"And I assume that you are not among those who took this oath. Otherwise, you would not still be breathing." Ragnar said at last, folding his arms across his chest.
"Only the assassins are forced into it," Jorrit replied. "They are the ones most at risk of capture and most likely to be interrogated. Not everyone Narfor takes in becomes an assassin, but we all serve him regardless. He has eyes everywhere. He controls everything we do."
It was a pitiful way to live, bound endlessly to another man's will, never free, never safe. And yet, for many of them, a lifetime spent under Narfor's thumb was preferable to whatever misery awaited them in the streets. Hunger, disease, abandonment—those were far crueler masters.
"Where is his stronghold?" Ragnar demanded.
Jorrit jerked his head back, eyes widening just slightly. "Do you intend to attack it?"
Ragnar's lips curled into something sharp and humorless. "What I intend to do is none of your concern. Where does he keep his assassins?"
