The Misbegotten (An Assassin's Blade Book 1) (18 page)

The front of his balding head shined as the morning sun played a game of now-you-see-me-now-you-don’t. The bags under his eyes were thick and dark, and he looked a good bit thinner than the last time I’d seen him.

He shoved his way between the city guards, coming to the forefront. “Go assist cock for brains over there,” he told them, “and find me a goddamn butcher.”

“Yes, sir,” they said, all together. They shuffled their feet and went to assist cock for brains.

“I’ve got a fuckin’ butcher who cuts his fuckin’ hand off this morning,” Wilhelm said, beside himself. “Can you believe it? A butcher cutting his hand off! What good is he then?”

“Why is the commander of the city guard concerned with that?” Vayle asked.

Wilhelm blew a puff of air between his cracked lips. “Because the commander of the city guard has become the commander of the kitchen, of the linens, of the drink, of the hunt, of the put-the-fucking-tables-over-here-you-fucking-vagrant-motherfucker.” He sighed heavily. “This place isn’t ready for a wedding.”

“Did you try informing Chachant of this fact?” I asked.

Wilhelm burst into explosive laughter laced with sarcasm and irritation. “You have a better chance of stumbling upon a beach in this land than finding the king out of his bloody quarters. I haven’t seen him in a week.”

“Is he still alive?” I asked, partially joking.

“Servant says she saw him yesterday, so yes. We’ll find out soon enough, won’t we?”

I pointed at Vayle and myself. “Does that ‘we’ include us?”

“What are you here for?” Wilhelm asked.

“The wedding. It’s such a magnificent—”

“Lies do you no favors. You’re not well-liked here anymore, given a previous incident.”

I rolled my eyes. “Is this about that stable boy? Gods, Wilhelm. Give it up. I didn’t kill him.”

“Gods? The Pantheon of Gods wouldn’t help you here. They’d say your dagger—”

“I was set up,” I said. “If I’m going to kill someone, it sure as shit won’t be some little twerp tending horses. And I surer than shit wouldn’t leave my weapon on the ground next to his corpse like some middling amateur.”

Wilhelm wiped the falling snow off his steaming head. He clacked his teeth, deep in thought.

“If you believed I did it, you wouldn’t have helped Sybil free me from your dungeon.”

“Saying ‘no’ to a queen-to-be isn’t something a commander of the city guard does,” he retorted. “You were also present when a tanner here got his throat slashed, time before last. You slipped out the next morning, conveniently.”

I guiltily unfolded my arms. “That
was
me. Had a bounty on his head. Borrowed some money from a certain lord. Never paid it back. Never had the intention of paying it back. So, he paid the debt with his blood. You know how it is.”

“Is this your way of persuading me to let a known killer of the Edenvaile populace inside my walls?”

I side-eyed Vayle and chuckled. “Firstly, they’re not
your
walls, so drop your balls down a few sizes, will you? Secondly, your king tasked me with finding the person who killed his father. Now, how do you think he would react if his commander of the city guard barred me from the city, cutting him off from potentially very valuable information?”

“You came here to talk to Chachant?”

I shrugged. “Sure.”

The corner of his mouth curled into a seething frown. He shoved a finger in front of my face. “One misstep…”

“Right, right,” I said, patting him on the shoulder. “And you’ll have my head, or some such. Got it.”

Vayle and I pushed past him on our horses, entering the city. Once we secured our horses to their stalls and kicked some roughage over for them, my commander and I took in the sights and sounds and smells of a kingdom on the cusp of a grand wedding.

It was rather mundane, actually. Wedding mornings apparently weren’t something to behold. Sure, the smell of stews laden with rosemary and peppers and mutton and duck and all of the other deliciousness that goes into them wafted through the air on this cold morning. And servants bounded through the kingdom, mostly between different doors of the castle. And there was the clanging of steel as the city guard prepared for its big day, holding a rehearsal ceremony near their barracks.

