The Misbegotten (An Assassin's Blade Book 1) (2 page)

O
n the torn
, piss-stained pages that smell of mothballs and tell you all about history, you find there are two kinds of king slayers. First, there are the sort who aren’t particularly adept at clandestine operations and find themselves sitting in a torture chamber until they cough up a name or two. And then there are those sneaky assassins who wiggle their way in unseen and sneak back out just the same, leaving an empty throne in their wake.

The Verdan king slayer was apparently an example of the latter. After revealing Vileoux Verdan had been assassinated, the messenger went on to tell me his son, Chachant, had requested my assistance, which meant the new king had little information on the old king’s death. He wouldn’t send for
me
if he knew who was responsible — he’d simply march his army to war.

See, I’m not only an assassin, but a purveyor of information. Better to have two careers in case one goes to shit, I’ve always said. Plus, information will forever be a hot commodity.

I descended into the Hole, which was an actual hole, not some symbolic name

Dank and musty air clung to the rims of my nostrils and scurried inside like spiders hurrying into their funnels. Some would find the smell disturbingly similar to an abandoned cellar that was more cobwebs than stone. But for me, this was a place of tranquility.

A few pronged candelabra were stuck into patches of spongy mud along the walls, seething with orange-tipped flames that fought one another to show the way. Even with the help of fire, darkness was the Hole’s closest friend. It embraced you down here, took you in like its guest and wrapped you up in an onyx hug.

I kept down a narrow hallway enclosed with wooden boards. A couple steps and one turn later, I was in a room that looked as if every bounty hunter had come to die here. I filled a few small purses with gold, hardly making a dent in the stockpile. After gathering some stale bread, skins of wine and bundles of wool, I emerged up top, with fresh sizzling timber burning the stink off my clothes.

“Shepherd,” Big Gruff roared, invoking my name as the shepherd of assassins. Big Gruff always roared, never simply spoke. If you found yourself in a drunken brawl against him, you'd likely take your own fist to your jaw just to get it over with. Large and mean-looking was one possible description of Big Gruff. Monstrous with a dash of unhinging charm was a better one.

“You got a case of dead animal breath, big man,” I said.

He flashed a massive grin and clenched my shoulder. “Somethin’ ’bout the wine interactin’ with my spittle. That’s what Commander Vayle says, anyhow. Heard me a tale about you going up North to track down a king slayer.”

“I see Vayle doesn’t waste time informing on every one of my doings.”

Big Gruff shrugged. “Eh, you were lookin’ a bit blanched in the face when you came in from those messengers. Blame us, we started poking around and asking questions.”

“Well, I don’t expect to do any hunting for a king slayer,” I said. “Probably just some information exchanging hands.” I just hoped the information I’d provide — or rather, sell — would be helpful. If you’ve got a dead king on your hands, best to resolve the problem quick, before outlandish theories crop up and suspicions have five kingdoms marching to war.

He pulled me in close and leaned his thick beard in toward my face. “You want some company?”

By the tone of his voice, it almost sounded like a statement, rather than a question. “Think I’ll get along fine on my own, thanks all the same.”

Big Gruff pulled at his beard and smacked me on the back. “Only an offer! Always offerin’ some muscle, you know Big Gruff.” He laughed uneasily.

I blinked. “Oh, I know Big Gruff. I know that Big Gruff can’t lie for shit. What’s going on?”

“Goin’ on? Oh, not a whole lot tonight, I reckon. Wine, tales, seeing whose stream of piss goes the farthest off the cliff, you know how it is.”

I crossed my arms and waited.

“Oh,” he said, feigning ignorance, “you mean what’s goin’ on with me askin’ you—”

“Yes. That’s what I mean.”

He scratched his long mane of knotted hair. A stick fell out, which wasn’t surprising. Bats were rumored to have nested in there.

“Ah, well, er… you know that job me and Kale had up near the Desert Hills a while back?”

“Was that the one where that one lord wanted the Rots to assassinate a god of lightning for killing village cows? And it turned out a farmhand was fixing steel swords to their heads during storms and conducting experiments?”

