CHAPTER SEVEN
The assassin who went by Rose waited for full dark before she rowed out toward the ships waiting in the harbor, her oars muffled by cloth in the rowlocks. It helped that the moon was bright, and that she’d always seen well in the dark when she needed to. It meant that she didn’t have to risk even a thief’s lantern. Even so, fear ran through her with every stroke, pushed down only with an effort.
“This will be fine,” she said. “You’ve done this a hundred times before.”
Perhaps not a hundred. Even the finest of her profession who ever lived had never killed so many. She was not some butcher’s cleaver, sent to cut down as many in a war as she could. She was a gardener’s knife, sheering only what was necessary from the stem.
“Half the soldiers there will have killed more than