But displays of grandiosity, of enormous bouquets, of chariots marching through the streets, of trumpets and drums — those were notably absent. There was something that greatly interested me, though.

I found Wilhelm prancing through the streets, steam sizzling from his bald head. “What is that?” I asked, pointing my chin at the immense balcony of cobblestone that curved from one end of the castle to the other, about midway up, level with numerous newly placed doors. Men with mallets and chisels were erecting a gold-adorned banister.

Wilhelm gave me a look that exhausted men give when they’re about to quit on life. “That,” he said, arms outstretched, “is the grandest of all grand balconies.” He rolled his eyes and added, “It is where the wedding will take place.”

He muttered something under his breath and jogged off again.

“Isn’t that curious?” I said to Vayle, who poked her finger into the iced-over fountain in the market square.

“If I was going to have a wedding,” she said, smirking at the mere idea, “I would have it in a place where I would not freeze my tits off.”

“Unless… you wanted everyone to bear witness to your big day.”

“I would not want that.”

I made a seat out of the frozen fountain. “Let’s think of people who would, shall we? I’ll go first. Those who crave attention. Doesn’t sound like Sybil or Chachant.”

Vayle sat next to me and stretched her tired back. “How about an uncertain groom who may wish to plunge to his death after the exchange of vows?”

I laughed. “I think you’re getting close. How about someone who wants to create a spectacle?”

“A spectacle would be wasted inside a candlelit castle,” Vayle agreed.

“You would want it to be an unforgettable moment. One that would have people talking until they can talk no more.” I slapped Vayle’s knee and added, “By the Gods, Commander Vayle, I think we’re on to something! Now let’s see if we can’t solve this riddle.”

Vayle skated her nail across the ice. “Consider those involved.”

“Chachant and Sybil.”

“The marriage is happening unexpectedly.”

“Quite unexpectedly,” I agreed. “Why the rush? They can’t possibly be prepared to host an ambitious event in such short time.”

“Unless the marriage
must
happen,” Vayle said.

I clicked my tongue. “Sybil gains nothing from this marriage, it would seem,” I said, feigning ignorance. “Mydia is next in line if anything were to happen to my good friend Chachant.”

“Unless something befalls Mydia.”

“Ah,” I said, lifting a finger into the air insightfully. “And if something were to happen to them both at the same time, why… Sybil Tath would become the Queen of Edenvaile and Lady of the Verdan Family.”

“Unforgettable indeed,” Vayle said.

T
here were
plenty of misfortunes that could have befallen Vayle and me as we sat at the fountain, pondering our revelation concerning Sybil Tath’s wedding. For instance, the ice beneath us could have cracked, soaking our asses in water so cold we wouldn’t have been able to feel our cheeks for weeks. Unlikely, yes, but possible and perhaps preferable to what actually happened.

What actually happened was that the doors of the Edenvaile keep opened, and a woman dressed in heavy wools from her neck to her toes stepped out.

Sybil Tath.

She looked as if she’d just woken up, her black hair askew and wavy. It was too bad she hadn’t fallen into a permanent sleep.

She gripped the iron baluster that edged along the stone steps leading up to the castle front. She slowly descended into the market district courtyard, careful of her every step on the snow and ice that blanketed this city.

It was strange seeing her like this. The last time I’d laid eyes on her, dried mud had streaked her cheeks and days-old blood had dotted her chapped lips. I’d felt sorry for her. I’d felt… well, it didn’t matter now. In the end, it was all a ruse. All a trick to gain my trust, and I had fallen for it.

Sybil picked her eyes up and a cast a narrow gaze into the courtyard. Her head cocked and her mouth fell agape.

“Astul? Astul!”

With a smile so fake not even the drunkest merchant would buy it, she shuffled her feet along the strips of ice hurriedly. It almost looked like she was skating. When she reached the fountain, she leaned down and embraced me in what was possibly the most uncomfortable hug I’d ever experienced.

