The Quiet Knife

Every bastard knows revenge is a road that only runs one way. Down.

I've known it since I was thirteen and put my first man in the ground—a stable master who'd taken liberties with my sister. Cut him ear to ear with a blade I couldn't properly hold. Made a proper mess of it. Of him. Of me.

Thirty years and gods know how many corpses later, I still know it. Every time I reach for steel, every time I watch the light fade from someone's eyes. Every red and dripping time.

Revenge is a poison you drink to kill your enemy. If you're lucky, it works. If you're very lucky, it kills you too.

I am not a lucky man.

They called me Castor the Quiet. Not because I didn't talk—though I kept my words lean as a winter wolf—but because of how I killed. No screaming. No speeches. Just the soft whisper of steel and the quiet after.

Three decades earning that name, serving any lord with coin enough to point me at their problems. The Black Duke's bannerman. The Red Queen's huntsman. I've worn enough titles to fill a book nobody would read.

Until Salthaven. Until Lord Myrick.

"You're losing your touch, Castor," said my old friend Bess, sliding a tankard toward me across the scarred tavern table. Ten years she'd run The Hanged Fish, the only alehouse in Salthaven where you could be reasonably sure the ale wasn't watered and the food wasn't rat. "Third time this month I've seen you drinking before noon."

I drank deep instead of answering. The ale was good—bitter and cold. One of the few pleasures left.

"It's been six months," she continued, dropping her voice. "People are starting to forget. Starting to say Lord Myrick did the city a favor, clearing out that nest of thieves."

"They weren't thieves." The words came out like stones.

"Never said they were." Bess had the decency to look away. "But you know how people talk. How they forget."

I drained the tankard and set it down with more force than needed. "I don't."

Bess sighed, the sound of a woman who'd heard too many men make too many promises that ended with too many graves. She'd buried two husbands, both killed in other men's quarrels. She knew the price of pride better than most.

"There's word Myrick's looking to hire swords," she said carefully. "Paying double the usual rate."

I felt my lip curl. "He's worried."

"He should be. Three of his tax collectors found dead last month. Two garrison men the month before." Bess leaned closer. "People say it's the Hill Ghosts."

The Hill Ghosts. Salthaven's desperate attempt to believe in justice. A myth born from hope and whispered in taverns by those with nothing left but stories.

"There's no such thing as ghosts," I said, pushing back from the table.

"Where are you going?"

I tossed a coin on the table. "To earn my name."

Six months ago, I'd commanded Lord Myrick's household guard.

It wasn't the most honorable position I'd held, but it paid well, and Salthaven was a good place to grow old. The sea air helped my joints. The quiet helped my dreams. Some nights I even slept.

Then came the plague.

It started in the hills, among the families who scratched their living from thin soil and thinner game. Poor folk, most of them. Hardworking. Proud as only the desperate can be.

My daughter Lissa lived among them, having married a charcoal-burner named Tam. She'd never had my taste for steel and blood. Always saw better than I did, that girl. Saw something worth saving in a coal-stained man with gentle hands. Saw something worth saving in me, too, though the gods know what.

When the first fever cases appeared, Lord Myrick called his advisors. I stood behind his chair as the physicians spoke of quarantine, of time and patience. They counseled isolation of the sick, but warned that families would need support—food, clean water, medicine.

Daggen, the city treasurer, spoke of costs. Of dwindling coffers and the upcoming winter.

"Can we not simply contain the problem?" Myrick asked, examining his rings.

"My lord?" The chief physician leaned forward.

"The plague is in the hills. The city remains untouched." Myrick looked up, his eyes finding mine. "Seal the hill roads. No one enters the city until the sickness burns itself out."

"The hill folk will need supplies," I said, forgetting my place. "Without help, they'll—"

"They'll solve their own problems or they won't," Myrick cut across me. "I didn't ask for your counsel, Captain."

I should have resigned then. Should have gathered what men would follow me and gone to help my daughter's people. Instead, I bowed my head and obeyed.

For three weeks, we held the roads.

I sent Tam a message, warning him to take Lissa and flee south, away from both plague and blockade. I never learned if it reached them.

On the twenty-third day, a delegation came from the hills. Gaunt men and women bearing a list of their dead. They came unarmed, seeking medicine, food, anything to save those still clinging to life.

Myrick met them at the north gate with archers.

"Turn back," he commanded from the safety of the wall. "Return when the sickness has passed."

"Our children are dying," called their leader, a gray-haired woman I recognized as the hill-country midwife. "We need medicines. Clean bandages. Food for those too weak to hunt."

"Your problems are not Salthaven's concern."

