The King's Justice

Slipping silently through the cultivated undergrowth of the night time garden, Rygon approached the summerhouse of Lord Bedsor, one of the members of the Privy council. He knew that this was the main meeting place of the Noble Fifth Columnists who were seeking to undermine the King. Rygon was not quite what you expected from the most successful Royal Assassin for generations. He was very well read and enjoyed courtly pursuits, like dancing and falconry; though he was never involved with the conspiracies of the court. He affected the manners of a fop and a harmless dandy. The King had seen the potential of having him trained in secret by the previous Royal Assassin. Few could match his skill in the art of subtle death; it could come from an unexpected fall on an icy path, or a strange wasting malady that none of the healers could fathom. However, occasionally the King asked for something unmistakable and dramatic so that the Kingdom was in no doubt as to who held the reigns of power; and that was his mission tonight, to provide a public reinforcement of the King's Justice. The insurrectionists had all sorts of personal grievances that they blamed on the King. He taxed the wealthy unreasonably, demanded that they provided young men from their Feus to man his armies, and worst of all could take away their lands and titles on a whim for seemingly spurious reasons. These privileged men never paused to consider that the King had maintained a peace that had lasted for forty years, nor did they recognise that their wealth and settled lives was a direct result of the careful rule of a wise, though albeit ruthless, ruler. The King had made one slight miscalculation, that men with little to do would find something to fill their time with, such as idle speculation and criticism of the King's rule.

Rygon carefully slid underneath the raised floor of the cabin and, with his typically phlegmatic good humour, affixed the gunpowder charges to the underside of the floor. As he retreated back to the woods he concealed the fuse with dirt and woodland debris. Then he sat in the dark waiting for the traitors to arrive and meet the immutable judgment of their King. He remained an immobile shadow within the shadows of the garden. This was the tedious part of the process, the wait. After about two hours the conspirators started to arrive, furtively, by ones they let themselves into the summerhouse. Rygon waited, recognising each conspirator as they passed his hiding place. When the full number had met he struck a spark from his tinderbox to the fuse. The resulting explosion wakened half the city and at the same time informed the King that his crown would remain on his head for sometime yet.

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