I walked past workers shoveling snow from the commons into wheelbarrows and dumping it off at the foot of the wall. The paths they dug made Edenvaile look like a winter maze, with deep crevices carved between immense walls of snow and ice. Children dressed in bundles of linen and dirty wool jumped from the walls onto the dusted cobbles below, giggling and laughing as they ran from one another.
The markets here were mostly closed, except for a couple merchants hawking their stockpiles of mittens and knitted hats. Once the storms passed, the carts would return, but for now Edenvaile lay in the breast of a silence this kingdom hadn’t often entertained.
Near the frozen fountain, I stopped. Not out of wonderment as to why the Verdans had thought constructing a fountain in a frozen land would be a good idea, but because something red had caught my eye.
Crimson, rather. And not an individual thing, but a group of them. Men, actually, dressed in crimson cloaks and crimson gloves and crimson boots. Had their scarfs and wool masks not been cream-colored, they would’ve looked like overripe tomatoes. And tomatoes would have been wholly preferential to what they actually were.
There were three of ’em. Three crimson-clothed bastards standing in a circle, holding sticks and tossing a turnip into the air. As the turnip approached one of them, he’d smack it — or attempt to and instead showcase his disturbing lack of coordination — and the turnip would rise and fall to another man, who tried to keep the root vegetable sailing through the air.
The men would occasionally explode with laughter and prod each other with jokes and sticks, but their cheer would’ve been short-lived had they caught a glimpse of me. Just what were Red Sentinels doing in Edenvaile, anyway?
The smart move for yours truly, given I had little desire to be pointed at and branded a kingslayer, would have been to join Galmon for a few drinks, till the boys in crimson dispersed. Or at least moved away from the steps to the keep — steps I very much needed to access.
But curiosity would never let me do that. Seeing Red Sentinels in Edenvaile wasn’t a rare occurrence. To my knowledge, it wasn’t an occurrence at all. The relationship between the Verdans and Glannondils had always been rather reserved, at least since Vileoux’s days. Braddock and his court never came traipsing up here in a caravan, nor did Vileoux entertain the thought of visiting the fat man within his sixty-foot-high walls in Erior. Communication between the two was done via messengers, never in person.
But these things change, right? Change hasn’t ever affected me too profoundly, but this seemed an awful strange time for it. The East was still entrenched in a bloody war with Kane Calbid and itself. A struggle for the empty throne had pitted Sollick Glannondil, Braddock’s brother, against the smaller army of Grannen Klosh, cousin twice removed. Klosh had control of Erior, only because he was positioned nearby. That meant he had control of the Sentinels — at least a portion of them. That also meant they were likely here on his behalf.
A proposition of an alliance with Patrick Verdan, maybe? Hmm. Wonder if he’s interested in the help of assassins, I thought. It’d be good work for the recruits — more brutal and chaotic than picking off a village elder or blacksmith for an unpaid debt — and it’d get me and Vayle back to work, far away from this world-saving business. And I had a feeling Grannen would be quick to forgive my assassination of Braddock Glannondil, given the circumstances.
I sat at the edge of the fountain and pondered this — with my mask on, of course. Grannen may well have forgiven me, but these men were Red Sentinels, and the only thing they knew about me was that I’d done in their old king.
After a while, a woman with a short crop of gray hair and an empty eye socket emerged from the keep. Silver buttons ran down the fur of her coat. She pulled a pair of leather gloves from her pocket and put them on. The three Red Sentinels stood at attention. They escorted her toward the stables and were soon out of sight.
With that little problem out of the way, I stuffed my mask back in my pocket, got up from the fountain and made my way to the keep. A guard I’d recognized from Vileoux’s days greeted me as one of the two pikemen posted at the keep doors.
“Astul,” he said with a nod of his skullcap, “first time in a long time. Heard some wild stories lately.”
“About me? All untrue.”
He grinned. “What brings you northward?”
“Patrick Verdan,” I said. “We need to talk.”
His mouth twisted into a funny shape. “Er, you got a prior audience with the king, or…?”
