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at their feet. They could not have been
more proud of themselves.
    Merk, though, hated the pomp, the
limelight. Those knights had all seemed clumsy at killing, vastly inefficient,
and Merk had no respect for them. Nor did he need the recognition, the
insignias or banners or coats of arms that knights craved. That was for people
who lacked what mattered most: the skill to take a man’s life, quickly,
quietly, and efficiently. In his mind, there was nothing else to talk about.
    When he was young and his friends, too
small to defend themselves, had been picked on, they had come to him, already
known to be exceptional with a sword, and he had taken their payment to defend
them. Their bullies never tormented them again, as Merk went that extra step.
Word had spread quickly of his prowess, and as Merk accepted more and more
payments, his abilities in killing progressed.
    Merk could have become a knight, a
celebrated warrior like his brothers. But he chose instead to work in the
shadows. Winning was what interested him, lethal efficiency, and he had
discovered quickly that knights, for all their beautiful weapons and bulky
armor, could not kill half as fast or effectively as he, a lone man with a
leather shirt and a sharp dagger.
    As he hiked, poking the leaves with his
staff, he recalled one night at a tavern with his brothers, when swords had
been drawn with rival knights. His brothers had been surrounded, outnumbered,
and while all the fancy knights stood on ceremony, Merk did not hesitate. He
had darted across the alley with his dagger and sliced all their throats before
the men could draw a sword.
    His brothers should have thanked them
for their lives—instead, they all distanced themselves from him. They feared
him, and they looked down on him. That was the gratitude he received, and the
betrayal hurt Merk more than he could say. It deepened his rift with them, with
all nobility, with all chivalry. It was all hypocrisy in his eyes,
self-serving; they could walk away with their shiny armor and look down on him,
but if it hadn’t been for him and his dagger they would all be lying dead in
that back alley today.
    Merk hiked and hiked, sighing, trying to
release the past. As he reflected, he realized he did not really understand the
source of his talent. Perhaps it was because he was so quick and nimble;
perhaps it was because he was fast with his hands and wrists; perhaps it was
because he had a special talent for finding men’s vital points; perhaps it was
because he never hesitated to go that extra step, to take that final thrust
that other men feared; perhaps it was because he never had to strike twice; or
perhaps it was because he could improvise, could kill with any tool at his
disposal—a quill, a hammer, an old log. He was craftier than others, more
adaptable and quicker on his feet—a deadly combination.
    Growing up, all those proud knights had
distanced themselves from him, had even mocked him beneath their breath (for no
one would mock him to his face). But now, as they were all older, as their
powers waned and as his fame spread, he was the one enlisted by kings, while
they were all forgotten. Because what his brothers never understood was that chivalry did not make kings kings. It was the ugly, brutal violence, fear, the
elimination of your enemies, one at a time, the gruesome killing that no one else
wanted to do, that made kings. And it was he they turned to when they wanted
the real work of being a king done.
    With each poke of his staff, Merk
remembered each of his victims. He had killed the King’s worst foes—not by
poison—for that, they brought in the petty assassins, the apothecaries, the
seductresses. The worst ones they often wanted killed with a statement, and for
that, they needed him. Something gruesome, something public: a dagger in the
eye; a body left strewn in a public square, dangling from a window, for all to
see the next sunrise, for all to be left in wonder as to who had dared oppose
the