"We are Salthaven," she answered, her voice carrying clearly to where I stood. "We supply your charcoal, your game, your timber. Our labor fills your coffers. We ask only for help in our darkest hour."

Myrick's face hardened. "You ask for the plague to enter my city."

"We ask for mercy."

"Mercy," Myrick said the word like it tasted foul. "Captain, remove these people from my gate."

I hesitated, scanning the desperate faces below. "My lord, perhaps we could—"

"That was an order, Captain. Clear the road."

Twenty-seven men, women, and children stood before the gate that morning. Ragged, starving, desperate. Not warriors. Not rebels. Just people with nowhere left to turn.

I had a choice then.

For once in my blood-soaked life, I could have chosen differently. Could have defied Myrick, thrown down my sword, opened the gate.

Instead, I obeyed.

"Clear the road," I told my men, my voice carrying the weight of thirty years of command. "Move them back beyond the marker stone."

What followed haunts me still.

It began with shoving. Escalated to baton blows when some refused to move. Then someone threw a stone. One of my younger guards took it in the face and drew his sword.

I shouted for order, but by then blood had been scented.

Myrick's voice came from the wall: "Make an example of them."

My men, trained to obey, closed ranks. Steel flashed in the morning light.

The hill folk never stood a chance.

Afterward, standing amid the ruin I'd wrought, I found the gray-haired midwife still breathing, a spear wound in her chest.

She looked up at me with eyes gone cloudy. "Lissa," she whispered. "Tried to save her. The fever came too fast."

My heart stopped. "Lissa?"

"Buried her... three days past. Beside her man and child."

The ground seemed to tilt beneath me. "Child?"

"Born too soon. Sickly thing." Her breath rattled. "Never even named."

I had a grandchild. For a handful of days, I had a grandchild I would never know.

The midwife's hand found my wrist, her grip surprisingly strong. "Remember this day, Captain. Remember what you served." Her eyes held mine. "Remember what it cost."

Her last breath left her body as I knelt there, sword still dripping in my hand.

I had a choice then, too.

I could have wept. Could have begged forgiveness from the dead. Could have turned my blade on Myrick, or on myself.

Instead, I sheathed my sword, ordered the bodies burned, and reported to my lord that the road was clear.

That night, I packed my few belongings and vanished from Salthaven.

Not to run. To plan.

No matter what the broadsheets claim, revenge isn't best served cold. It's best served carefully. Methodically. With attention to detail that borders on love.

For six months, I'd been the ghost in Salthaven's hills. Watching. Waiting. Learning Myrick's patterns, his weaknesses, the gaps in his defenses.

I hadn't worked alone. Five others joined me—men and women who'd lost everything to Myrick's cruelty. We became the Hill Ghosts of tavern whispers. Not out of any desire for legend, but because dead men cast no shadows, and we were all, in our hearts, already dead.

Tonight, our patience would bear fruit.

"You don't have to do this alone," said Henna, checking the edge of her knife as we waited in the shadows of the old tannery. A former healer, she'd lost two sisters in the plague. "We swore to see it through together."

"This part I do alone," I replied, adjusting the borrowed uniform of Myrick's guard. "Too many bodies raise too many questions. One man might reach him."

"And if you fail?"

I smiled, the expression sitting strange on my face. "Then you finish what I started."

The others would create a distraction at the south wall—a fire, nothing too destructive, but enough to draw attention. Meanwhile, I would enter through the servants' gate, where the cook's nephew (whose mother had died in the hills) would ensure it remained unguarded.

Simple plans break less easily than complex ones.

"Castor." Henna's voice stopped me as I turned to leave. "There are whispers in the city. Myrick's offering pardon to any Hill Ghost who surrenders. Full amnesty, signed by the Crown's representative." Her eyes searched mine. "They say he'll make reparations to the hill folk. Build a memorial."

I felt something shift in my chest, a weight I'd carried for so long I'd forgotten it wasn't part of me. "You believe that?"

"I believe he's frightened. I believe fear can change even men like him."

The possibility hung between us—the chance, however small, that something besides blood might balance the scales.

"We could demand a public confession," Henna continued, her voice low and urgent. "Force him to acknowledge what he did. Make him use his wealth to rebuild what he destroyed."

"And you think that would be justice?" I asked.

"I think it might do more good than one more dead nobleman."

For a moment, I saw another path. One where the living benefited from my choice. Where something was built instead of destroyed.

Then I remembered Lissa's face. Tam's laugh. The grandchild I never held.

"There's your mistake," I said, checking my weapons one final time. "Thinking this is about justice."

The bell tower chimed nine. Time to move.

"Good luck," Henna whispered as I slipped into the night.

"Luck's got nothing to do with it," I replied, and was gone.

