It takes a particular type of person to be a successful assassin.

Anyone can be a murderer. You just need enough white-hot fury - or booze - on board, and, well, people are squishy.

The thing is, and most people overlook this, is that murderers are stupid. The sort of choices you need to make that lead to hitting someone over the head with a log in a crowded place is not consistent with a sparkling intellect.

A murderer might not be caught today, maybe not even tomorrow. But, soon, thick as mince will out.

Unlike murderers, assassins face a constant threat, not just from the law but also from the families of their victims. Their success hinges on their ability to not only escape immediate capture but also to evade the wrath of those left behind.

This tends to mean that the careers of assassins are either extraordinarily short or worryingly successful. That Tenejalan and his little band of miscreants had been in the business for over ten years pretty much tells you everything you need to know.

That Blæk had witnessed Tenejalan and his crew infiltrate Tintagel without the observation triggering his usual warning tingles tells you even more. And the audacity of this group in managing to strike Bors with three crossbow bolts just as Tenejalan himself appeared behind Guinevere, slashing with a knife, really took the biscuit.

Unfortunately - well, unfortunate, where Tenejalan and his crew were concerned - that was pretty much where their good fortune started to hit the buffers. There are times when a decade of experience gets you out of trouble and others when it leads you to make a series of false assumptions.

For example, as a veteran of many a queen-stabbing, Tenejalan expected Guinevere to scream when he appeared. So, when she did so, it fitted well into the narrative of the events he had constructed in his mind and would recount to his employer. If he had been a touch more on his game - the quality of the refreshments available had been extraordinary - he may have recognised that the broad-shouldered woman he was attacking was not so much screaming in terror, as bellowing in rage.

Likewise, for his three fellows manning the tower with their crossbows, three direct hits were the best that could have been hoped for in the circumstances. Distance, angle, moving target - three from three was a job well done. Years of putting down recalcitrant knights for lords with money to burn on such things told them it was time to pack up and head for the rendevous point where the last two of their gang would be waiting with the horses. So, it was probably understandable why they were hightailing it down the tower steps rather than putting a dozen more shots into the man they'd been paid a large fortune to kill.

And finally, the whole gang probably overlooked the presence of a shadowy cultivator who was suddenly very motivated to use his considerable resources to bring immediate retribution for the castle's violation.

So, all in all, what looked like a pretty straightforward—if very lucrative—contract on paper was about to take a somewhat unconventional turn.

*

Guinevere put the sight of Bors collapsing to the floor of the courtyard out of her mind as the man in black thrust a dagger at her. She had no idea how he'd arrived on the wooden platform overseeing the Grand Melee, but that was a recrimination for another day.

She screamed her anger at him and flapped the heavy sleeves of her dress at the knife. The blade caught in the material rather than hitting her in the mid-drift, and she quickly yanked her arm back to try to disarm their attacker.

Tenejalan's eyes widened in momentary surprise, but then he ripped the knife in his right hand free from its entanglement in Guinevere's dress and added a second blade to his left. Not ideal, but none of the guards were reacting yet - they'd all run to the big man his crew had put down - so he still had time.

He prepared to run after the queen who would doubtless turn her back and flee at any moment . . .

His head snapped back as the woman before him stepped forward and punched him in the face.

It had taken Guinevere longer than she would have liked to get over her fight with Cedric. On an intellectual level, she knew he had been bigger, stronger and more experienced. There was simply no way she would have been able to defeat him. That didn't mean her chest wound - and more importantly, the wound to her pride - didn't burn.

From the moment they'd returned from the Dark Tower, she'd thrown herself into her training with a somewhat excessive abandon.

The outcome was that Tenejalan had probably picked a bad day to try it on.

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Guinevere followed up her jab to his face - the assassin's nose made a satisfying crunch at the contact - by reaching forward, putting both hands behind his head, and driving it downwards to meet her rising knee. His nose spread even further around his face. A thrust kick to his chest followed to push him - staggering - backwards. That gave her enough time to draw her daggers, tastefully strapped to her thighs, and settle into a fighting crouch.

Eyes streaming, blood pouring onto his chest from his broken nose, Tenejalan did the only obvious ploy left open to him.

He ran.

*

The three men from the tower didn't see their leader shit himself. They had encountered their own problems. The difficulty with fleeing down a tower was that it allowed defenders to come up at you.

They'd discussed each taking up a different position around Tintagel, but having seen the sheer number of people and the various entertainment and food stalls, they'd figured it was just more straightforward to stick together.

The quality of guard they'd observed was execrable at best - Arthur had taken his best men with him - and there was no way any of them could stand up to the three of them together.

