It is narrative convention that dark deeds happen in darkness. Plots are plotted by shadowy figures lit by guttering candlelight. Conspirators’ faces are hidden so that they may be revealed at opportune moments.

In truth, grand conspiracies often happen in the open. Their aims are both obvious and simple. Their perpetrators, too, are obvious. Alas, the perpetrators are oft too powerful to aim at lightly, and they invariably have a thousand explanations and a thousand disposable underlings to take the fall.

Aeron fidgeted nervously with his tankard. He felt eyes on his back, and kept twisting around on the rough segment of log that this tavern used for stools.

“Do you think that’s him?” Ianto gestured with his mug to a handsome man with brown hair flirting with the barmaid. Panic flashed through Aeron and he leapt for the arm to pull it back down. A good third of the tankard slopped out, sending sharp, yeasty liquid splashing across the table. Aeron winced, then cringed as Sawel stood to avoid the spray of ale. An arm was draped across Aeron’s shoulders and he was roughly pulled close so that Eirian could whisper in his ear.

“Relax. You’re acting like a street thief with a pouch full of stolen diamonds. Do you want us to get caught? Just do your part.”

To a casual observer, it might have looked like a friendly drunk being over-enthusiastic with a drinking buddy. A casual observer would not be able to feel Eirian’s fingers digging into Aeron’s arm. After a couple of attempts, Aeron shrugged them off and wove his way through the crowd to the bar.

“Ah, I’ll get you a replacement. It’s my round anyway.”

Convincing enough. He hoped. The problem was, Aeron felt like a street urchin with a pocketful of stolen diamonds. With what tonight’s deed would fetch them, Aeron could afford to buy ten taverns like this one, and that was just his share!

He sidled up to the bar, taking quick furtive looks at the man. It had been a few years since Aeron had seen the third Imperial Prince in a parade, but… he was pretty sure. The man must have rubbed some sort of dye into his hair, as in the parade his hair had been the signature silver of the royal family.

Aeron fidgeted with his cup. Was this the right thing to do? Well no, probably not. But they were being offered so much gold! And the family had other children. Hell, that foreign bitch of a queen was squeezing one out tonight. Third Prince Darren was a disgrace to the throne, constantly sneaking out to drink in low taverns like this and spending the Empire’s tax gold on endless hunting expeditions. And yet…

And yet.

Aeron made his choice and carried four tankards of mediocre ale back to his table. He resolved that this would be the last time he ever drank ale this foul. Unfortunately for Aeron, he was entirely correct.

Aeron nodded to the others as he placed the drinks down in front of them.

“It’s him.”

Eirian nodded. They gestured at Ianto, then the back door. They finished off their previous tankard and took their new one to the bar. Once they were both in place, Eirian nodded to Sawel.

As an aside, the group of four worked well together. They stuck together and were able to shield their families from the larger gangs in the Peid by being useful but not ambitious. They each had a certain talent. Eirian was the brains of the bunch. They had formed the group and accepted all of their jobs. Ianto was solid, dependable muscle with a forgettable face. Nothing about him stood out or stuck in the mind of witnesses, but he could go from inobtrusive to implacable wall in a moment. Aeron was the newest member of the group, and he was a talented scout. He knew the signs of trouble and had been a courier for years before offending the wrong noble, so he knew the city like few others.

Sawel? Well, Sawel made excellent stew, and Aeron had never met anyone who could start a fight so quickly.

“I see. You pour the good ale all over me and when it’s your time to buy, you get piss? Then drink it yourself!” Sawel tossed the contents of his tankard all over Aeron. Aeron spluttered and just managed to wipe the stinging liquid out of his eyes in time to see Sawel throw the heavy clay tankard behind himself. It was a throw that seemed haphazard, but managed to brain a large man drinking with a group of other large men. The man who was hit turned around, saw another group behind him, and swung.

Aeron lost track of things at that point, but the city was surly and resentful. The week after the imperial wedding, Aeron had dodged more bar fights than in the year before. Now, with the imminent birth of a foreign princeling to the imperial family, old anger was dredged up. Soaked thoroughly in alcohol, the bar was a haybale just waiting for a firestone. A thrown mug and angry words were the perfect spark.

Aeron dodged through the crowd to the bar once more. He knew he was being obvious, but everyone’s attention was on the barfight. He dodged around two men beating on a third, and managed to catch sight of Prince Darren ducking under Eirian’s broken bottle and running to the back door.

Aeron’s guts twisted. If they missed him here, they would not get another chance. He tried to chase after the escaping prince, but had to squeeze and circle and dodge errant swings. By the time Aeron made it to the back door, he could hear the sound of fists impacting flesh. He burst through the door, only to see Ianto standing over a prone prince, kicking him in the ribs.