Still, I had a job to do, and that job didn’t consist of revealing my overwhelming need to stick a knife in her throat… yet.

“I’m so happy to see you,” she said, holding my shoulders as she pushed away. She nodded at Vayle. “Commander Vayle. How are you?”

“Cold,” Vayle said.

“I imagine you are. Would you like some more wools? We have plenty in the keep.”

Vayle lifted the skin of wine she’d been nursing. “I’ll be warm soon enough, Lady Sybil. My thanks.”

Sybil shied away at the mention of her title. “Please don’t call me that. You’ve more than earned the right to address me simply as Sybil. If not for you, I wouldn’t be alive, much less marrying the man I love.”

“This,” I said, “is all a little surprising. After all, it was just a few weeks ago I questioned whether you two would ever marry. I believe that question came while you were freeing me from the dungeon. Thanks again for that, by the way.”

Sybil inhaled the bitter air around her. "Chachant had intended on giving me the wedding of my dreams soon as he became king. But… his father’s death delayed that. He spilled his heart to me, and I saw tears well in his eyes. Vileoux’s death had consumed him. He apologized and made immediate plans for the wedding.”

“What of his intent to go to war with Braddock?”

Sybil laughed. “Oh, my. That’s all in the past now. It was an unfortunate mistake on Chachant’s part, but one I think many of us would have made in his position. Would you like to walk with me? I walk the city each morning, because standing around is quite cold.”

Vayle and I traded glances.

“Go on,” she said. “I’ll stay behind and…” A raven cawed from atop a slanted roof. “Try to understand the language of birds.” She smiled.

Smart woman
, I thought. Sybil likely had no nefarious intentions behind her request to stroll through Edenvaile — at least nefarious physical intentions — but by staying behind, Vayle ensured one of us would remain alive and free in the event my assumption was wrong.

Sybil and I walked abreast toward the stables. The stable boy shoveled roughage from a wheelbarrow into each stall.

“Chachant is still deeply troubled by his father’s… disappearance,” Sybil said, keeping her voice hushed and her lips close to my ear. “As am I. Have you discovered anything more about the conjurers?”

Yes, disappearance was a good word. Because the bastard certainly wasn’t dead. “Forget about the conjurers for a moment,” I said. “How’d you convince him to stay his assault on Braddock’s walls?”

“I didn’t… not entirely.”

My brows raised involuntarily. “You just said…”

“I know.” She subtly scanned her surroundings. “There are lots of people here. I didn’t want to alert anyone. He’s still convinced Braddock is behind the assassination.”

“He’s managed to make a damned fool of himself over all of this,” I said. “What of the mustachioed king of the sea, Dercy Daniser? Did your lover at least have the presence of mind not to beg him for his bannermen in a bid against Braddock?”

Sybil’s lips tightened. “He’s not marching to war, if that’s what you mean.”

“You met with him?”

“Of course,” Sybil said. “I told you I would.”

We strode past the stables and into the outer ward, where the curtain of stone walls besieged us. “You must have had one hell of a wind at your back to make the ride from the slavers’ camp to Dercy’s kingdom and then all the way back here in time to plan a wedding.”

I watched Sybil’s temple pulse as she subtly shifted her jaw. I was walking a very fine line. I needed her trust so that I could stay for the wedding, but I didn’t want her to feel too cozy and comfy in my shadow. She needed to feel on edge. She needed to feel the terror that possibly someone knew her secrets — a possibility she couldn’t confirm. That’s where the terror breeds, in the uncertainty that the deep, dark secrets you’ve kept hidden for so long have escaped their prison and are out there for prying eyes to see.

“The weather was friendly,” Sybil said, “and the steed the Rots kindly provided was strong and tireless. Tell me about the conjurers. Have you learned any more?”