“He’s both expecting me and not expecting me, if that answers your question.”
The guard — what was his name? Ikre? Sounded good to me — shuffled his feet. “Well, ah, you know, I can submit a request through the Lady Swyla—”
“Says that ain’t necessary no more,” said the other guard. “Not been since he put the crown atop his head.” He leaned toward me and said in hushed tones, “Ikre here doesn’t take post duty a lot.”
“It’s not that,” Ikre said. “I never… well, wait here a moment, Astul. I’ll submit a request directly to the king himself.” He stood proudly, then disappeared inside the keep.
Several minutes later — after learning the remaining guard’s name had originally been Bo, but Bo hadn’t liked that name so he’d changed it to Oborin, and gee golly that must’ve worked, ’cause he met his lovely wife soon after that, and did I know they had three children, two girls and one boy, and the boy was going to be a great blacksmith when he grew up and the girls would be queens and yadda, yadda, yadda — Ikre returned.
“Huh,” he said, slipping through the cracked door. “Just like that. The king’s ready to see you. Says you know the way.”
“You know he don’t like to be called that,” Oborin said.
“The king?”
“That, he don’t like it. Call ’im Patrick.”
Ikre was aghast. “But—”
“Trust me, eh?”
“Gentlemen,” I said, “excuse me.”
“Oh, of course, Astul.”
The massive doors opened, their hinges whining. Into the glamor of a great family’s abode I walked, ignoring all the fancy fixings — not purposefully, but because they had all run together, culminating into a single display of grandeur. This stuff wasn’t exactly novel anymore, not after the twentieth or so time seeing it.
I followed the grand staircase up, up, up, till I came to the tip-top of the keep, where the curved royal hallway embraced me. Two royal guardsmen standing before Patrick’s quarters must’ve known I was expected, because they each extended a hand as a gesture for me to proceed.
I kicked the door closed behind me, then crossed my arms and waited patiently as Patrick Verdan stared out a window at the far end of the room, hunched over the window stool. A bitter chill slithered throughout his quarters.
“Odd time to open a window,” I said. And then I sniffed. Was that lavender?
Patrick snorted. “You smell it now? Overwhelming, no?” He turned, a light silk shirt clinging to the broadness of his chest. He washed his hands over his face, then walked over and swiped a spherical object from the dresser. He tossed it to me.
I cradled my arms in surprise and caught it against my body. “Oooh,” I remarked sarcastically, “a present?”
“Take it if you want. I don’t care for the grapes they harvest in the East.”
“The East?” I asked, examining the object. It was made of dark glass, molded into a fat sphere, corked at one end. Melted steel had been drizzled over the cork, sprinkled with flecks of gold. Felt like liquid splashing around inside.
Patrick produced a long-stemmed pipe from his nightstand. “Don’t play me for a fool, Astul. You saw the crimson cloaks outside.”
“Well, a king’s business is his own. Or something like that. Last time I got involved with one of you bastard kings—”
Patrick swung around, chalice in hand, and chucked the decorated cup at the wall. It smashed into a framed painting of snow-capped mountains and
fell to the floor with a clunk. The painting swung sideways.
He stood in place, fists clenched, chest heaving. He licked his lips, moving his jaw experimentally. “My father,” he said, facing me now, “wasn’t a very good man. Chachant wouldn’t have told you, because he was too young to know. But Vileoux” — Patrick seemed to sneer at the mere name — “he loved his women. When my mother found out, he concocted this grand lie, sent whispers out that she was a cock-lover behind his back. Made her walk the Passage of Shame. She returned to the keep with bruises all over her body, gouges on her wrists. She slit her throat that night.
“You believe it or you don’t, I don’t care, but Vileoux Verdan made Braddock Glannondil look like a saint. I told myself when I was very young, and I’ve repeated it every night since, that I would take nothing from my father. But sometimes… sometimes I get his temper, and I do not care for it. Much like I do not care for being called a king.”
“Well, then,” I said, pushing a hand into my pocket, “you’ll be very happy with this.”
Patrick put his hand on his hips. “Six months later, it arrives.”
