The Misbegotten (An Assassin's Blade Book 1) (17 page)

“Right, right. Protectionism. In case he gets with a guy dressed up as a lady, see. Since he’s all about the ass, he can still have his fun. Protectionism.”

“That ain’t it!” Baurel shouted.

With an unexpected smile on my lips, I slunk back off into the camp. I hoped that wouldn’t be the last time I saw my friends. But the fact was this plan Vayle and I had concocted… it was the sort of plan you make when you’ve got nothing else. The kind in which you shrug your shoulders and throw it out there, knowing it’s better than nothing, but not by much.

W
aiting
for the Glannondils to ready me and Vayle each a horse, the two of us sat in Braddock’s tent.

The king of Erior chomped a stale piece of bread in half and chewed it vigorously, probably imagining it to be a fat chunk of the greasy sausage he dined on regularly.

“What was it like there?” Braddock asked. “Being with the conjurers?”

The memories put a scowl on my face. “An unforgettable time that I hope to soon forget.”

“What was the land like? Similar to here? The people, did they speak like us?”

“I was shackled to a pillar in a dark, cold dungeon for most of the time, at least most of the time I recall. The only man who I regularly gossiped with had no toes, but yes, he spoke just like you and me. And the land? Entirely unremarkable, except for a tree. It was the biggest tree I’d ever seen. It lurched out sideways for a while and then surged straight up into a mess of branches and golden flowers. It was serene, and it reminded me of something I still cannot remember.”

A smile touched Braddock’s lips, which never ceased to unhinge me. “Reminds me of a girl. Finest lover I’ve ever had. Friskier and wilder than Gale. She had small tattoo of a—”

“Tree,” I said, barely able to move the word past my shrinking throat.

“No, not quite,” Braddock said. “It was of a blooming field on her—”

“Back,” I said dreadfully.

“Er, no. On her thigh. Anyway, her hair was the most brilliant shade of—”

“Black,” I said, as the memories instilled trepidation into my heart. “Raven black.”

“Red,” Braddock said, sounding annoyed. “Quite not black.”

“And she was tall and slender,” I said, ignoring him. I ignored everything based in my immediate reality. My eyes were fixated in one position, like those of a man who’d crept over that line you don’t come back from, where insanity seeps into your veins forevermore.

“Short and rather squat,” Braddock said. “I feel confident in saying you have never had the pleasure of meeting her.”

“Her eyes were green,” I said. “She twirled a key around her finger when I saw her for the first time in two years. She freed me from that piss hole of a dungeon in Edenvaile, and I paid back the favor at the slavers’ camp.”

“What the piss are you going on about?” Braddock asked.

I lifted my eyes from the floor. Apparently they did a proper job of reflecting the blend of rage, resentment and terror whirling inside me, because Braddock pulled his fat neck back inside his oversized shoulder guards like a turtle retracting inside its shell.

“Sybil Tath,” I said. “That tree from the conjurers’ world. It was tattooed on her back, branch for branch, color for color.”

Attempting to make sense of this unfortunate revelation, Braddock did what most people do when confronted with an ugly truth: he tried to deny it. “Trees grow all over the world,” he said, his words about as effective as the mad bark of a rabid dog is at making you pet it on the head.

“These trees,” I said, holding my arms out wide as though the tent didn’t hide the broad-leaved trees surrounding us, “are trees that grow all over the world. Tell me one time — just once — when you’ve seen a tree rise up from the ground, decide to fuck nature and slide sideways for a while, and then inexplicably jump one hundred feet straight into the air.”

Good old silence.

“Go on,” I said. “I’ll wait. Actually, I can’t wait, because apparently the daughter of Edmund Tath”—I smiled insanely while shaking my head—“is a
fucking conjurer
!”

Braddock emptied his gourdful of water. “Makes little sense for a conjurer to have been in a slavers’ camp.”

I shrugged. “Gaining my trust, I imagine. Knew I’d pursue Lysa in Vereumene, where her little birds would destroy my Rots and take me to her queen.”

“Well,” Braddock said, “our list of potential Vileoux Verdan’s executioners has been narrowed down to one.”

“About that. He’s not dead.”

Sheer and utter surprise doesn’t appear as bulging eyes or a gaped mouth, but simply as what framed Braddock’s doughy face: a firm, unwavering nondescript expression you would typically find when peering into the face of the recently deceased.

He swiped his gourd from the table and, despite it being empty, pressed it to his lips. He cleared his throat. “Not dead?”

“About as alive as you and me, save our minds not being possessed. I saw him, heard him speak. Looked just as decrepit and broken and sounded just as ancient and raw as he did when sitting on the throne of Edenvaile. So perhaps less lively than you and me.”