The truth of that was seen in vivid technicolour by the number of bodies that lined their descent from their vantage point. None of Tintagel's guards had made much impression on them as they sped past. They were just at the bottom and preparing to fall back to the stables and their escape route when three bruised and bloodied figures approached them.

They dimly recognised them as brawlers from the Grand Melee - none of them was affiliated with Arthur's castle - so they'd paid them no mind.

"Get the fuck out of the way," the first of the assassin barked at a spectacularly ugly man - more toad than human that was swinging his arms in an approximation of a warm-up routine. If he heard the order, it made no difference and continued to block their path to the stables.

The second assassin looked at the tallest of their three roadblocks. "You've got no weapons. What do you really think is going to happen here?"

Parsifal smiled back and then looked down at the slender boy who - bizarrely - seemed to be their leader. He raised an eyebrow, and Galahad nodded serenely back.

The final assassin, who had reloaded his crossbow during these social niceties, points at Acanor - the squat man looked the more dangerous of the three - "Back the fuck off, or you're dead!"

Things got a little intense after that.

*

The last two members of the the death squad, the ones waiting in the stables, were dead before they even realised they were in danger.

It was rare for Blæk to feel such anger, but it had been decades since there had been any unsanctioned killings within these walls. The Queen Igraine and now the attempts on Guinevere and Bors. No. This was not acceptable. His father would have been devastated if he had lived to see what was occurring on Blæk's watch.

As the shadows receded to the walls, leaving two somewhat surprised skeletons collapsing into piles on the floor, he recognised that he had been a touch injudicious. Desiccated corpses did not tell any tales about who had hired them.

Likewise, it was unseemly that he had let his irritation at missing these snakes in the den - five amongst so many hundreds? There were limits even to his and the Grey's perspicuity - overcome his rational side.

Blæk took a breath, closed the stable door behind him - the Grey would deal with the bones - and stepped into the light of the courtyard.

He could make out a one-sided scuffle at the bottom of one of the castle's towers. Three men - well, one man, one hideously deformed man-troll and a young boy - he recognised from the Grand Melee were kicking merry hell out of three strangers. He assumed these were the assassins who had shot Sir Bors and that they were now having the error of their ways explained to them.

His expert eye suggested that no questions would be asked of these assassins either. So, that just left . . .

*

Guinevere tackled the fleeing man from behind. As she achieved this by diving off the wooden platform to do so, she struck him in the back with quite some vim and vigour.

Tenejalan crashed into the ground in the middle of the courtyard, kicking his legs to get free. He caught the queen on the side of the head and bought himself a few more seconds. Not that it mattered. He could tell he was fucked.

You got in, you did the work, and you got out. The game was over the minute you found yourself in a fistfight with your mark. He spared the men he'd put in the tower a quick, final glance as they were stomped to the floor. He assumed his men in the stables were similarly off the board.

Fuck it.

He turned to face Guinevere. What sort of fucking queen attacked the guy coming to kill her! She was up on her feet, and he was pleased to see his flailing leg had closed her eye somewhat. That would leave a nice legacy bruise.

"Who sent you?" Guinevere's voice was low and controlled.

Tenejalan attacked. Better to go down fighting than in a torturer's embrace. But it was like he was moving through sand. The bloody woman blocked and parried his every attack, returning blows with interest.

After a few heartbeats, they separated, and he was astonished to realise he was done.

"Perhaps you didn't hear," the queen said, barely breathless. "Who sent you?"

"What?" he spat, a stream of blood from his mouth. "I tell you, and I get to live?"

"Of course not. But you tell me, and I'll make sure they're dead soon after you."

That gave Tenejalan pause. He was a petty man and liked the idea of his revenge living long after he passed. "There's no way out for me?"

Guinevere looked down—they were almost standing over Bors' body—"No," she said harshly.

"Fair enough. Can't blame a man for trying. We were paid to eliminate you and - " he looked down - "Sir Bors. A thousand gold pieces a head."

An insane sum. Ludicrous. Who would have that sort of money? Well, she certainly knew of one person.

"Your client was Aurelius Ambrosius?"

Tenejalan's face crumpled into a frown. "The old Pendragon's brother? He's been dead for years. No, we were hired by King - "

And then a good thing and an unfortunate thing took place. First, Bors suddenly took a deep breath and sat up, regaining consciousness. He looked around wildly and, seeing Guinevere standing blooded above him, reacted in the only way that made sense to him.

He reached up and grabbed the man with whom she was obviously scrapping and, with a squeeze of his massive hand, crushed the man's throat flat.

"Oh, Sir Bors," Guinevere said after a slight pause, "your timing is not impeccable."