Big Gruff’s eyes constricted as he thought. Finally, with an exasperated breath, he said, “No, no. I’m talkin’ about the twin sisters who wanted each other dead. The one paid better than the other, you remember? Anyways, we was on our way back, got circled around in some woods near western Rime and came upon a big shack. Scared Kale and me somethin’ bad. Ground looked like a big monster bucked it up with his shoulders. Singed circles all ’round, and these animals in cages — Astul, their legs were all twisted, eyes in threes and sixes, tongues split and sometimes missing altogether. Inside we found books about conjuration.”

My upper and bottom teeth crashed against one another. “You came across some pretty damning evidence that conjurers lingered nearby and you didn’t tell me? That’s some fucking important information to leave out.”

His huge face fell solemnly. “Me and Kale, we scooped up the books and got out of there. Camped for the night a long ways away. Had all the mind to bring ’em back here to the Hole, but… well, we got drunk. Woke up with the sun, but without the books.”

“Lucky you didn’t wake up with blood pouring out of your mouth,” I said. “Do me a favor and don’t keep anything about conjurers from me again.”

He wagged his thick finger in the air. “You got it, Shepherd. Sure you don’t want no protection?”

“I’m sure. Go get drunk and piss off the cliff.”

He roared with laughter, slapped me on the shoulder and bumbled back to the group of Rots, who were playing spin the sword.

Conjurers
, I thought.
Just what I fucking need
. Problem with conjurers is that you never find just one. There are always more. They’re like vultures, except instead of being able to fly, they have the power to take your mind and conjure up thoughts you’d much rather not have floating around inside your head. There was a good reason why the Black Rot participated in their extinction several years ago. Too bad a few got away.

I paid Vayle a visit, told her I’d be back in a little while — which is a vague way of saying sometime in the next month — and mounted Pormillia, who was dressed in a black caparison embroidered with the red fist of the Black Rot.

The journey down the road from the Hole to Edenvaile, kingdom of the Verdans, is seven days if the Order of Messengers have the northern roads clear, and anywhere between twenty and never if they don’t. And never doesn’t mean that you turn back and go home. Never means your horse either breaks a leg or gets tired of shuffling through flank-high snow, bucks your sorry ass off and leaves for greener pastures.

On day three, Pormillia and I crossed the border of Rime. By this time, I was bundled up in wool and frozen snot dangled from my nose. Pormillia seemed content in the thick blanket I’d brought along for her.

Daytime in the North is a depressing sight. You don’t expect much from a night sky. Maybe a few glittering stars and the occasional sliver of moonlight. But the day is the harbinger of timeless hope. The day will come, another sun will rise, the light will beat down the night! Well, not so much in Rime. The proverb here was, “Should the sun show itself, kiss your loved ones goodbye, for the apocalypse is sure to follow.”

The sky was always a damp gray, and the wind sucked every feeling except pain from your body. A white canvas stretched endlessly across the fields, dotted with crystals that would probably look quite pretty if your mind could remember what that word meant.

But Lady Fortune had her eye out for Pormillia and me. The Order of Messengers had recently plowed the main road — you won’t believe what an army of iron plows attached to the back of drawn carriages can do — and my four-legged girl trotted through the packed snow gracefully.

On day eight, the gray walls of Edenvaile sprung from a thick fog that had settled down from the white-capped mountains against which the kingdom nestled. Bowmen patrolled the parapet, lazily flinging one foot in front of the other. Boring job up there, since the city allowed passage during the day to anyone who wasn’t hauling in siege equipment.

Pormillia tasted the air with her flaring nostrils, eagerly drinking in the cloying scent of spices that thickened in the air like broth in a soup. Hints of cinnamon and ginger and peppers and garlic and onions coalesced into a pleasant mixture that made me hunger for something other than the stale bread I’d been eating for the past eight days.

My mare stepped inside the gate and onto the cobblestone streets dusted with snow. The fancy flooring only continued if you kept straight and entered the market district, where merchants stood behind their stalls, their vigilant eyes combing through the sea of bodies, ready to feast on the first amateur who stupidly made eye contact. “Ma’am, gifts from the Pantheon here! Salted trout caught beneath the ice just this morning! Eyes big and juicy, might have eggs in her too!”

With a quick jerk of the reins, Pormillia turned onto a side street, kicking up a sea spray of snow and ice. She stopped before the stables, where I clambered off her.