I raised a brow. “The deal wasn’t limited in time.”
“What were you doing out there, Astul? There are a wealth of stories concerning you. Few of them flattering.”
That wasn’t unusual. Stories never had construed me in a positive light, mostly because the people who wrote them were too concerned with the means, rather than the ends.
“They say you burned Braddock with a phoenix.”
I slapped a hand to my heart. “I didn’t burn anyone… at least not at that particular time. A good friend of mine, however… and it was in self-defense. Hardly the barbaric tale you’ve probably been told.”
“Now that he’s dead,” Patrick said, “and Kane Calbid is warring with the East, I’ve been asked to lend the might of the North to this battle.”
“Grannen?” I said.
“Grannen,” Patrick admitted.
“Ah,” I said, with an unconcerned flick of my hand, “let whoever’s ass sits on your throne after you leave here and go back to Icerun deal with that bullshit war.”
Patrick pointed at the bottle in my hand with the stem of his pipe. The pipe that still hadn’t been packed. “If you had brought me that several months earlier, that’s exactly the kind of approach I would have taken.” He went back to his nightstand, opened a drawer and took out a small leather pouch, from which he poured crushed leaves into the bowl of his pipe. “As it is, Icerun is no longer under my authority.”
He let the significance of that statement linger in the air while he lit his pipe with the flame of a candle.
Hmm, I thought. This better not affect my payment.
While I so very badly wanted to hear about this new mystery proprietor of Icerun, I wasn’t about to chase after answers and have Patrick think he had me eating from the palm of his hand. Weak appearances make for weak men.
So I let the silence overtake us along with the swirling smoke from his pipe. In the end, I didn’t need to know the fine details of Icerun’s happenings, or the North’s intentions in the East. It was simply good information to have. Patrick, on the other hand, likely had few friends in whom to confide. He wanted to tell me. I could sense it.
“Fausting,” Patrick finally said, almost on the edge of exasperation. “He became suspicious of me. He’d heard things from those I believed I could trust. He was convinced I’d abdicate and push for Keira Gultz’s claim to the crown. So he made his move for Icerun.”
Darvin Fausting —the very man whose belly this poison was intended for. “My commander’s the strategic one,” I said, “but let me have a hack at this. Fausting is trying to draw you to Icerun, yeah?”
Patrick took a long drag, then puffed a cloud of smoke out the corner of his mouth. “The kingdom is impregnable. I’ll need a large army. Asking Northern lords to lend a hand is out of the question. It will make me look weak… which will make it difficult to garner support when I name Keira Gultz to the throne. Grannen has promised assistance in this matter.”
“If,” I said, “you scratch his back.”
“Favors are never free,” Patrick said.
I held up the bottle of poison for close inspection. “Speaking of favors and payment, do you have any extra wagons I could borrow to haul the ten thousand gold down to the Hole, or…?”
Patrick sighed deeply. “I will offer you interest, Astul.”
“Interest? I have plenty of interest already. You wouldn’t believe how much interest I have in receiving an agreed-upon payment of ten thousand gold.”
He looked me in the eye, held the pipe to one side of his mouth and declared, “I cannot spare that amount. Not now. When this war ends, when I retake Icerun, I’ll pay you. Fifteen thousand.”
I bit down on my knuckle so hard it bled. I spat a mixture of blood and saliva on that fancy marble floor inside Patrick Verdan’s grand room. And I smeared it into a glossy, pale red cloud with the sole of my boot.
“I think you oughta know,” I said, “this whole business I got myself mixed up in — saving the world from conjurers, averting a war between the great families — I’m finished. I’ve gone back to my roots, Patrick. And my roots, they’re deep in thievery and assassinations and swindling and cutting open the throats of those who cheat me. You acquired yourself a free pass when you helped cut the conjurers down. And you’ve just used it.” I stepped up to the king of Edenvaile and breathed in the sweet smell of his smoke. “Twenty thousand, not fifteen. Do not fuck me over again.”
I held out his special sphere of wine and stamped it into his open palm. “You’ll receive the poison when I receive my payment.”
