Kalen had been sitting on this bench for possibly twenty minutes, pretending to read a book. He'd opened up some volume, but his eyes were not focused on the pages; instead, they surveyed a crumbled note that had been smuggled to him the day before. The note specifically said to wait on this bench, and based on the chimes of the large clock halfway down the block, whoever had been due to meet him here was ten minutes late. He was wondering at this point if perhaps the spy who'd written the note, whoever it may have been, had perhaps mistaken one of the numbers for another, thereby confusing the time. Or perhaps they had specified the wrong district, and the bench mentioned was on the same street, but outside of the borders of Flash, in a striking similar position to the one he'd found. It was possible, but frankly, unlikely. He knew that when he made arrangements as a Carthaki spy he double-checked such things. A mistake making it all the way to his hands was unthinkable, and if that was really what had happened then there would be consequences—delivered by Kalen, if he turned out to be the ranking spy, which was the case surprisingly often of late, or by a superior whom Kae could complain to.

Of course, the Baron didn't know of a single espionage worker superior to him, outside of his fiancée's brother, Zanai. His orders came either from the man who delivered supplies to his estate from the docks, whom he'd always had the impression was little more than a mouthpiece, or from Dareia, who herself admitted that he exceeded her in rank. Whether this was a sign that he had climbed to a high position in the Carthaki spy network without realizing he'd done so or simply that he didn't know enough about the spies in Corus to know otherwise was anyone's guess. Perhaps it was best that he didn't know; that way there was no possibility of his spilling anything about any other spies. Not that he would—he was too good for a petty mistake like that—but for the others.

While he was engaged in this train of thought, an elderly woman came and took the bench seat beside him. Her movements were slowed with age, and her leathery skin showed a carmel color that could have been a light Carthaki, Barzunni, a dark Tortallan, or a mixed-breed like himself. “Mind if I sit with you?” she chimed sweetly, and Kae looked up long enough to intimate that he had no objection. She drew out a set of knitting needles and began to work on a half-completed scarf she'd carried in her hand basket, chattering idly about not being as young as she used to and needing to take frequent breaks. It was for this reason, she declared, that she'd taken to carrying around her knitting with her at all times, so that such respites were not altogether unproductive. “Though, bein' a noble you prolly don't worry much 'bout such things. You are noble, aren't you?” At Kalen's nod, she continued, “Well, what a sight indeed, li'l ol' me just talkin' away with the nobility. Which's your fief, if'n you don't mind my askin'?”

“Seajen,” Kalen said, believing that perhaps this withered old lady was his contact.

“Oh, think of that,” she responded, then went back to her needles. Taking her cue, Kae returned to his book, although his attention was focused so wholly on her—even if his eyes weren't exactly looking at direction—that the book might as well not have existed. After a few moments, he heard her voice again—different, now, in a very low, quiet tone, and without the cute elderly accent—“Are you ready to hear your orders?”

What was the delay? Why not just out with it? The Baron reached up and rubbed the back of his neck, using that opportunity to dip his head in something of a nod. For a moment, everything was quiet, then he heard a few words that made his heart stop—“Kill the Crown Prince.”

Kalen didn't look up from his book. In fact, his expression didn't change at all, but he doubted he was able to stop his face from draining few shades of its color. “What?” he muttered, so small and quietly that his lips hardly moved. “Why? How? When? Where?”

“Don't ask unnecessary questions,” was the immediate response. “Before his wedding on May 13th. The rest is up to you. There are a few who can aid you in your task—they are part of the Carthaki spy network. Asher Piol, a Lower City Dog. Makena Weaver, a Unicorn bookkeeper. Christopher Lyons, a palace gate guard. Misha Katcher, an Upmarket healer. Dareia Coriander, a palace kitchen servant. You have your orders.”

“I have my orders,” Kae repeated numbly, trying to commit the names to memory but finding his brain refusing to really cooperate. He was still in a state of shock regarding exactly what he'd just been told to do. After stating in character that her legs had been given a nice rest and she would continue on, the woman rose and shuffled past him, her arm wrapping weakly around her knitting basket. Kalen didn't look up, but continued to stare down at his book, in a state of disbelief. When his wheels started turning again, it was to contemplate how he could commit such a deed without being caught and killed in the process. There was no chance of his being able to get close enough to the prince to be able to do any damage with any sort of weapon. Neither was it feasible to send something that would do damage; he was certain the prince had everything opened by servants far before it reached his hands. There was little alternative, then. Dareia could prove almost more helpful than he'd dared to hope at first. She worked in the kitchen, she knew the people who handled the food and the cupbearers and food tasters. Kae's thoughts came to rest on one word: poison.