“That’s not good,” Braddock said. The bluntness was nice to hear. “I can only imagine what they intend to do with him.”

“I’d rather not imagine it,” I said. “I need to find Sybil Tath. I can’t let her corrupt Chachant more than she already has.”

“Enlighten me as to your plan.”

I clicked my tongue. “I told her to tell Dercy Daniser not to believe whatever whispers he hears from Chachant. She likely did not do that and instead embarked for Edenvaile from the slavers’ camp. There are a host of messenger camps between here and there. Someone must have seen her.”

“Your pockets look awfully empty,” he noted. “Hard to buy off messengers without any coin.”

“The Black Rot vault is not empty. You don’t always need coin on hand to exchange payment for a favor, Braddock. Not when your word is as valuable as the currency you promise. By the way, keep this between you, Vayle and myself.”

A smugness smeared itself across the king of Erior’s face. “My, my. A secret the Shepherd wants to share with a pompous king but not with his own assassins? I feel so special.”

“Do you feel special knowing our chance of surviving in this world has been cut off at the knees? No? I didn’t think so. I don’t want the others to hear about this. It’ll breed in the back of their mind and weaken their resolve. Keep it between us.”

“What about Patrick Verdan?” he asked.

“I’ll get to Patrick, don’t worry.”

“What if you can’t find Sybil?”

I took a step toward the entrance of the tent and looked back. “Then it’s been not very nice knowing you.”

M
y fondness
for the horse I’d raised since she was a foal, Pormillia — who was still in bloody Erior — was never greater than when I was bouncing on the saddle of a steed named Kroon. Kroon seemed like a kind enough soul, what with his big brown eyes and affection for nestling up against you as you rubbed his snout. However, Kroon had a nasty addiction to chewing grass at inappropriate times, such as once every twenty steps.

It took six hours to cross the distance Pormillia could cover in two. Thankfully an inn sat along the way. I exchanged Kroon and one of my daggers — steel, not ebon, I’m not silly — for a horse named R. Or perhaps it was Are. Whatever the case, R had none of this grass-eating business that plagued Kroon, and we rode like the wind. And so too did Vayle, whose lively mare was raring to go after a short rest at the inn.

We spent most of our time cutting across the Haiden Grasslands, well-known for its sprawling meadows of golden grass whose stalks are thick and curly. Not brown-dead grass, mind you, but a healthy glow of gold, as if permanently burnished by a noonday sun. It’s a place of serenity, but only for a few hours. After that, the calm goes right out of you like rotten meat. The mind can only take so much uninterrupted flatness and grassy pastures before boredom makes you wish you were in the mountains again.

On the fifth day of our journey, we came upon a small encampment with a towering beanstalk of a wooden post staked in the middle. It was nighttime, but still a flag could be seen soaring from the top, with the insignia of a golden galloping horse painted against a white sky. The walls surrounding the camp were made of short wooden posts, the tops gnawed down into spikes. The gaps between the posts were large enough for a person to fit between, but not a horse, which was exactly their intended purpose.

R trotted into the camp unimpeded, although he drew great interest from the vigilant eyes of a few messengers who watched with hands on their hilts. They relaxed once they saw the red hand of the Black Rot draped across the backsides of R and Vayle’s mare. It may be an agreement among all civilized kingdoms and cities and villages and guilds never to harm a messenger, but agreements have funny ways of being forgotten.

A hunched man wobbled my way, holding a lantern. “How are you today, sirs and misses?” he said, taking R’s reins as I dismounted.

“Just one sir, one miss,” I said.

“Not so,” he explained with a wagging finger. “Got yourself a sir horse and a miss horse too. Two sirs, two misses.”

“Hopefully we won’t be shacking up with the horses,” I said.

An old guffaw exploded through the camp. “Not unless ya want to, no, sir. Our beds are taken tonight, but we have some straw laid out. Can put up a small tent for you, if you’d like. Standard gold piece for the straw, another for the tent.”

The stable keeper secured R to a tie stall, then took Vayle’s mare.

I walked over and patted the side of R, drawing attention to the red fist. “We’ve nothing in our pockets, but I believe you can trust that we will repay you.”

The man tried to straighten his hunched back without success. “Of course, sir. The Black Rot is well-known among the messengers.” He leaned in, lifted his hand beside his mouth and whispered, “Your payments are more generous than most, the riders say.”

“Who is your commanding officer?” Vayle asked.

“Sir Daywrick is—”

“Sir Daywrick is right here,” bellowed a man. He appeared beside the stable keeper. He was tall and athletically built, with a flowing red beard. A golden pin featuring a galloping horse was fastened to his cloak. “Black Rot, eh?” he said.