A dirty-faced stable boy quickly led her to an open tie stall. I took a pouch of coins from a sack around the saddle, flicked him a gold piece and told him if he took good care of her there’d be more where that came from.

Then I went off to find someone who could grant me an audience with the king.

I’d been to Edenvaile my fair share. Vileoux Verdan knew how to accommodate an assassin. I’d drink my fill of wine, eat my fill of truffle cakes and carrot pies, and fuck my fill of whores — all without spending a coin. Of course, indulging in vices is never truly free. In return, I’d pass information to him.

This particular visit to Edenvaile felt… different. I couldn’t walk one foot without having a new pair of eyes following me from beneath a steel-brimmed helmet. If my hand even brushed the hilt of my sword, bodies would shift. Mail coats would jingle. The city guard was more numerous than ever, and they apparently considered everyone a suspect.

Luckily for me, I was on good terms with the commander of the city guard, Wilhelm Arch, who mingled near the frozen steps that led to the keep.

“Wilhelm!” I said, putting a hand on the back of his breastplate. No less than twenty guards unsheathed their blades.

The clamor of the market district behind me went on, its patrons oblivious.

Wilhelm’s nod placated the guards, and they went back to idly standing watch.

“If it isn’t the Shepherd,” he said. He gave a long, tired blink. The bags under his eyes were stretched and dark, falling away from his face. He seemed like he wanted to add something but couldn’t quite find the words.

“Long days and longer nights?” I asked.

He wiped a scarred hand over his bald head. “Endless. Chachant hoped you would come. But he’s not here presently.”

“Will he be here presently in a few hours?”

“A couple weeks, if the storms aren’t bad. Went south to Vereumene. Gathering of the five families is in a few days. Mydia is serving in his stead.”

What a crock that gathering was. Established some forty years ago to ensure tempers wouldn’t flare and escalate to another great war. Half the great families didn’t bother showing, which is a hell of a feat when there’s only five. Maybe a king being assassinated would persuade them to honor the gathering.

“I’m surprised Mydia wouldn’t send a consul to discuss matters. I hear my face gives her the shivers.”

Wilhelm wiped away a thin film of snot from his unkempt beard. “I’ve faith you two can act appropriately. She’ll see you soon. At the present moment, she’s… busy.”

Busy.
Yes, that was it, of course. After all, she was Chachant’s sister and responsible now for presiding over the second largest kingdom of the world. Busy could mean many things: entertaining proposals from the court, meeting with ill-tempered vassals, or — more likely in Mydia’s case — bathing in a golden tub while naked men pampered her with soft soaps.

I gazed across the way, beyond the market district and toward a squat oval building. It was a building whose occupants frowned at those who entered without pants, but as soon as you put some gold coins up on the counter, well… keeping them on was quite against the rules.

“I’ll be busy myself,” I said, winking at Wilhelm. “One of your men can fetch me when Mydia is ready, yeah?”

He blew air between his wind-burnt lips and muttered something, which I took for a yes, and so I skipped happily over to Edenvaile’s best and only brothel. At least in my mind I skipped; I would never be caught physically swinging my legs as I jump to and fro. Assassins have reputations to keep.

After handing over more coins than I’d ever admit, a woman with smooth, radiant skin led me to a secluded room. Silk sheets and down pillows adorned the bed.

Her name was Nyla, and Nyla professed she had a knack for removing clothing. Her long fingers gently edged along the bulge in my pants. She smiled, unclasped a button, removed my shirt, stripped my pants — she got me naked, all right?

And that’s all Nyla did. A fully clothed woman suddenly appeared in the doorway, gesturing for Nyla urgently. A few moments later, someone new ambled in. Shiny red hair cascaded down her back, and her full hips swung ever so slightly as she walked seductively toward the bed.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice as delectable as melted chocolate. “I’m Marigold. There was a mix-up with Nyla. I hope you don’t mind…” She subtly pushed her tits forward and sunk her pearly teeth into her lip.

Now, I was a paranoid man. Knowing the horror you yourself are capable of immediately makes you suspicious of everyone else and particularly of supposed brothel whore mix-ups. But I was a man all the same. A man who suffered from a weak will, a dry throat and a singular thought when a pair of pillowy breasts were shoved into his face.