“I learned about them up close and personal,” I told her, watching her face vigilantly for the subtlest reaction to what I was about to reveal. “Birds bathed in flames soared high above Vereumene.”

Sybil stopped in front of a large forge. Her nostrils flared. “That sounds…”

“Similar to the description of the thing you saw flying high over Edenvaile the night Vileoux died? They’re called phoenixes. Fierce as hell.” I patted the scabbard at my side, smiled smugly and added, “As it turns out, however, they don’t fare well against ebon and barbed arrows. I’ve yet to find anything living that does.”

Sybil’s face was unreadable. She’d perfected the art of masking her emotions. “You fought them off?”

“Killed them,” I corrected her. Lying was so much more fun than telling the truth, particularly when the truth sees me in a bad light, or absolutely no light at all and locked in a rank dungeon with iron clasps binding me to a pillar. There is, I theorize, an indirect correlation between the number of times an assassin finds himself locked in a dungeon and his credibility.

Sybil sidled up to the forge and took a pair of iron forceps. She closed and opened them mindlessly before hanging them back on a rack. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, given what the Black Rot showed me they’re capable of.” She turned. Sincerity tightened her face. “I never had the opportunity to thank you — the Black Rot, that is — for freeing me from that awful camp.”

“Consider your debt paid so long as you keep your boy king in check.”

“He wants to know who killed his father, but I’ll do my best to blunt his raging emotions. I’m more concerned about the conjurers. Do you think they’ll attack?”

One more lie. One more tale to spin, and it would be the grandest of them all.

“No,” I said. “I think we scared the balls off their men and the tits off their women and the courage from both of their hearts. The phoenixes were a test. One they were not prepared for us to pass.”

Sybil’s shoulders fell and she sighed. “I hope you’re right.”

And I hope you believe me
, I thought. When your enemy believes you’re not prepared, they underestimate you. And belittlement is a tool that has delivered so many victories for those who should have never had a chance.

“I should go back to my quarters,” she said, pulling the wools tightly around her as the wind picked up. “My… er… workers are probably getting nervous about the time. I need to bathe, dress up, and practice for the wedding.”

“Just call them servants,” I said. “We both know what they are. You’re a queen now, or you will be very soon. You’ll be sipping wine from golden chalices and flinging your hand at the nearest slave — sorry, servant — to fetch you some berries.”

She let out a strained laugh. “That’s not who I am.”

“No? Then who are you?”

She shrugged. “I’m Sybil Tath. Luckiest woman in Mizridahl.”

With a smirk, she ambled away, around the forge and back toward the keep.

“Pardon me,” said a man with a thick drawl. He ducked inside the forge.

“Is this yours?” I said.

He rummaged through his tools that clattered together. “Ah, I wish. Property of Lord Chachant. But I run the thing. King requested a new helmet, fit with a black diamond in the center.”

“Vanity shit,” I said. “It’s not good for a damn thing.”

“King has to look good,” the blacksmith said, placing his tools of choice on a table. He tied an apron around himself.

“What’s your name?”

“Borgart,” he said. “Master blacksmith, been shoving steel in fire and whackin’ it with hammers for near thirty years now.”

Borgart? Now that’s a name I hadn’t heard in a while, but one I was familiar with. I withdrew my sword from its hilt. “Does this look familiar?”

Borgart dusted the soot from his hands with his apron and laid the flat underside of the glistening black blade on his outstretched palms.

“An ebon blade,” he enthused. He traced the mystical blue swirls down the fuller. The design naturally occurred when the ebon cooled. His thumb came to the crossguard, where a letter resembled an abstract
B
, its curves jagged, symbolizing the Black Rot.

His eyes flashed with excitement as he looked up at me. “Astul,” he said confidently. “Yeah?”

“You got me,” I said. “How’d you know?”

“The experience of making an ebon blade does not leave you,” he said, paying it affectionate attention with his fingers. “I crafted these when I was the blacksmith for a little village.”