Before I got to the door, Patrick reached out with an implication. “You should know I could turn you in. Red Sentinels are still here.”
“You can try,” I said. I opened the door and slammed it shut behind me.
Patrick Verdan was supposed to be a good king, the sort you don’t find on thrones. But in the end, he proved his “everyday man” routine only went skin deep.
Maybe I had expected too much. A king will, after all, be a king.
A surprising sight greeted me at the bottom of the winding staircase. Surprising because I had expected Galmon to be five mugs deep in bitter ale, not held up in the arms of guards who were trying to calm his spastic ass down.
“No, please!” he hollered. “I must see — Shepherd! Here, Shepherd, here!”
“Take ’im down to the bloody dungeon till he sobers up,” someone said.
Gods. “He’s with me,” I said. “I’ll take care of him. Sorry for the disruption, boys.”
Galmon twisted free of the guards and met me on the fourth step, jumping over the previous three. “Shepherd, you—”
I put a finger to his lips. “Your mouth — shut it.” I hooked an arm around his elbow and dragged him along.
“Shepherd, there’s something very important I need to tell you.”
I smiled at a few onlooking guards like a father pretending he wasn’t hauling along a screaming three-year-old. After making it outside, I shoved the loud-mouthed fucker down the steps. He fell and rolled into the snow. I latched onto the collar of his coat and yanked him to his feet.
“I have never,” I said through gritted teeth, “seen a Rot, recruit or otherwise, flap his fucking arms like a goddamned bird and hoot and holler for my attention. Maybe at the Hole while twisted on some good wine, or in a camp in the middle of fuck-ass-nowhere, but sure as shit not in a kingdom with who knows what kind of people lingering about.”
Galmon was breathing fast. He had a wild look in his eyes. “Sorry, sir.” He swallowed, hard. “I mean, not sir. Didn’t mean that. I get nervous when—”
“Galmon! Get to the bloody point.”
“Right. Yes. There was a man. He said—” Galmon closed his eyes and tilted his head back so he was facing the sky. Apparently this was a tactic peculiar recruits used to jog their memory. “He sa
id his name was… oh, no. I can’t remember.”
“Is it important?” I asked.
“Not really, no.” He paused. “Oh,” he said. “I see. He said he came to me on behalf of Kale. He saw us enter the kingdom together. Well, Kale didn’t, but this man did.”
I couldn’t decide who I wanted to sock in the jaw more: Galmon or myself. “Galmon,” I said, calmly as I could. “Tell me the important bits. Please.”
“He said we need to leave. Immediately. Instantaneously would be better, but he said he figured we couldn’t evaporate. But that if we could, that would be the preferable option.”
I put an arm around Galmon’s back, ushering him to the stables.
Kale had been away from the Hole for the past four months, setting up a spy network so vast the Black Rot would hear about it when a lord was in the process of pissing on a tree. Or more importantly, when someone — or something — was hunting us, or more accurately, me.
I didn’t know the identity of his contact in Edenvaile, but I trusted the mystery man enough to put my ass back on the snowy road to the Hole. Maybe he’d simply caught sight of the Red Sentinels and thought if they saw me I’d land my ass at the bottom of an eastern dungeon, or a shallow grave.
That didn’t seem likely, though. Red Sentinels were easy enough to spot that he’d have known I would’ve seen them myself. No need for him to get involved.
No, this had to be something else. Something bigger than a few Red Sentinels.
I just hoped it didn’t involve gods.
Chapter 3
Had the conditions been foul, Galmon probably would have never seen them. But the sky was blue and the sun shined brightly, and my nervous recruit said five words that made my heart stop momentarily.
“I think they’re following us.”
A turn of my head back toward Edenvaile, which lay a mile behind us now, confirmed his suspicions. Blowing in stark contrast against the white powder beneath them were four crimson cloaks, one of which belonged to a one-eyed woman in a fur coat.
“Listen to me,” I told Galmon, riding up beside him, “we’re going to see what they want.”
An Assassin's Blade: The Complete Trilogy Page 69