Getting inside was almost disappointingly easy.

The fire at the south wall drew guards like moths to flame. The servants' gate stood empty as promised. Within fifteen minutes, I was inside Myrick's mansion, moving through the shadows.

I knew the house intimately—every corridor, every creaking floorboard, every servant's routine. I'd designed the security myself, after all. Had trained the men now failing to prevent my progress.

Myrick would be in his study at this hour. He was a creature of habit, especially when troubled. Three glasses of Starrish wine, then correspondence until the midnight bell. Always alone—he distrusted servants after dark.

I reached the study door without raising alarm. Tested the handle. Unlocked, as expected.

Inside, Lord Myrick sat at his desk, back to the door, writing by lamplight. Unaware. Vulnerable. A perfect target.

I could have ended it there. Quick. Clean. One thrust between the shoulders and my vengeance would be complete.

Instead, I closed the door behind me. Loudly.

Myrick turned, startled but not yet afraid. When he saw me, recognition dawned slowly, then fear—delicious fear—spread across his features.

"Captain?" he managed, half-rising. "They said you were dead."

"I am," I replied, drawing my knife. "We all are. Everyone who stood at your gate that day."

Understanding came into his eyes then. "The Hill Ghosts. That's you?"

"Among others."

Myrick swallowed, eyes darting to the bellpull beyond reach. "I've been authorized by the Crown to offer amnesty. Full pardon for you and your... associates. If you surrender now."

"I heard."

Hope flickered across his face, quickly masked. "Then you know I've reconsidered my position. The hill folk have suffered enough. I'm prepared to make reparations."

"Fear is a remarkable motivator," I observed, moving closer.

"Not fear. Recognition of error." Myrick's voice steadied, the politician emerging. "What happened was a tragedy. A mistake made in panic."

"A mistake," I repeated flatly. "Twenty-seven unarmed people slaughtered at your command."

"For which I take full responsibility." He straightened, some of his old arrogance returning. "I cannot undo what's done. But I can ensure the survivors are cared for. That something good comes from this darkness."

It was a reasonable offer. Better than the hill folk might otherwise receive. Better, perhaps, than they deserved—if all that mattered was the greater good.

Henna would take it. The others probably would too.

But they hadn't held a knife that day. Hadn't given the orders that killed their own blood.

"My daughter died in those hills," I said quietly. "Her husband too. And their child—my grandchild. Born too soon, the midwife said. Sickly."

Something like genuine regret crossed Myrick's face. "I didn't know."

"Would it have mattered?"

He hesitated too long.

"That's what I thought." I moved towards him, knife gleaming in the lamplight.

"Wait!" Panic edged his voice. "Think of the living! Your people need help now, not another corpse!"

"My people?" I laughed, the sound brittle in the quiet room. "I have no people. I have no daughter. No grandchild. No future beyond this moment."

"Then what's the point?" Myrick demanded, desperation making him bold. "What does my death accomplish?"

I stopped before him, close enough to see the sweat beading on his brow, to smell the wine on his breath.

"Balance," I said simply.

Myrick stared at me, looking truly at me perhaps for the first time. "They offer you forgiveness, and you choose this?"

I smiled, the expression feeling like a scar breaking open. "Forgiveness was never for men like us, my lord. We've spilled too much blood to wash clean."

"Speak for yourself! I am not—"

"You are exactly what I am," I interrupted. "A man who traded lives for convenience. The difference is, I've stopped lying to myself about it."

I could see he wanted to argue, to draw distinctions between us. But fear kept him silent.

"I'm a reasonable man," I said, echoing his earlier tone. "I'll give you a choice. Quick and quiet, or slow and screaming. Choose wisely—it's the last decision you'll ever make."

To his credit, Myrick met my eyes. "If I must die, I'll do it with dignity."

I nodded, almost respectful. "Quick and quiet, then."

True to my name, I made it so.

Afterward, standing over what remained of Lord Myrick, I felt... nothing. No satisfaction. No relief. No sense of justice served.

Just emptiness, and the knowledge that I'd closed a door that might have led somewhere better.

Outside, the alarm bells began to ring. My time was running short.

On Myrick's desk lay the amnesty document, signed and sealed with the Crown's authority. A chance at something like redemption. At helping the people I'd failed.

For the last time, I had a choice.

I folded the document and tucked it inside my shirt, next to my heart. Not for myself—there was no forgiveness left for me—but for Henna and the others. For the living who might yet build something from these ashes.

Then I slipped from the room, Castor the Quiet once more, leaving nothing behind but a cooling corpse and the whisper of what might have been.

Every bastard knows revenge is a road that only runs one way. Down.

Some of us choose to walk it anyway.