Valek wondered if she’d been there all night. Did she often hide there? His heart rate increased.

“The task was to...” He stuttered to a stop as Hedda moved closer to him.

“To what?” she asked.

“To hit the target, sir.”

“Exactly. Did anyone tell you not to improvise?”

“No. No one told us anything!”

“Are you not satisfied with the training?” A cold flatness settled on her narrow face.

“I’m...I’m...fine.”

“I see.” She turned to Valek. “So, King Killer, you’re still here.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let’s see what you can do from the last mark.”

He grabbed the weapons and demonstrated his skills, hitting the bull’s-eye with the stone, knife, arrow, bolt, but not the dart. He didn’t have enough air to send the dart that far.

“How would you make it go further?” she asked.

He sensed it wasn’t an idle question, so he considered the problem carefully. More air would work, but his lungs only held so much and he doubted he could generate more force. A longer pipe would help improve aim, but again the amount of air remained the same. Then he remembered how his father rigged the water pipes coming into the tannery so the water pressure increased as the diameter of the pipe decreased.

“A longer blowpipe with a smaller exit hole,” he said.

“Arbon, does that sound right to you?”

“Uh...I’m not sure, sir.”

“Sounds like you need to do some experimentation. See if you can make his suggestion work in hitting the target from a hundred feet.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Valek, come with me.” Hedda strode from the room.

Valek followed, staying a step behind.

“You passed the first test. Let’s see how you do with the second.” She led him to the main building and up to the first floor, which was a wide-open area filled with mats and people sparring with and without weapons.

Excitement built deep inside him, but he was careful not to let it show on his face.

“You’ll start with self-defense techniques and basic moves. When you have mastered them, you will learn how to use a weapon. Tamequintin will be your instructor. If Tamequintin isn’t happy, I’m not happy. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

She called a young man over. He appeared to be in his early twenties. Tamequintin’s long black hair had been braided into a single rope down his muscular back. He wore a pair of short black pants and nothing else.

Valek noticed his smooth gait. It reminded him of a snow cat about to pounce. Unfortunately, since he’d lived near the northern ice sheet, he’d seen plenty of snow cats.

Hedda introduced them and left.

Tamequintin studied Valek for a moment. “So you’re the wannabe King Killer, eh? Hedda must be getting desperate for recruits.”

Valek refused to rise to the bait. Instead, he waited.

The man grunted. “Call me T-quin. Everyone does except for Hedda and only because she earned the right.” He scanned Valek from head to toe. “Do you know how to fight?”

“No.”

T-quin grunted again. “You will, or...” He shrugged. “You won’t. And then you’ll be shown the exit. Be careful. That first step’s a killer.”

Valek remembered T-quin’s black sense of humor. Of course, he hadn’t appreciated it when T-quin had beaten him over and over for weeks. Too bad Tamequintin had refused to join Valek’s corps after the takeover. And when he’d gone after Yelena, Valek had to kill him.

Reading through the dossier of Ixian assassins, Valek found only one potential suspect. And that was his old friend Arbon. And Arbon still owed him that favor.

10

JANCO

Boots pounded on the floor of the warehouse. Janco pressed against the side of the shipping crate, considering his chances of getting away. Five of them to one of him and they knew he hid somewhere inside.

Not liking his odds, Janco scanned the area. Stacks of crates loomed behind him and the two stacks in front of him blocked him from view. But not for long. He glanced at the metal stairs across an open expanse a few yards away. Should he risk it? One of the men raced up the steps to search the offices. He liked the odds way better against one opponent than five.

“Here,” a voice called from the right. Stepping around the crate, the man pulled his sword and advanced on Janco.

The stairs it is. He moved left until another man slid between Janco and escape. The new guy called for someone named Stig, and the guy who’d just been on the second floor clattered back down.

“Come on, buddy,” Stig said. “You’re surrounded. Put down your sword and let’s have a chat.”

Janco glanced over his shoulder. Big Brute had joined his friend. If Big Brute was here, then where was Ari? When he turned back to Stig, Funky Mustache stood with the others. Lovely. Come on, Ari. Where are you?

He tightened his grip for a moment, then sighed. Sheathing his weapon, he palmed a couple of glass balls. Janco leaned against the crate and crossed his arms. “What would you like to chat about?”

“Why you broke into our warehouse,” Stig said.

“Oh that?” Janco waved a hand. “Just testing your security, gents. And I must say it sucks.”

“Uh-huh. And why are you so interested in our cigars?”

“I like a good smoke from time to time. Just wanted to make sure the merchandise is genuine.”