“Name’s Astul,” I said.

My commander nodded curtly. “Vayle.”

Commander Daywrick beamed. “The Shepherd of the Black Rot.” He turned to Vayle. “I’m, er, not as familiar with you.”

She smiled. “I prefer it that way.”

“Well, my men enjoy delivering messages to your, what do you call it — the Hole?”

“So I’ve heard,” I said. “Do you have a moment to talk? Privately?”

He traded glances with the stable keeper. It was an unusual request. When you passed through a messenger camp, you did so to send a message or rest for the night, not talk to their commanders.

“Of course,” the commander said at last, the courteous smile returning to his lips. “My quarters are right this way.”

“Quarters” was certainly a hyperbolic term for the thing that housed Commander Daywrick. It was a shack of peeling wood with a flimsy door. It also reeked of must.

A candle limped to one side and the other, as if it was giving up on life. It provided for something better than total darkness, but not much. The commander sat at a table littered with stacks of parchments. Vayle and I stood, for that’s what people do when there is only one chair in a room and it’s taken.

“I’m hopeful you can provide me with information,” I said, getting to my point quickly.

“About the messengers?” he inquired.

“About someone who may have passed through here recently.”

An uneasiness stiffened the commander. “I’m afraid the messengers cannot divulge that information. Our code prohibits—”

“We know about your code,” Vayle said.

“And we also know men are fickle creatures,” I said. “They forget things occasionally, particularly when the flash of gold catches their eye.”

The commander kicked his seat back angrily and stood up. “I cannot be bought.”

“I’m not buying you. I’m buying your information. It’s an age-old practice.”

He slammed his finger meaningfully into the table. “I will not be influenced by—”

“Five thousand gold coins,” I said, “delivered here within a month. My word, I’m sure you know, is as good as the gold that will soon be overflowing from your encampment.”

The commander fell silent. Promising a man a mountain of wealth tends to make a mute out of him.

“Your horses look a fair bit ragged out there. Five thousand coins will buy a few strong, young ones. Or you could stuff your men’s pockets, boost their morale. Or, hell, stuff your own pockets and enjoy the finer things in life. I won’t tell, promise.”

The commander looked around, as if tiny bee-sized messengers were flying about, ready to cast judgment upon him. “We talk within the order about messages that get sent,” he said. “But it is known that these bits of information
never
leave the order.”

“I understand. I’ve a made a life of burying secrets. All I want to know is if you’ve heard whispers of Sybil Tath, daughter of Edmund Tath, pass through recently.”

The commander rubbed his knotted fingers together. “A messenger who rides a route from Rime to here and back came through about three weeks ago. Maybe a little more. He bore a verbal message sent from Lord Chachant Verdan to be delivered to Lord Dercy Daniser.” He eyed the door to his shack. His voice trembled slightly. “There is to be an exchange of vows between Lady Sybil and Lord Chachant, held in the kingdom of Edenvaile. All of the major families were invited.”

I shifted unconsciously on my feet. “When?”

“Ten days from now.”

“Thank you,” I said. “One month, five thousand coins. Count on it.” I turned and walked out of the shack.

The night seemed much colder than it had just a few moments ago. Bad news has a way of altering your perceptions. Unexpected news has a way of crushing them.

“This is exciting,” Vayle announced.

I lifted a brow and kicked a chunk of dirt. “You have an interesting interpretation of the exciting.”

“I’ve always wanted to bear witness to a grand wedding,” she said. “I assume we’re going?”

“Oh, we’re going.” Whether we’d be wanted was another matter entirely. I did have to admit that seeing the confusion march across Sybil’s face would be exciting. Discovering what she would do
after
the fact, however… well, that fell more on the spectrum of fear, loathing and general unhappiness.

I found the stable keeper spreading hay before a much-appreciative R.

“Sleep has been canceled,” I informed him. “How many messenger camps are between here and Edenvaile, and where are they?”

The old man wiped a bead of sweat away from his wrinkled forehead. He counted silently on his fingers. “Hmm, roundabouts nine of them. Keep your steed’s nose pointed straight here — well, as straight as you can, at any rate — and you’ll run into all of ’em.”

“Good man,” I said, slapping his shoulder.

“Oh, and by the way. If you’re wanting to shut your eyes for a wee bit on the way there, best camp is Hiven’s Camp. Commander Hiven calls it Hiven’s Fortress, which isn’t far off. There’s a great big inn with linens and all the fancy fixings. They even have daily hunts to invigorate morale, though I don’t expect the Black Rot would be needing such things.”

“Do they have wine?” Vayle asked.

His droopy eyes brightened. “Oh, yes. Lots of wine.”

Vayle smiled. “Good.”

