The Miscreant (An Assassin's Blade Book 2)

by Justin DePaoli

  “Goodbye, Tylik,” I whispered.

  Plop. The rock sunk, and Tylik’s body vanished beneath the blue of the sea.

  I took a long drag of salty air, then let it out through pursed lips and stumbled back to the shore. Back to business. It’s good to keep busy, I told myself — it conceals the demons in your mind, if only temporarily.

  Having seen my fair share of carcasses in the past few days, I steered far away from the clomp of reaped who’d felt the wrath of an angry old man, keeping toward the opposite side as Lysa and I made our way toward Lith.

  Once inside, I scoured the gully that had formed between the two spiraling peaks at either side of the city. An uncomfortable familiarity stung me when I saw the intimidating curved walls of the arena. Too bad the conflagration that’d swept over the reaped hadn’t continued on into Lith, lighting this fucking city up in a storm of orange winds and black smoke.

  Anyway, back to the task at hand: making sure some crazy bastard with a duck wasn’t lurking about, waiting to do us in.

  “There’s his wagon,” I said, gesturing toward the mythical tower of sparkling prisms. “Wonder what he’s doing inside there.”

  “Betterforus,” Lysa spewed, her words running into one another. Her throat flinched. “I mean, since he’s not at the library.”

  “Right. The library — where is it?”

  “There,” she said, pointing at a stepped hillside on which houses and sundry buildings took root.

  Snug against the terraced slope sat a vast oval building set with broad, sweeping prismatic windows. The framework appeared to be made entirely of glass, matching the tower design precisely.

  “Conjurers have a fetish for their fancy buildings, don’t they?” I said.

  “I think it’s pretty,” Lysa said.

  “It’ll look prettier when it’s all broken and busted up. Let’s move, before crazy man decides to make an appearance.”

  The doors to the library were, as anyone except the blind could have guessed, made of glass, with two long brass handles affixed to each pane. I grasped the metal but didn’t open the door.

  “Does it strike you as strange,” I asked, “that all the reaped appeared to be soldiers?”

  “I didn’t notice,” Lysa said.

  “This wasn’t a sparsely populated city. Where did it all its people go? Even if the armies of Mizridahl sacked the city before they were turned into reaped, where’s the blood? The carnage? Looks like everyone up and left.”

  Lysa yanked open the library doors. “The weather probably washed everything away.” She hurried inside.

  I looked at the yellow fireball in the sky. “What weather?” I muttered, walking in after her.

  A hearty golden glow sprayed across dusty floorboards and bent around looming bookcases that must’ve been twenty feet high. They were arranged in a spiral around the circular room, until the last of them came to a stand in the center. A second level consisted of much the same, except in place of old wooden planks nailed to the floor, there was a sheet of stained glass. A third level looked to be mostly tables and chairs, the sort of place you’d sit and read for a while.

  “Where’s this secret room?” I asked.

  “Hold on,” Lysa said.

  I grabbed a random book from a shelf. A few waterlogged pages fell out. “Probing and Posturing Techniques,” I said. “Fascinating.”

  Lysa weaved in and out of the bookcases like a bee searching for the perfect flower.

  “Lysa,” I hollered, losing track of her.

  She didn’t reply.

  I muttered a four-letter word and put a vigilant ear forward, tracking her thumping steps. For all we knew, a reaped could be lurking about in here.

  I found her near the back of the library, standing on her tippy-toes.

  She grasped an old leather binding and wrenched it from its brethren.

  “Found it,” she said, triumphantly.

  “Found what? Something about our mystery man?”

  She smoothed her fingers over the cover, disturbing a clomp of dust into the air. “Huh? Oh, no.”

  “The Sepulchering of Self,” I said, reading the cover.

  “Let me explain,” Lysa said, clutching the book tight to her breast. “I need this. I really, really need this.”

  “You’re doing a poor job of explaining.”

  She rolled her lips in and out, wetting them. “I didn’t tell you the whole truth. Amielle didn’t, um — there’s no secret room here, okay?”

  I began counting silently in my head. A savant once told me that helps diffuse your anger.

