Chapter 6: Try It

I slept until the first grey light came in through the tower window.

When I woke, the dagger was still in my hand.

The voice at my door was gone.

I dressed in the clean clothes Hazel had left folded on the chair, a grey wool shirt and plain trousers, and I put the dagger in my boot.

Then I went down to the great hall alone.

I had decided in the night, between the pain and the dark, that I would not wait for a better chance.

I had one chance, and it was early, and he was alone.

He sat at the long table at the far end with a plate of bread in front of him that he hadn't touched.

He was not wearing the mask.

I stopped in the doorway, because I hadn't expected that.

He had his head bent over a map.

In the morning light I saw black hair, a hard line of jaw and a thin scar through his lower lip.

He looked about thirty-five.

Then he looked up.

His eyes were amber, tired and steady.

"You slept," he said.

"Yes."

"I was outside your door until the third bell. You didn't wake once." He pushed the map aside. "I'd call that a poor night's work for an assassin."

I had no answer for that.

"I'm not an assassin," I said.

"Then the knife in your boot is for slicing apples."

I didn't answer.

I crossed the hall with my hand already at my ankle.

He watched me come. He didn't stand, and he didn't call out.

I drew the dagger and I struck.

I put my whole weight behind it, aimed at his chest, over the heart.

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