“You had a reputation,” I told him, “as one of the only blacksmiths who could reliably craft an ebon blade. I see your reputation has served you well.”

Borgart handed me back my sword with great reluctance. “One of Lord Vileoux’s commanders saw my work. He told the king, and here I am.”

“How quickly can you forge an ebon blade?”

He snapped his fingers. “About that fast. Ebon is a straightforward process, unlike iron. There’s no making steel out of it. No folding it. No hammering the damn thing for three weeks. You melt the ebon, you mold it, craft your edge, and you got yourself the best sword this world will ever see. See, problem is, it’s extremely soft fresh out of the forge. Whack the thing a smidgen harder than you intended and it’s ruined. Once it cools, it can never be reheated. It’ll shatter. Not many blacksmiths have the subtle touch for it.”

An erratic crow darted through the forge, cawed at Borgart and shot through to the other side.

“Damn birds,” he said, waving it at five seconds too late.

“Can you make a few hundred — or more — in, let’s say, fifteen days? You probably have more time than that, but let’s play it safe.”

Borgart crossed his fibrous arms over his stomach. “Oh, sure. Soon as you let me in on this little secret of yours.”

“I am a man of secrets,” I said. “Which one would you like to know?”

“The one where you’re gettin’ these bucketfuls of ebon from. I’ve made about ninety of the immaculate things in my entire life, and most of ’em were for your mercenaries.”

“Assassins,” I corrected him.

“Yes, well, point still stands. Where are you gettin’ the ebon from?”

I’d figured that question would arise. Some historians claim ebon existed as plentiful as the trees when this world was first created, or mistakenly born, whichever the case. The evidence, they claim, is the unusual hollowed gaps in the nooks and crannies of mountains and the emptiness of old mines. They believe our ancestors took it from the earth to make their armor and weapons for war. Ancient poems refer to a blade that could sing sharper than a morning bird with an edge so black it could blot out the sun.

Thanks to our gluttonous ancestors, the mineral exists in tiny and increasingly rare quantities today. Funny thing, though. When I was young and angry, still running from the murder of my father and battling a demented mind that begged me to end it all, I came upon a square, stout hill that rose high above the ground below. And as proof that nature dabbles in art from time to time, the only way up was a flawlessly sculpted path that wound tightly around the hill. It had the sort of steepness and perilously sheer edges that goats enjoy bouncing around.

When I made it to the top, I decided that was where I would make my home. Soon, I decided to shovel out a trench so I could sleep in something resembling a bed, rather than on a flat chunk of land. As I pierced the dirt with the rusted shovel, something chimed, like a note struck from a finely crafted instrument. It gleamed a menacing black under the assault of a noonday sun. With a procuring of a pickax, I tunneled down a foot or so, scooping up all of the ebon that I could.

Vayle joined my side soon after. Fifteen years later, the Black Rot was a hundred men and women strong, and our little shit village was known as the Hole. The wooden boards that make our walls in that deep tunnel conceal a secret few will ever know. Thanks to my happenchance discovery and the fortune of very wealthy merchants whose eyes bulged upon seeing the black gold, the Rots became richer than most kingdoms and better outfitted than every army in existence.

“Go south into Nane,” I told Borgart. “Do you know where the Voll Inn is?” The infamous Voll Inn was where the son of Enton Daniser was poisoned seventy years ago.

“Roundabouts,” he said.

“Continue due south from there, you’ll come to a hill that looks like a demon had punched up from beneath the earth. It’s in the middle of flat land, you can’t mistake it. At the top, there is a hole. Go inside. If you value your life, you’ll slide along the right wall. There are traps that have a tendency to puncture your lungs with darts if you straddle the middle or enjoy a nice walk on the left. Inside the last room at the end of the tunnel, there is enough ebon to make a blacksmith like you cry like a boy upon seeing his father return from the war. There is also plenty of food to be had.”