  Apparently unhinged by my silence, Lysa stammered on. “I didn’t lie about everything. I promise. Amielle really did say those things, about the world knowing if he came out of hiding. It’s just… well, she said it while lecturing me in her glass manor.”

  “Glass manor?”

  “The tower,” Lysa clarified. “It’s where she sleeps and breathes. Where she used to sleep and breathe. There was a knock at the door, she stepped out, and that’s when I heard everything.”

  I reached for Lysa’s dear book, but she resisted.

  “Let me see,” I said.

  “You won’t understand.”

  “You had better make me understand, because I don’t appreciate deceit.”

  She wound her spindly fingers around the back of the dusty tome, cradling it as if it were her newborn child. “Everything bad that happened to me, I can make it go away. I can expunge the terrible memories I have of my father and mother. I can erase my childhood of slavery, of the mindful tortures the conjurers put me through. I can even — I think — replace the grief with happiness. Maybe it won’t be real, because it never happened, but make-believe thoughts never hurt anyone.”

  Her voice began shaking, and her jaw trembled. I would have felt sorry for her, but I didn’t know what was the truth and what was a lie anymore.

  “Looking for answers doesn’t quite mend the wounds, like you said, does it?” I asked.

  “It helps,” she said. “Understanding why they did this to me, it kept me from going mad, I think. But no, it’s not wolf’s leaf for the mind. I still have nightmares every night. Sometimes when I’m awake, the screams of my ten-year-old self haunt me. I remember being dragged away from my home, forced to study strange books for hours and hours and days and days. If I fell asleep, they beat me.”

  “Let me guess,” I said, aiming my chin at the tome. “This here is the magnum opus of murdering those pesky memories?”

  “That’s the idea,” Lysa said. “I’m sorry I lied. It was selfish. I know that. But you would have never agreed to come here if I had told you the truth.”

  Boy, talk about a punch in the gut. “What do you take me for, Lysa? A monster? I’ve feelings, you know. Somewhere.”

  She opened her mouth, then closed it, seemingly reconsidering her answer. Finally, she said, “You’re cerebral. I understand why. If you cared about everyone’s problems, you would never be the person you are.”

  “And just who do you think I am?”

  “A man who gets things done.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Spare me the backhanded compliments.”

  “You’re ruthless,” she said. “Clinical. You detach yourself from emotion so it doesn’t get in your way. Although… you did surprise me with the kind burial you offered Tylik.”

  Huh. She did think I was a monster. Misguided perceptions of my character usually didn’t bother me. Hell, most of the time it was better people thought of me as a dispassionate killer — fear’s a good weapon of persuasion, after all. But Lysa wasn’t some pompous lord who I needed to intimidate. She was… well, my partner in this very fucked-up journey. Our lives were intertwined. So, yeah, her impression of me after all this time — it hurt a little.

  “Well,” I said, “perhaps once that would have been an accurate description. But” — I grinned — “people change.”

  A tender smile thawed Lysa’s icy demeanor. Truthfully, I w
anted to be angry with her. I couldn’t remember the last time — if ever — someone had deceived me and gotten a smile from me in return. But here’s the thing. Firstly, lashing out wouldn’t help her perceived image of me. Secondly, I rather admired her guile. She reminded me of… well, me.

  “All right,” I said, “take your book. We’ve got a date with Amielle’s glass manor. We need to get over there before the old man rummages through the place.”

  “Think he’s a thief?” Lysa asked.

  “Never knew a thief who could conjure fire. I’m not sure what he is. But we’ll find out soon enough.”

  Hopefully the discovery wouldn’t be made while we choked on fire and smoke.

  The tower was only a five-minute walk away, but by the time we arrived, sweat drenched both me and Lysa. It was intolerably hot here. That seemed strange, since the weather was at least tolerable when we entered the library, and we hadn’t been in there long. It was as if someone had spun a dial and cranked up the temperature.

  The mule side-eyed us as we passed, but the donkey couldn’t give two shits, which seemed on par with most donkeys I’d met. The duck wasn’t visible, but I wasn’t exactly a menagerist looking in every nook and cranny of the wagon to add fowl to my collection.

