snapped his fingers to access that information. But as Niell…

“Boden, you know Viska, right?” The boy nodded. She’d been a sort of mother and protector to a band of hungry orphans before Vaniell had gotten her a position at the palace. Now her children ate regularly, and Viska supplied him with palace gossip—an alarmingly accurate source of information regarding the royal family. “Do you think you can find a way to see her?”

Boden’s face scrunched up thoughtfully as he scuffed the toe of his boot on the threadbare rug. “Think so. Guards might be a bit more on their mettle, but they’re slow.”

“Don’t do anything foolish,” Vaniell warned, “but if you can get in, ask Viska if she has something for me. Double the usual payment.”

Boden’s eyes popped for a moment, and he jumped to his feet. “Aye, I’ll see what I can do.”

“Remember, don’t risk yourself. No information is worth your life, you hear me?”

The boy nodded, then hesitated, lifting his still-fearful gaze to Vaniell’s. “Who woulda done this? And who will be king now? Will there be a war?”

It seemed the price of earning the boy’s trust was this confident assumption that Vaniell had all the answers. In reality, despite his years’ long search, all he ever managed to find were more questions.

“That’s what we’re hoping to learn,” he said, offering Boden an encouraging nod. “And Prince Torevan will be next in line for the throne, so there will be no need for a war.”

No need. There was never a need. But war always came anyway, on the heels of men and women too obsessed with power to count the cost to those most vulnerable. Men like the one wearing the crown of Garimore’s king.

Vaniell refused to call him by the name he’d stolen. Whoever wore the king’s face, he was not Melger, and Vaniell was through pretending.

“Look for me when it’s done,” he told Boden as he led him out the way they’d come. “I’ve a ship to meet today, and then I’ll be around at one of the taverns tonight.” And numerous messages to collect and send along the way. His network of informants had grown almost too large to manage, but their work was more vital than ever.

The boy departed his doorstep with a jaunty whistle and renewed determination, while Vaniell followed only a short time later, his pockets full and his expression decidedly more grim.

There was no telling what he would find on the streets today. Mourning, unrest, anxiety, lawlessness… anything was possible following the murder of a loved and respected sovereign. Trevelian had been a good king by most standards, and his people were largely content. Had he died of natural causes, Vaniell would have expected grief mingled with complacency, but in this case? There would be anger. Fear. Suspicion. Volatile emotions that might easily spill over into violence, particularly against non-Irians. Exactly the sort of chaos a wily opponent would seek to create if he wished to destabilize the kingdom.

With these cautions in mind, Vaniell took a meandering path from his front door to the busier parts of the city, where buildings were better maintained and businesses flourished. He’d made his home there for long enough to know that on an ordinary morning, the streets would be filled with sunshine, sea air, and traffic—foot, horse, cart, and carriage—moving to and from the bustling wharf-front. Iria boasted the best anchorage in all of Abreia, and the capital city of Viali was the second busiest harbor in the kingdom. Ships came and went, and traders from all five Thrones made their fortunes here.

But today, everything seemed gray and grim. The brightly painted storefronts on Market Street remained shuttered, and even the tamarind trees appeared to droop. There were no black wreaths, as the news was likely not yet official, but the gossip had clearly spread like wildfire. Those folks who were out and about kept their heads down, wearing dazed expressions as if walking through a nightmare.

Vaniell had previously observed that the Viali city guard seemed largely for show—always present and perfectly turned out, but relaxed and almost friendly. Any stranger could turn to them for directions, and they were as likely to rescue lost puppies as they were to stop a thief. Today, however, uniformed guards loomed on every corner, questioning nearly everyone about comings and goings from within the palace walls. They devoted extra time and attention to anyone wearing foreign clothing, and eyed Vaniell as if they expected him to stab someone at any moment.

He couldn’t exactly blame them for their suspicion, but information collected in this way was unlikely to be helpful. It was rather like questioning the wolves after the sheep had already disappeared. Had they kept tighter security in the first place…

But the palace was situated in the exact center of the city, and the walls were short enough to be scaled by anyone with a little ingenuity. Rain trees grew thick and green along the outer wall, perfect for climbing and dropping down into the midst of the flourishing garden within. And the palace itself? It was undoubtedly beautiful—a graceful and opulent structure of archways and atriums, built of golden stone and red slate—but like many Irian homes, it remained open to the breeze, as the climate was mild and temperate for much of the year. Anyone with a grudge and the ability to climb could have entered through one of the open windows or doors, a fact that would make the perpetrator’s identity that much more difficult to narrow down.

Despite his hopes of news, Vaniell was very soon forced to concede defeat. None of his usual contacts had opened their storefronts, and even the taverns were shuttered tight. The pigeon lofts were turning away all but official messages, and the wharf-front was barred to foot traffic as the guards went from ship to ship, searching the holds and questioning the crews.

After encountering nothing but suspicion and disappointment at every turn, Vaniell was forced to return to the warehouse shortly before dark, chin on his chest and hands buried deep in his pockets as he considered the day’s work.

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