The Miscreant (An Assassin's Blade Book 2) (17 page)

P
arts were missing
. A finger here, square chunk of flesh there. Somehow an eyeball had fallen out of a socket, although where the thing had rolled off to was a mystery. By the slight stench of decay that staled the air, I figured they hadn’t been dead long. More importantly, none of them were my Rots. Or former Rots, as it were.

“Reapers,” Rovid said, crouching down and taking a closer look.

“How can you tell?” Lysa asked.

“Modifications. This one here, his teeth are thin, sharp. Like those of a cat. Big cat. This one’s got eyes like me. Guess they picked a bad place to tear a hole in the fabric of time.”

I kicked a decapitated foot out of my way. “You could say that. If I’m a reaper, I sure as shit don’t set up camp where a bunch of assassins call home.”

“You know where we are?” Rovid asked.

I ducked my head into a side room, where the Black Rot vault stood. It hadn’t been touched. “Yeah, I know where we are. Home. Well, what I used to call home. It’s a long story.”

I heard Lysa whispering to him, probably bringing him up to speed about the Black Rot. About me. I snaked my way through the tunnel, ascending into the wet air beneath a morning blush sky.

Between the caws of crows, a voice broke. “Astul?”

I squinted at the figure sitting before red-hot embers of a doused fire. I was smiling from ear-to-ear as I pointed a wagging finger at him and walked his way. “Now
there’s
a face I like to see.”

Kale got to his feet and embraced me in the kind of hug brothers share after a bloody war has ended. I stood back and patted his chest, which made him wince.

“Got roughed up a bit,” he said. “How in the hell did you sneak past me? I’ve been sitting here since last night. Fox couldn’t have made it past the hill unseen. And who are they?”

Lysa and Rovid had stuck their grimy heads up from the Hole. In the morning rays, they looked like shit. So did I, probably.

“Wait, wait,” Kale, biting down on his lip. “I recognize the girl. From down in, er… Vereumene.”

“Lysa Rabthorn.”

“That’s the name, yep. Don’t know the guy. What’s up with the creepy eyes?”

I reached down and snagged a couple pieces of dry meat sitting on the cobbles that circled the fire pit. “I’ll answer all your bloody questions in a minute. I’m fucking starving.”

Kale made a face. “Don’t eat that shit, Shepherd. Dry as the fucking sand. I scored a hit on a deer couple days ago, then came back and found visitors in the Hole. I’m guessing you already came across their bodies. Deer’s skinned, cooked and salted in the scullery. Didn’t feel like moving it.”

I went back into the Hole and tapped into some old butcher training I’d once received from a fat farmer who used to sell me apple wine. Couldn’t remember much about the training, to be honest, other than to slice it at the joint.

After sweating and chopping for twenty minutes, I carried chunks of disfigured, unidentifiable meat out of the Hole. There was a reason why foxes and rabbits and small game had sustained me my entire life in the wilds: because I was too fucking ignorant to pick apart something larger.

But meat is meat, even if it does have bone chips in it. And Lysa, Rovid and I gladly tore into the hearty stuff, and it tasted like God-given sustenance. Nuts and berries may keep your body intact, but meat keeps your sanity intact.

After eating so much my jaw ached, I took a skin of wine to the face, burped and got down to business. The four of us sat at the edge of the hill, overlooking the sheer drop into straw-colored grass wilting at the tips.

“Shepherd,” Kale said, “you’ve gotta tell me where you’ve been. I know you can disappear well enough, but we can still usually find you. I put out enough whispers for you this past month to cover the entirety of Mizridahl.”

I swished around some wine in my mouth, then swallowed it. It tasted tart, sucked the spit right from my cheeks. “Well, I haven’t been on Mizridahl.”

Kale flicked a loose rock off the cliff. “Figured you might have fled to… what’s the place called? Hilth? That doesn’t sound right.”

“Lith,” I corrected him. “And I didn’t flee. You’ve known me for a while, Kale. Ever known me to flee?”

“You set Braddock Glannondil on fire. Thought fleeing was the only sensible action. That’s what I was planning to do, lest the fat fuck capture me too.”

I lowered the skin of wine. This conversation had taken a turn I didn’t quite like. “Who else has he taken?”

“You don’t know? Haven’t heard?”

“Listen, I haven’t been in the fucking realm of the living for the past month.”

