KINGSLAYER

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Act 2 Chapter 95
ALEXANDER

The rope was rough in his hand as Alexander gripped the thin decorative outcropping of stone. The warm night air blew his hair from his face. A rivulet of sweat was running down his forehead, but dangling from the side of the palace as he was, he had no spare hand to wipe it. He was too concentrated to care.

The toe of his boot found a foothold. He hefted the loops of the rope over his shoulder and pulled himself upward. The movement made the ground shrink even lower. But he was not afraid of heights; in fact, he liked looking down and seeing how far he'd come, how small the city was from up high. It made his problems seem a world away.

Behind him was the back of another tower, windowless as it faced his destination. No one would see him. To anyone else, he wasn't even there. It could be both comforting and isolating. He decided on comfort.

Alexander yanked himself up until his feet stood against the outcrop. It was barely wide enough for the balls of his feet to keep him steady. If he leaned back a bit too far, if his fingertips slipped, he would fall twenty stories and be a smashed bug on the low roof so far down. But Alexander wasn't worried. If he didn't trust in his own excellence, no one would. Besides, he'd done this a thousand times. Not so high up before, but it was the same principle.

He climbed another story, grateful that the Oceanics invested in such ornate marble decoration for him to cling to. The beginning of his journey scaling the side of the palace had been the most difficult stretch, as it had been hidden from below, and therefore was not as heavily adorned as this part was. Ermalai's quarters, where he had begun from, were in the most extravagant part of the guest rooms, but his window was still facing the dark wall of the opposite tower. Even Alexander had a better view. He knew Jaylah had done that on purpose.

Chin tilting up, he took in the space he still had to cover. Not much. Thank the Hounds his destination lay in that same wing of the palace meant for the elites, just a few floors higher and leagues to the left. His upper arms had just begun to ache from the strain it had taken to get there as fast as he had. He ignored it. This job had time constraints, and Alexander Khan always delivered. Perhaps not always what he promised he would, but still.

In mere moments, he was on his desired floor. Now he only needed to find the correct window, and mistakes were not permitted. He huffed, allowing himself to take a short break. His arms were definitely going to hurt the next day. Alexander cursed the Oceanics and their need for excessively massive palaces. In the Gilded City, they were a bit more modest. Well, probably because half the city had burned during the last revolution.

He scanned his surroundings. Right to left. A perfect line of too many windows to count, each of them leading to a different room. But he'd done his research. If he wasn't mistaken, it was the one four over to the left, the lights off.

His feet making minuscule steps as to not slip or make noise, Alexander crept over. Past two windows with the curtains drawn. And one that was bright with yellow light, so he had to hurry past. He'd made it at last.

Predictably, the window was locked. One hand still gripping the windowsill for support, his other went to his mouth, where his lockpick was clenched between his molars. When he spit it out, it was slick with saliva. If he dropped it, his one way in was gone, and he was going to rapidly have to figure out how to materialize through solid walls. He wiped it off on his shirt, still clutching the windowsill for dear life.

Of course, the window did not lock from the outside. But there was a place where the lever of the lock could be jostled open through a crack near the sealed entrance. It was quite easy to manage, likely because no one expected a break-in from twenty five stories high. It was not even meant to be possible. The lever slid up. The window popped open.

As always, Alexander made probability his bitch.

When he stepped in, the room was stuffy, so he left the windows thrown open for fresh air. And as the moonlight filtered in, the thin curtains swaying back and forth, Alexander scowled. This room—rooms, actually—was infinitely nicer than his own.

No one was inside, so he threw himself onto the closest couch, which was much squishier than the single chair in his room. He propped his feet up on the glass table, careful not to knock aside the vase of sweet-smelling white flowers. He eyed them with distaste. No one gave him flowers for his room.

The door handle was being turned. Alexander remained where he was languidly leaned back on the cushions, watching the door. It opened, revealing a short, thin man in the process of losing what remained of his light hair. He was still turned, locking the door behind him, when Alexander asked, "Late night?"

Uttering a sound that had the edge of a shriek and the pitifulness of a yelp, the man whipped around. Alexander could see the whites of his eyes in the dim room. "You...you are one of the Navrikans."

"I am one of those pesky Navrikans," Alexander confirmed, leaning his arm against the back of the couch. "Who'd you have to fuck to get these quarters, the Queen herself?"

The man seemed frozen, torn between making a break for the door and not wanting to risk Alexander's wrath. "What—how did you..."

"Take your time."

"Why are you here?"

"Ah. That." The man was starting to edge toward the door, his hand reaching for the handle. "Is our conversation boring you?"

The man stopped. "You are here to kill me."

"Of course not." Alexander was affronted. "I've come for information. How cruel do you think I am?" He patted the space beside him. "Come. We have lots to discuss."

The man remained where he was, mouth pressed into a thin line.

"Fine." With sore arms, Alexander pushed himself off the couch. "I'll come to you, then." He crossed the room quickly, pleased when the man flinched at his closeness. It felt good to be the strongest man in a room, asserting himself as the intimidator rather than the intimidated. It overrode his childish aversion to being alone in a room with anyone that may hurt him.

"Look at you shaking." He put a hand to the man's shoulder. "Relax."

The man's eyes darted down to his other hand, which held the spiral of rope. "Okay," Alexander drew out. "I wish you hadn't done that. But I suppose now our business can begin."

The fear in the man's eyes hadn't had time to peak before Alexander slung the circle of rope around his neck, forced him on his stomach, and yanked the spare length of rope into a noose. Alexander put a foot to his upper back to keep him down as the rope tightened.

He leaned over to see veins popping in the man's reddened face. "So how was your day?"

The man uttered a miserable gurgle.

"I'm sorry to hear that. Unfortunately, it's about to get a whole lot worse." With that, he stamped down just below the neck, jerked the rope, and the sound of a spine severing pierced the air. The room went still.

There had hardly been any noise, yet Alexander was still quick to string up the man from the chandelier like a kite caught in a tree. The head slumped forward, dripping blood from the open mouth.

Alexander heaved all his weight into yanking the man into the air, then jumped out the window, leaving the man there with a chair knocked over under his dangling feet.