Long-trained instincts had Aeron looking over every shadow for danger. It was only when he looked at the roof of the neighboring building that he saw the Jackdaw waiting. The man was middling height, completely unremarkable except for the black armor that he wore. At first, Aeron despaired at seeing the soldier. The Jackdaws were the military body of the Privy Council, and they kept peace here in the Outer City beyond the Shining Wall. Aeron’s gut tightened in anticipation of the death the man would bring, but the Jackdaw just watched the scene with grim determination.

Aeron had not truly believed their client’s claims that there would be no retribution for the Prince’s death. He had expected to take his gold and run. When Ianto picked up one of the heavy wooden ‘stools’ and held it above his head, Aeron felt something like hope. The Jackdaw had barely twitched.

Aeron watched the log descend, saw Ianto’s muscles bunching, and hard the awful, snapping splat as the log pulverized the Prince’s head. All seemed still. Aeron left the doorway and gave Ianto a congratulatory pat on the back. They were going to be so rich! Aeron felt the joy bubbling within him and wanted to let out a celebratory yell, but Eirian kept them all on task.

“Aeron, help me search the body for the signet ring, that’s our proof for the client. Sawel, Ianto, lookout.”

Aeron dropped to his knees before the dead Prince and swallowed a wave of revulsion. Corpses were not a new sight to him, not in the Peid, but he could never seem to rid himself of that gut response. He began rifling through pockets as Eirian looked through the man’s pouches.

As the seconds ticked by, Aeron felt a gut certainty that the ring would not be there. They would not get paid, and they would all be executed as traitors to the crown. He started to gulp in big breaths of air, trying to stay calm. Eirian mirrored his feelings with a constant low muttering.

“Where is it. Where is it? It has to be here, he said it would be here…”

Aeron rifled through the man’s last pocket and checked around his neck. Nothing. He sat back, the slick black pit of dread threatening to devour him. They would never make it to the gates in time. Not without protection, and with no payment-

“Got it!” Eirian’s exclamation was a little too loud, but the relief in their tone hit Aeron like a rainstorm after a drought. He clambered over the corpse to get closer to Eirian, to see the proof of their salvation with his own eyes. He was so focused that he barely heard the sliding of a body against thatch, or the thump of black leather boots on cobblestones.

He did, however, hear the whistle.

“Guards! Assassins! Assassins from Morwen killed the prince! Guards! Prince Darren is dead!”

Panic had Aeron scrambling to his feet and running, but the Jackdaws were too well trained. They flooded into the narrow alley from both ends and Aeron ran straight into a punch to the head. He staggered back, reeling, and then saw the sword slashing to his neck.

Across the vast imperial palaces in the city of Gryfder, assassins fell like autumn leaves. These assassins were little more than toughs off the street, and they fell quickly to trained soldiers. Of course, the Jackdaws knew better than to barge in before the deed was done, and if there were dead thugs to blame, who would look too closely at the Jackdaw's bloody weapons?

The imperial family of Caelwyn were a prolific lot, but had declined as of recent generations. As a result, there was an abundance of empty, echoing halls. As of that night, there was also an abundance of imperial corpses.

In fact, the entire family had been extinguished, from the least branch-family prince to the Emperor himself. All of them, that is, bar one.

The assassins had not needed to kill the Empress Consort. She neatly took care of herself, along with her stillborn daughter.

As such, the Caelwyn Empire was plunged into crisis, through which only the strong guidance of the Privy Council could guide them.

A neat little package, and let the commoners talk. What could they do? The Privy Council would only rule until they found a successor, but, well… A council is a as good a governing body as any. Terrifying novelty quickly becomes routine. Routine ossifies into tradition.

Of course, all of that would only happen if they managed to stamp out the remains of the old order.

A carriage rattled and rumbled its way across rough cobbles. The driver kept the pace steady and slow, to avoid suspicion. Inside, a man sat across from a young woman. Rhoswen was still recovering from the birth of her daughter, but when the offer came from Lord Lewys to work as a nursemaid she had leapt at the chance. It was traditional, after all, for powerful men to either discard or marry their mistresses after one child. Rhoswen knew that Lord Lewys could not afford to lose the status from his wife, and so had been expecting to be tossed aside. It was a terrifying proposition to the young woman. A young woman, not a young Lady, as the death of her father not a month before had ended the line and stripped her of her ancestral lands.

Her hands reflexively started to clench but she kept them loose and her expression placid. She would have time to grieve later. Without titles or male relatives, Rhoswen had needed to scramble to find a husband to stay off the streets. When Lord Lewys had made his offer, it had seemed too good to be true.

Now, she was glad she had made that choice. Rhoswen had the education to be an excellent housekeeper, but there were worse fates than starting as a nursemaid. She had assumed that she was needed because Lady Ina had become pregnant, but she had been wrong. The proof was swaddled in her arms, somehow sleeping despite the jostling and jolting of the carriage.

Cerys rearranged the blanket around the bundle in her arms, and peeked again at the girl’s head. Still wispy, barely cleaned from the afterbirth and blood, but nevertheless.

Afternoon sun shone through swaying curtains and gleamed off the newborn’s silver hair.