Kale stroked his chin and mouthed,
wow
. “All right. Well, can I at least assume you remember making Braddock very warm and toasty?”

“I think we both remember that.” I turned to Lysa, but saw that she was lying on her back, asleep. So was Rovid.

“He survived,” Kale said.

“That’s unfortunate.”

“And he put a bounty on the Black Rot so big that you can’t skip through a run-down hamlet without seeing our faces plastered on parchment and nailed to barns. And let me tell you, Shepherd, whatever artist he got to sketch us — pretty damn good.”

It was his fat, probably. All that blubber he hauled around saved his life. Fire couldn’t eat through all the layers before his panicked soldiers stomped it out.

“Fear no fury like that of a singed man,” I said. “Is that a saying? It is now, at any rate. Okay, so who’s he taken down?”

“He’s imprisoning them,” Kale said. “Far as I’ve heard, near everyone. Slenna and Wevel may be out there still. They split from the Hole a few days ago, fearing he’d come marching here soon. I thought the same. Good thing you caught me today, because I’d be gone by tomorrow.”

Imprisoning them? Interesting choice there. If it was retribution against the Black Rot he wanted, he’d have had their heads delivered to him in buckets. Only one good reason existed for him to chain them up and feed ’em slop till their muscles atrophied and their spirits withered away.

“Braddock’s using them as bait,” I said. “He wants to lure me in. He knows I’d do anything to save my Rots, even if most had left that life.”

Kale nibbled away at the nubs of his fingers. “Is he right?”

I thought about it for a while. “He’s right. For more reasons than he realizes. I’ve a plan, Kale, and I need the Black Rot whole again.”

“What kind of plan?”

“All I can tell you is that it involves assassins doing what assassins do best. And if it fails… well, we’ve got about a month before the world ends. So we’ve got that to look forward to.”

Kale picked up a clomp of dirt and threw it, smacking me in the chest with it. “Fuck you. You’re not leaving me hanging on that thread.”

I laughed. “Let’s get some more wine, and I’ll tell you all about my exciting escapades.”

The morning palette of gorgeous pinks and lustful oranges wasted away into the blandness of blue, and with it came a searing heat that had Kale and me sweating wine. We drank, and we ate, and he listened eagerly as I recalled the dramatic, the dangerous, the disturbing and the downright dreadful. Some memories exaggerated, some forgotten.

I woke up in the middle of the night, mouth parched, stomach rumbling. Kale had fetched some water, but it looked to be a few nights old. A fine coat of muck lay on top. Not one to enjoy shitting liquid for the next week, I dumped it out and hauled up some fresh from the well. Then I went into the Hole, grabbed a torch and carried it through the maze of mud corridors, till I reached a confined space that I had originally dubbed Astul’s Quarters. I’d never used the room much, except to escape into the quiet of my own thoughts, when the rare urge struck me.

I leaned the torch into a few candlewicks, then placed it upon a fixture on the wood-braced wall. A small circular desk sat upon steel feet so that the dirt beneath couldn’t rot it away. Hadn’t prevented the innumerable leaks over the years from whittling down the frame, though. Only downside to carving out the earth and living inside: rain. And the potential for dirt to shift and serve you up as a chunk of chocolate cake in death.

I sat at the desk, the chair creaking and wobbling. I took a pen from the ink tray and tapped it on my finger. A dollop of ink marked my skin. First time I’d had a bloody working pen in weeks.

Most of the parchment had fallen victim to the ruinous cycle of wetting and drying, so it was brittle and smeared with gray water spots. But it would work just fine for the purpose I had in mind.

I straightened my shoulders and set my eyes on the wooden walls, where the tail of torch fire whirled toward the ceiling like a flaming spire. My fingers moved, manipulating the pen. Twisting it down the paper. Dragging it across. Lifting it up, putting it down. Angling it this way and that. But I didn’t pay any mind to the letters the ink drew from the alphabet. All my thoughts revolved around the fire, its shadow prancing as if it were a dancer shaking her hips.

My hand moved automatically, requiring no semblance of thought. If Occrum was reading his little book right now, he would witness the artistic mind of Astul at work, exploring the existential and the abstract. The book may have revealed to him the secrets of the world, but it would never reveal the name and place my pen scrawled on that piece of paper.