  “Hide the book in the grass out here,” I told Lysa. “You won’t want to swing a sword with one hand.”

  “No,” she said, tersely. “It’s staying with me.”

  I sighed. You’ve got to pick your battles, especially with someone as stubborn as Lysa, and this wasn’t a battle I was willing to fight.

  “Fine. But drop it if we come under attack, will you?”

  She agreed.

  With my ebon blade leading the way like a knight’s jousting lance, I crept inside the tower. A chill zigzagged across my neck as the memories of this place flooded into my mind. The last time I was in here, I’d bent the knee. And I’d bowed my head. And — remembering it perfectly now… much too perfectly — I had taken Amielle’s hand. Taken it in my fingers like her enslaved lover, and then… a kiss. A wet stamp on the top of her hand, signifying her control over me.

  You know, I rather regretted not killing her myself.

  Slowly creeping up the winding staircase, pinpoints of blues and yellows and reds winked in and out of my vision as the sun pierced the stained glass.

  “Here,” Lysa said, stopping me from climbing any farther.

  “Here? Thought her little abode was at the tip-top.”

  “That’s where she entertained guests. This is the door to her quarters, here.”

  A solid wooden door with a ringed iron knocker stared at me. It was closed, but upon closer inspection, it hadn’t been for very long. A thick film of smoggy dust clouded the knocker, except for where four lines had disrupted the dirt and allowed the gray iron beneath to gleam.

  Lines that resembled the breadth and shape of fingers.

  I silently motioned for Lysa to stay behind me. Then, with a deep breath, a crack of my neck and a lick of my lips, I gripped the knocker. And I thrust the door open, pushing the summit of my sword inside the room.

  Quack! Quack! Quack! Quack!

  “Molly! Molly! It’s okay, girl.”

  Saggy-skinned arms scooped up the duck and brought it tight to a concave chest. A shaky thumb lifted a wide-brimmed hat, and a pair of hazy green eyes looked at me peculiarly.

  “Well, I’ll be nippersacked!” the old man said. “If it ain’t Louis and Bodingle.”

  Hearing “nippersacked” and “Louis and Bodingle” has a way of disarming you. My arm fell limp, and I stared in disbelief, trying to work out what exactly I’d gotten myself into.

  “I promise you,” I said, “I’m not Louis and she’s not Bodingle. Who are you?”

  Quack! Quack! Quack!

  “Mollyesterven, that is enough!” The man flicked his hat off and caught it in one hand. He laid the duck on the ground, then covered it with the hat. The quacking ceased.

  “A bit loud at times, this one,” he said. “Of course you ain’t Louis and Bodingle. Firstly, they died six thousand years ago. Secondly, they’re fictional. Made up. It’s a saying, see. Now, I’d appreciate it if you took that black-as-night weapon of yours and put it away.”

  “I saw you conjure fire,” I said. “I’m not disarming myself.”

  The man bellowed a deep-bellied laugh. “Conjure fire? You sound like a tool that hasn’t been sharpened in a hundred years.”

  He reached a hand deep into the pocket of his ragged pants, which elicited a threatening jab of my blade. He might have seemed like a charming, rambling old man, but those are the ones who lull you into a false sense of security.

  He opened his fist, revealing a handful of black grains. “Black powder. Good for a quick light, hot burn and makes for a damned fine celebration at the end of a long day. No conjuring required.”

  “Put it away,” I barked.

  He looked offended, but did as I asked. “What do you think I’m going to do? Cover myself in black powder and run at you like a crazy? Come on, now. Killing myself ain’t much of an appetizing thought, and why would I want to hurt you? Now, those bastard reaped, that’s another story.”

  “Tell me your name.”

  The old man folded his wrinkly hands in front of his belly. “Put away your sword.”

  “Do it,” Lysa whispered in my ear.

  I hated negotiations, particularly those that required me to disarm myself. Seemed I wasn’t getting answers without being somewhat agreeable, though. So I begrudgingly sheathed my sword and took the blade I’d given Lysa and stuffed that one back in its scabbard as well.

