The city of Bellamere had seven bridges, twelve bell towers, and enough secret societies to require a municipal registry. The most respected of these was the Order of the Quiet Hand, an ancient guild of assassins headquartered beneath a perfectly respectable candle shop on Tallow Street. Their members were known for patience, precision, and leaving absolutely no evidence behind.

Tobin Vale had been an apprentice of the Quiet Hand for six weeks, and so far he had left behind three gloves, a grappling hook, half a sandwich, and on one memorable occasion, his own name written on a delivery receipt. His mentor, Master Corven, had begun developing a small twitch beneath his left eye. Nobody in the Order mentioned it, because mentioning weaknesses in an assassin’s face was considered impolite.

Tonight, Corven stood over a map of Lord Varrow’s estate while Tobin leaned eagerly across the table. “The target takes tea precisely at midnight,” Corven said, tapping the eastern balcony. “You will enter through the servants’ stair, approach unseen, and place the poison berry in his cup so the victim will die.”

Tobin nodded solemnly. “Poison berry. Victim. Die.” He repeated it once more under his breath, because Master Corven was always telling him that careful listening separated professionals from corpses. Corven watched him suspiciously, then handed him a small purse of coins.

An hour later, Tobin returned carrying a warm pastry box tied with blue string. The scent of baked crust and sugar filled the underground chamber immediately. Corven stared at the box, then at Tobin, then very slowly closed his eyes.

“I told you to bring the poison berry for the victim to die,” Corven said. His voice had acquired the dangerous calm of a man trying very hard not to throw furniture. Tobin beamed and opened the box.

“Boysenberry pie!” he announced. “For the victim! To dine!” The pie was beautifully latticed, dusted with sugar, and still steaming slightly in the middle. Corven’s eye began twitching again.

There was a long silence in which the only sound was wax dripping from a nearby candle. “Tobin,” Corven finally said, “at what point in your training did you conclude that assassination involved dessert?” Tobin considered this carefully.

“Well, you always say the best assassin gives the target exactly what he least expects.” Tobin gestured proudly toward the pie. “I would wager Lord Varrow is not expecting boysenberry.”

Corven opened his mouth, stopped, and looked back down at the map. Unfortunately, Tobin had a point, although Corven would rather have swallowed one of his own poisoned needles than admit it. “Fine,” he muttered. “We improvise.”

They crossed Bellamere beneath a moon hidden by chimney smoke, moving over rooftops while carriage lamps flickered far below. Corven moved like a shadow, landing soundlessly on each tile, while Tobin followed with the pie tucked beneath one arm and whispered apologies whenever his boots knocked something loose. By the time they reached Lord Varrow’s mansion, Tobin had apologized to two chimneys, a gargoyle, and one extremely startled pigeon.

At the balcony, Corven crouched beside the window and whispered, “Stay here. If anyone approaches, create a diversion.” Tobin nodded with the grave determination of a soldier receiving his final orders. Corven slipped inside and disappeared behind the curtains.

Three minutes later, bells began ringing throughout the mansion. Corven burst back through the window with two guards behind him and found Tobin standing beside a small folding table. The boysenberry pie had been sliced neatly into eight pieces.

“Tobin!” Corven hissed. “I said create a diversion!” Tobin looked offended.

“I did!” he whispered back, pointing downstairs. “I told the kitchen staff there was a pie tasting on the west lawn.” Below them, nearly every servant in the mansion was currently abandoning their post in pursuit of free pastry.

Corven looked toward the suddenly empty courtyard. Then he looked at Tobin. Then, with immense reluctance, he grabbed a slice of pie.

“Run,” he said. “And bring the rest.”

Tobin grinned and gathered the box. “Successful mission, Master?” Corven vaulted over the balcony railing.

“Absolutely not.”

Tobin followed him into the darkness. “Should I get another pie tomorrow?”

From somewhere below came Corven’s exhausted reply.

“No.”

Tobin smiled to himself. “Right. Two pies.”