(A/n: First story in a looonggg time, just testing the waters with a new idea I came up with. PLEASE review so I know whether to continue.)
Tortall
In the 1st year of the reign of
King Jonathan IV and Thayet, his Queen,
440 H.E. (Human Era)
He stood over the body, sword hanging limply from his hand. In the light of the flickering fire, the Lord of Chantree's face stared eerily upward, the grimace he wore in his last moments still etched on his visage.
"I'm still not sure about this plan of yours, Griswold," said Kenneth.
Griswold set the bloody sword on the table next to him and glanced ruefully at his partner. Kenneth was hiding in the shadows, his whole demeanor betraying his reluctance to have been a part of the killing. The man was weak—lacking in ambition. "Which part," he said slowly to his companion, "are you unsure of?"
"Well, the whole thing," Kenneth said, a slight tremor in his voice. "First off, won't somebody notice that Lord Gruben is dead? And aside from that, won't they know he don't have no son?"
Griswold spit on the richly carpeted ground in annoyance. "Everyone knows the Lord Gruben hasn't left his estate in years, Ken, no one will miss him for at least ten more. And I doubt a single soul at the capitol could tell you what color his hair is, let alone remember the members of his family."
Kenneth bit his lip, even more hesitant. "Alright, well even so…where are you going to get the boy to play the part?"
The taller man's lips curled into a cunning smile. "Where else would you find a boy who cut his teeth on deceit and secrecy? Who can blend with any crowd and come out all the better for it? Nowhere better to find such a boy, I'll tell you, than the Court of the Rogue."
Marek Swiftknive flipped a dagger over and over in his deft hands as he sat overlooking the Dancing Dove. Even after over a year of being the Rogue, he had yet to feel comfortable on the throne. Memories of Claw still played sharp in his mind. As the thieves sat before him divvying their night's haul, he remained alert, surveying each and every one of them.
One young boy—an orphan, he remembered—had had a particularly successful night. As he unearthed his loot, Marek beckoned him with a crook of his finger. The boy carefully collected his goods before coming over.
"Ye've been successful, lad," Marek said casually.
The boy smiled boldly. "Your majesty is gracious."
The boy's uncommonly good grammar didn't escape the King of Thieves. "Haven't seen ye around lately, young…"
"Devan, Highness. Devan Steward. I've been away, 'tis true." Devan's eyes sparkled mischievously. "Been living with a merchant family, right near adopted me, they did. Of course," he folded his hands and looked upward in a gesture of mock-piousness, "as the only child of their dead cousin, it was the only charitable thing." He glanced at his pile of stolen goods. "They won't make that mistake again."
Marek nearly cringed at the detachment and lack of guilt the eleven -year old showed at his betrayal of this family's trust. He nodded his dismissal, knowing he would be keeping a close watch on Devan Steward in the future.