  “Got your wish,” I said. “Now let me have a name.”

  “You want the full name or the short name?”

  What kind of bloody question was that? “Just give me your fucking name.”

  He stuck out his lips like a fish and took a deep breath. “Ravoldtillisminithcorsifaulgoldenparforikemisglasenmik. Or, Rav, for short.”

  After trying to digest more than three syllables, I blinked and gave up. “What the fuck kind of name is that?”

  He wagged his finger. “Uh-uh! My turn for a question now. But first, you really ought to come in and sit. Plenty of space, see?” He spread his arms out wide, taking in the entirety of the expansive room.

  There were bookshelves half empty and ones so full the shelves sagged under the immense weight. There was a large desk, several wooden chairs, a couch upholstered with brocade fabric, and one enormous painting featuring a small village sleeping before a calm night sea.

  I walked farther into the room, but I didn’t sit. I wasn’t stupid.

  “You,” Rav said to Lysa, “seem more cooperative. It’s been a while since I’ve seen a phoenix pass through. What gives?”

  What gives? This guy’s lexicon ranged from the arcane to the bizarre and everything in between.

  “Sightseeing,” I said.

  “We’re looking for someone,” Lysa replied.

  I sighed. Of course she would.

  Rav snapped his fingers. “I like her. She doesn’t give me trouble.”

  “How’d you know about the phoenix?” I asked.

  “Saw a blazing fire tear through the sky, and thought either the end of days had come, or a pretty bird was flying low. Now, to answer your question, my name is the kind of name that is very old. But language evolves, and if you fail to evolve with it, you become incapable of relating to your fellow man and woman. It’s my turn to ask a question.”

  “Bullshit,” I said. “I don’t care how old your name is.”

  “Bullocks to you! You preempted the question, and so I answered. Now, let’s move on. Who are you looking for?”

  Before I could cover our tracks, Lysa spilled our secret like she was gossiping with a good friend.

  “Someone who’s out of hiding,” she answered.

  Rav lifted his head sagely. “I see.” The spunk evaporated from his voice. “And how do you know about this?”
/>   “It’s our turn to ask questions,” I reminded him.

  “We’re not playing that game anymore.”

  A grave undertone cut through his words. My hand instinctively went for my hilt.

  Lysa stepped forward. “My name is Lysa Rabthorn. I was trained to become a conjurer.”

  For the next hour, I sat in despair, rolling my head from one shoulder to the other, as she explained in excruciating detail everything that had transpired over the course of her life and during the past year.

  Rav listened with a concerned face as she spoke, nodding occasionally, grimacing at other points.

  After she finished, he scratched his deeply freckled face. And he said, “We’re looking for the same person. Which is why I am here. Unfortunately, there is nothing of value in this place. It has likely already been taken.”

  “The same person?” I asked. “You sure of that?”

  Rav lowered his head. “Quite sure. He is, after all, my brother.”

  I clapped my hands. “Perfect. Then you know where to find him.”

  Rav looked ill. His eyes seemed to cloud over like a rolling mist across the sea. “I have not seen him in a very… very long time.”

  There was a question I felt needed answering, because it’d begun to worry me. “How old are you, Rav?”

  His ancient lips tightened into a grim visage. He said nothing.

  Chapter Eight

  Rav covered his headful of stringy gray hairs with his wide-brimmed hat and plucked Molly the duck off the floor.

  “We will speak further at my house,” he said. “It’s safer there. You may ride in my wagon.”

  “Safer?” I asked. “What do you have, a castle reinforced with ebon walls and surrounded by a moat? Because shit doesn’t seem too safe out here.”

  Rav walked out of the room. Lysa and I looked at each other.

  “I think we should follow him,” she said.

  Frustration flung my hands into the air. “It’s not like we have much of a bloody choice. Let’s see: mindlessly scour this wasteland of a world in hopes we stumble upon some mysterious guy who we wouldn’t recognize if he skull-fucked us, or… tag along with Rav, Mr. My-name-has-a-hundred-syllables. Just keep alert, huh?”