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Vargun, I got your message,” Kylar said loudly, extending his hand and clasping the duke’s wrist. He lowered his voice. “You’ll be fine. Just do everything like we planned.”
    “Baron Kirof, thank you,” the duke said, a bit dramatically. He lowered his voice again. “So you’re the player.”
    “Yes. Let’s try not to put me out of work.”
    “I’ve never killed anyone before.”
    “Let’s make sure tonight isn’t your first,” Kylar said. He looked at the jeweled dagger tucked into the duke’s belt. It was an heirloom in the duke’s family, and its inexplicable loss would be part of the evidence that the duke really had killed Baron Kirof. “If you do this, you’ll be going to prison, and not a nice one. We can call it off.” Kylar waved his hands around as he talked the way the real Baron Kirof did when he was nervous.
    “No, no.” The duke sounded like he was trying to convince himself. “Have you ever done this before?”
    “Set up someone by pretending to be someone else? Sure. Pretended to get killed? Not so much.”
    “Don’t worry,” the duke said. “I—” Tenser’s eyes flicked past Kylar and his voice went tight with fear. “They’re here.”
    Kylar jerked away from the duke as if startled. “Is that a threat?” he barked. It was only a fair imitation of the baron’s voice, but blood covers a multitude of acting sins.
    The duke grabbed his arm. “You’ll do as I tell you!”
    “Or what? The Godking will hear about this.” They definitely had the guards’ attention now.
    “You’ll say nothing!”
    Kylar shook his arm free. “You aren’t smart enough to take the throne, Duke Vargun. You’re a coward, and …” He dropped his voice. “One stab. The blood bladder is right over my heart. I’ll do everything else.” He contorted Baron Kirof’s face into a sneer and turned away.
    The duke grabbed Kylar’s arm and yanked him back. With a savage motion, Vargun rammed the dagger—not into the sheep’s bladder of blood, but into Kylar’s stomach. He stabbed once, twice, then again and again. Staggering backward, Kylar looked down. His cream-colored silk tunic was dripping red-black blood. Tenser’s hands were gory and flecks of red dotted the blue of his cloak.
    “What are you doing?” Kylar choked out, barely hearing the whistle blowing at the far end of the dock. He swayed, grabbing at the end of the railing to hold himself up.
    Sweating profusely, his black hair hanging in lank ropes, Tenser ignored him. Every trace of the hesitant, bumbling noble he’d been only a minute before had disappeared. He grabbed a fistful of Kylar’s hair. For him, it was a lucky grab. An inch forward, and he would have destroyed the illusory face Kylar wore.
    As footsteps began pounding down the dock, Duke Vargun let Kylar drop to his knees. Through eyes dimming with pain, Kylar saw Commander Gher charging down the dock with his sword drawn and two guards at his heels. Duke Vargun dragged the dagger across Kylar’s throat, sending blood spurting. Then, with as much emotion as a woodcutter burying his ax in a stump for the next time he’s going to split wood, Duke Vargun jammed his dagger into Kylar’s shoulder.
    “Stop! Stop now or die!” Commander Gher roared.
    Duke Vargun propped a calfskin boot on Kylar’s shoulder and smiled. With a shove, he propelled Kylar off the dock and into the river.
    The water was so cold Kylar went numb—or maybe that was from the blood loss. He’d inhaled before he hit the water, but one lung wasn’t cooperating. In moments air bubbled out of his mouth, and—disconcertingly—his throat.
    Then there was agony as he breathed the thick, dirty water of the Plith. He thrashed weakly, but only for a moment. Then the calm descended. His aching body was only a distant pulse. Something jabbed his body and he tried to grab for it instinctively. He was supposed to grab. There was something he was supposed to remember about a catchpole.
    But if his