Page 126 of House of Crimson Cloak and Silver Teeth

They’re tired and sloppy.

Right on schedule, two regular guards step away from the garden entrance. They’re laughing about something, not paying attention to the perimeter. The sound carries across the quiet street carelessly.

Their replacements won’t arrive for another ten minutes.

Ten minutes is an eternity in my line of work. Ten minutes is enough time to scale a wall, cross a garden, complete a kill, and vanish before anyone notices something is wrong. I’ve done more with less time.

“Now,” Kitty whispers.

We move.

The transition from stillness to motion is instantaneous. Kitty matches my pace exactly, her footsteps falling in rhythm with mine.

The street is empty. Most people are inside for dinner.

I can hear the muffled sounds of family life through closed doors, laughter and the clatter of dishes. Normal people living normal lives, completely unaware that death is walking past their windows.

The few who pass don’t look twice at two shadows crossing the cobblestones. We’re good at being invisible. The wall is twelve feet high, gray stone worn smooth by decades of weather. Ivy clings to the eastern side, dark green leaves rustling in the evening breeze. The top is lined with decorative stonework of gargoyles and flourishes that serve no purpose except to show wealth.

Twelve feet is nothing.

The assassin’s guild in Tiamat had us scaling forty-foot towers in the rain before we were fifteen. I’ve climbed sheer cliff faces with nothing but my fingernails and spite. My fingers find the gaps in the mortar where age has eaten away at the compound. The stone is cool and slightly damp. Small chunks of mortar crumble under my touch, falling silently to the ground. I test each handhold before committing my weight, feeling for stability, checking for loose stones that might give way.

Kitty scales it beside me just as silently. She moves like water flowing upward, effortless and smooth. Her breathing is controlled, barely audible even this close.

We’ve done this dance a hundred times in a hundred different cities.

Tiamat. Vennhold. The coastal cities whose names I’ve forgotten. Each job blurs into the next after a while. We drop into the garden on the other side, landing in a crouch among the flower beds.

The ground is soft here, rich soil that gives slightly under my weight. Our landings are silent except for the faintest rustle of disturbed petals. The impact sends up the scent of lavender and rosemary. It’s overwhelming for a moment and reminds me of a memory I can’t quite place, something from before the guild. I push it away.

Kitty and I stay low to the ground to avoid detection. My eyes track the shadows, identifying our cover.

Always know how to get out. That’s the first rule.

The gardens are extensive, sprawling across what must be two acres.

Roses climb trellises and fruit trees line the eastern wall. They create natural cover, their canopies casting deep shadows across the ground. I freeze and listen to the scuffing of boots on gravel.

Two guards on patrol. Their footsteps grow fainter, moving away from our position. I give them another thirty seconds, making sure they’re truly gone and not circling back. The footsteps fade completely. There are at least six more scattered throughout the compound.

Kitty touches my shoulder and points toward the trees. The old oak branches are thick enough to hide in. Its lowest branches start about eight feet up, spreading out in a network of perfect cover. The leaves are dense enough to conceal us completely while still allowing visibility through gaps.

It’s perfect for what we need.

We slip through the garden silently. I climb first, pulling myself up into the darkness. The wood is solid, old growth that’s probably held strong for centuries. I pull myself up smoothly, using mostly arm strength to avoid scraping my boots against the bark.

The bark is rough under my palms. I focus on finding solid footing and securing handholds. My muscles burn slightly from the exertion but I ignore it. I settle onto a branch that’s thick enough to support me comfortably. Kitty follows, taking position on the limb beside me. She settles in without a sound.

From here, we can see the entire garden.

Carefully manicured paths wind between flower beds and walking through the northern trail is Queen Rhianelle.

My breath catches for just a moment. The intelligence reports said she is a High Elf, nearly a thousand years old but of course like most elves who worship the Seventy-seven, she is frozen in eternal youth.

I find the agelessness of High Elves unsettling, that includes Garrett. It makes it harder to read them and harder to predict.

Queen Rhianelle wears a simple cream-colored dress with silver embroidery along the hem and sleeves to match her hair. Her movements are light and unhurried as she carries a bucket. It’s merely a plain pail like any peasant might carry.