He leaned in and offered a half-hearted whisper. “They even got a little special building there. The women inside don’t wear clothes.” He jabbed me playfully in the arm, and then turned serious as he glanced at Vayle. “Er, unfortunately nothing for the lady here… unless she enjoys the company of—”

“That’s quite all right,” Vayle said. “I enjoy the company of wine.”

The stable keeper unbounded our horses from their stalls. I flipped him an imaginary coin and told him that although we did not sleep here, the debt would nevertheless be paid in his name, perhaps with a few extra coins thrown in. He thanked me profusely, and Vayle and set off for the wedding.

I hated weddings.

W
e crossed
the Rime border on the fifth day of our journey. R’s hooves thudded over a frozen tundra and beneath a slate sky whose clouds looked so thick and gray, one would be forgiven for believing the sun was eternally hidden.

Southern Rime was a blustery, pockmarked landscape with craggy hills and wisps of brown grass interspersed along the cracked ground of dirt and rock. It was a land of sheep and of buffalo and of people who apparently had no ambitions for finding happiness.

As Vayle and I pushed deeper into the misbegotten region, slushy flakes began pelting us in the face. Soon, as the air turned colder, the slush turned to snow that quickly reached depths of half a foot, with more on the way. Our progress slowed considerably. Thankfully, Edenvaile was a day’s ride away. So too was the wedding.

Vayle and I rode abreast, occasionally exchanging looks to remind each other that we both we were tired, sore and bored. We traded off horses at each messenger camp we came to so that we’d have fresh beasts for the journey.

I was now fifteen thousand coins in debt.

On the morning of the tenth day, the curved walls of Edenvaile appeared through the haze of gentle snowfall and fog.

Vayle unbuckled her skin of wine from her satchel and she sipped.

“Give me that,” I said, reaching over and taking a swig.

“Tangy,” she said. “And a little sweet.”

I inhaled the frosty air deep into my lungs. “I’m not drinking for taste.”

“Neither am I,” she said, licking the wine from her lips. She gave me a wink. “You haven’t told me how we’re getting in.”

I sat back in my saddle and pulled the reins gently back, halting my steed. The looming castle of Edenvaile stared at me unrelentingly.

“Well,” I said, uncertainty creeping into my voice, “we could wait for a market cart and steal it.”

“That seems unlikely.”

“True,” I said. “We could scale the walls.”

“That seems even more unlikely given we’ve no rope.”

“Fair enough. We could…” I bounced my head back and forth, trying to jar loose a brilliant idea.

“Why not simply walk in?” Vayle said.

I considered this. “We’re not what you would call welcome guests. Or rather, I’m not. Although Sybil did say Wilhelm helped her free me. But you can’t really trust a conjurer, can you?”

“Chachant has employed you to find who killed his father. You’re as welcome as any, I would imagine.”

“The Chachant of old,” I corrected her, “employed me to find his father’s murderer. Since then he has slipped into an increasingly rapid state of insanity that seems to have been induced by his wife-to-be.”

Vayle opened her mouth and caught a snowflake on her tongue. She swallowed it.

“Are you drunk?” I said.

“No. Why?” She looked offended at the suggestion.

“You’re eating snow.”

“I enjoy the coldness on my tongue. Walking into Edenvaile is our only option, Astul. Look around. There is no market cart. No secret passage into the sewers. There’s only the gate.”

I sighed. “If I find myself in that bloody fucking dungeon again…”

Our horses cantered up to the gate of Edenvaile and then slowed to a trot and then a walk. Atop the battlements were the city guard, dressed in silver steel breastplates and conical iron helmets with a thin nose piece running down the middle. They looked ridiculous. A black tabard wrapped around all of them, with the Verdan coat of arms featuring three golden swords pointing upward.

Those patrolling the parapet wielded bows, but those that greeted us below waved enormous swords and pikes in our faces. And greet, truly, is too kind of a word. They met us. With what seemed like unabashed resentment. There were ten of them, with more pouring through the streets.

They all had excitement in their eyes. This was probably their big day to shine, to put on a show for mommy Sybil and daddy Chachant. Poor bastards.

“We’re here for the wedding,” I said, smiling.

A guard with three golden swords fastened to his cloak straightened himself. “Black Rot was not invited,” he said, taking note of the caparisons that covered our steeds.

“I assumed my invitation was lost.”

An explosive argument boomed from inside the kingdom, near the frozen fountain in the large square courtyard.

“Fucking find someone!” a voice bellowed. A very familiar voice. “I don’t give a fuck! Find someone with a hand.”

“Wilhelm!” I shouted.

The commander of Edenvaile’s city guard turned and, immediately upon seeing me, said something that looked quite foul under his breath.