“There you are,” Lysa said. She leaned against the hollowed-out doorway. “Your, um, Hole is really big. It’s kind of deceiving. I must have walked every hallway before I found you. What are you doing?”

With a bit of sleight of hand, I concealed the parchment and slid it off the table. It fell onto my thigh, where I quickly stuffed it in my pocket.

“Welcome to my brooding chamber,” I said. “You slept a long time.”

“I could sleep even more. But I’m hungry. What are you thinking about?”

“The meaning of life.”

She rolled her eyes and saw herself into the room. “I’m sure.”

“You know our little tiff with Braddock Glannondil resulted in all my Rots being captured.”

She wrapped a soothing hand around my shoulders. “I’m sorry.”

“We’re going to free them. We have to. I need them.
We
need them.”

“For the plan? The one you won’t tell me about.”

A heavy sigh wrinkled the candle flames. “The one I
can’t
tell you about.”

“You could in Amortis. He’d never know. And I can keep a secret.”

Frustrated, I stood up and marched to the side of the room. “It’s not about keeping secrets. It’s about keeping your own thoughts from yourself. It’s not easy. It’s driving me fucking insane.”

Soft, pliable fingers had me by the arm. “I can do that.” Her voice was like a whisper in the deepest, darkest of places where sound does not exist. A hiss that threads itself into your skull. “Better than you, I bet.”

A sarcastic chuckle slipped from between my lips.

“I’ve read about it,” she said. “In my book.”

“The one that almost killed you?”

“It didn’t almost kill me,” she said. “I know strategies to suppress my thoughts. Listen to me, Astul. I want to help you. I want to help us.”

I turned toward her. Determination was pulling at her face. “You will help. By freeing the Rots and—”

“No!” she said, the forcefulness of her words avalanching her bangs into her eyes. “I’ll end up being your sidekick, that’s all. I know how this works. I’m not your assistant, handing you whatever tools you request.”

“Then what are you?”

She crossed her arms, set her jaw. “Something greater.” She paused, then relaxed her shoulders. “If you’re worried about something happening to me, I’ll be careful.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“I’ll do my best.”

I stared at her a while, trying to figure out where exactly I had gone wrong — when I’d started caring this much. Lysa Rabthorn was beautiful and smart and strong-willed. She was naive and reckless and idealistic. And somewhere along this misbegotten journey, she had become someone special to me, someone I’d never had before.

It was probably time to stop protecting her.

“We need to start a great war,” I said. “Or how about a
good
war, half the size of a great one.”

“Don’t tell me here! We can go through the tear, back into Amortis. Tell me there.”

I waved away her concerns. “Occrum already knows this plan. It’s the first step. Well, first major step. There’s not much he can do to prevent it, given the only tools he has at his disposal are reapers and himself. Reapers can’t stop the momentum of a budding war. And you know as well as I that he won’t make an appearance.”

“Okay,” Lysa said. “But how do you start a war?”

“Murdering and lying, mostly. I’m not going to ask you to do either of those.”

She thought about this. “Tell me more.”

“Much as I’d like to have the five great families face off against each other, time won’t allow it. We’ve got a month and a half before the Bay of Selaph drains. It’ll take Patrick Verdan that long to march. Jesson Tath even longer.” I rolled a ball of mud off the wall and flicked it aimlessly. “Braddock Glannondil has left me a string on which to play, and I’m going to take it. The idea’s this: incite a war between Braddock and Kane. Easy enough, given the circumstances. But we also need Dercy Daniser to ally with Kane.”

“Why?”

“Can’t tell you that part. You’ll have to trust me.”

Lysa twirled her lemony hair around and around her finger. “You don’t think Dercy will help?”

I paced the room. “Got a better chance of convincing a tortoise to hand over its shell. He’s got no stake in the fight, and he suffered plenty of casualties during the war with the conjurers. But, I’ll figure out something. Or I won’t, and we’ll all die horrible deaths. No pressure, yeah?”

Lysa lifted her chin high into the air and slapped her chest. “Leave it to me.”

“You?”

“Me. It’s simple, really. I’ll just, you know,
make
him march to war.”

I crossed my arms, eager to hear the logic behind this. “I didn’t know Lysa Rabthorn had the kind of clout to persuade isolated kings into action.”

“I don’t need clout. I don’t need anything. Except the past ten years of training.”