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The Assassin’s Tale
    The assassination did not go badly, not as such.
    Mara just hadn’t expected it to go so strangely. 
    She walked along the Via Rexis, the broad street that led to the Forum of Princes in the heart of Cintarra. Mara had spent a great deal of time wandering (and sometimes fleeing for her life) through northern and western Andomhaim, and of all the towns she had visited, she liked Cintarra the best. It was the largest city in the realm, home to nearly a hundred thousand people, and it seethed with energy and activity. People filled the streets, human merchants and porters going about their business, orcish mercenaries visiting from the kingdoms of Rhaluusk and Khaluusk, dwarven traders from the Three Kingdoms, halfling servants in noble livery conducting errands for their masters. 
    She wove her way through the crowds, her small stature letting her slip through with ease. Today Mara wore a green dress that matched her eyes, a belt of black leather around her waist, sturdy boots clicking against the flagstones as she walked. She wore her pale hair tied back in an unfashionable style, but it kept the hair out of her eyes.
    And it also concealed the tips of her ears.
    All those people going past on the street might well try to kill Mara if they knew what she really was. 
    To say nothing of the organization to which she belonged.
    At last she came to the Forum of Princes, the broad square at the heart of Cintarra. One side fronted the river, and gangs of workmen labored to unload barges laden with goods. The grim towers and walls of the Prince’s Castra rose upon another side, the Prince’s green dragon banner flying from the ramparts. Stalls and booths filled the Forum, clustered around the bases of statues of High Kings and Princes and Swordbearers of old, while shops lined the Forum’s remaining two sides.
    Mara made her way to the Sheathed Sword, a wine shop with a fine view of the Prince’s Castra and the barges filling the river. The Sheathed Sword’s owner liked to claim that it was far above the taverns favored by the common rabble, that only the noble and wealthy came to his establishment, which Mara supposed simply made the Sheathed Sword a fancy tavern for rich men. 
    Liveried footmen waited at the door, and they bowed and opened the door at her approach, as her dress was fine enough to allow her to pass as a merchant’s or knight’s daughter. The Sheathed Sword’s common room was opulent. Six hearths crackled with flame in the walls, throwing a cheery light over the gleaming floorboards and the walls of polished white stone. Tapestries hung on the walls, showing scenes from the scriptures and Old Earth, of the Dominus Christus feeding the five thousand, or Arthur Pendragon defeating the Saxon hordes at Mount Badon. Merchants and minor nobles sat at round tables, eating and drinking and discussing business and the affairs of the city. Halflings in the livery of the Sheathed Sword scurried back and forth, carrying trays of food and drink to the patrons. 
    All save for one halfling. 
    Mara’s target.
    He sat alone, leaning back with his gleaming black boots propped upon his table. Some of the nearby merchants gave him sidelong, thin-lipped looks. Almost all the halflings Mara had ever met were the domestic servants of nobles or wealthy merchants. Centuries ago, the High King had defeated the pagan orcs, freeing the halflings from millennia of slavery, and in return the halflings had sworn eternal loyalty to the nobles. 
    Yet here sat Jager of Cintarra, a halfling and one of the richest merchants in Cintarra. 
    Despite herself, Mara found herself amused by the audacious front he displayed to the world. Jager had curly hair and bright amber eyes, his face pale and square-jawed. He wore a crisp white shirt beneath a black leather vest, his black trousers tucked into his gleaming black boots. A jeweled dagger and short sword hung at his belt, and he held a goblet of wine in his right