The assassin’s blade slid across the traitor’s throat, easily slicing through pipe, vein, flesh, and fat. He kicked the obese old Duke away, the body tumbling to the floor in a heap.
“You have been found guilty of treason,” the assassin said to the corpse, “For your crimes your life has been claimed for the purchase of healing wounds you have created. May you rot in hell.”
He withdrew the Duke’s dagger from the dead man’s belt, a jewel-encrusted weapon designed more for show than for practical use, and plunged it to the hilt in the Duke’s forehead — the sign of the Royal Assassin, so that all would know the King’s justice had been carried out this night.
Moments later he dropped nimbly onto the balcony outside his chamber, entered through the doors there – and drew up short.
“You should not be here, Geoffrey,” the assassin said curtly.
“My apologies, Majesty,” the servant apologized. “But the Queen, your wife, was looking for you.”
The King sighed wearily. “Very well. Inform her I will arrive shortly.”