The Misbegotten (An Assassin's Blade Book 1) Read Online Free PDF Page B

dandruff into the spring. There weren’t many ways Braddock could benefit from cutting down Vileoux Verdan. Unless he wanted to…
    “How’s the North reacting to Chachant’s claim to the throne?” I asked.
    “Poorly,” she said blankly. Not a muscle in her face twitched. That’s how Sybil Tath was. She only allowed you to glean what she wanted, never her true feelings or thoughts. It was quite maddening.
    “I imagine,” I said. “Twenty-year-olds aren’t given much respect.” I thought about everything she’d said and ran through a scenario aloud. “So Braddock puts Vileoux in an early grave. Chachant ascends to the throne. He’s got the face of a baby and the kingly experience of one, too. The infamous apostates that are the northern bannermen see this as their opportunity to make good on their own claim. Chaos erupts in the North. Braddock marches in to pacify it, puts a puppet on the throne. Now he’s got the Danisers and this new king behind him. Rabthorns will get in line, weasels that they are. In the end, your father’s resolve will weaken, and Braddock gets precisely what he desires. Makes sense. But there’s a problem with the theory.”
    Sybil turned an eager ear toward me.
    “Patrick Verdan,” I said. “He’s got the true claim and from what I hear the backing of many northern lords.” Patrick had abdicated years ago, leaving behind his rightful heirship to the throne, but he still had the Verdan name. And he was the eldest.
    “That’s not the problem,” Sybil said matter-of-factly. “The problem is Vileoux Verdan isn’t dead.”
    “That,” I explained, holding up a finger, “would be more than a problem.”
    Sybil gently propelled herself through the water, the sharp point of her nose pricking the steam as she floated over to the opposite edge. I caught a quick glimpse of her back before she turned.
    “What is that?” I asked. “That mark on your back.”
    “A tree. I saw it in a dream once. Isn’t it beautiful?” She turned and treated me to the entirety of the tattoo’s elegance.
    Beautiful… was not the word I would have used. No, it didn’t look beautiful or artistic or grand. It looked… well, very, very real. As if I could reach out and touch its trunk that grew sideways and suddenly surged high into the air. As if I could hang from its boughs of thick, knotted branches and smell its bounty of yellow flowers. I blinked and shook my head, drawing myself back into the present.
    “Anyway,” I said. “Vileoux, er—”
    “Isn’t dead,” Sybil said. “I saw his supposed dead body before Chachant did. Before anyone, except the guards. As I walked past his quarters, there was a loud bang, as if someone had fallen into a dresser or bedpost. I waited there as the guards called for him. There was no answer. They waited and called again. No answer. Eventually, they kicked in the door… and there he was, on the floor, stench of red wine in the air.”
    “Sounds like a lush fell and hit his head,” I said.
    She waved a finger in the general direction of her mouth. “His lips were black. Dried, burnt black… awfully terrible looking. His throat, what I could see of it, was sooty, no pink at all.”
    I wiped a condensed layer of steam from my forehead. “Oils of camadan seed produce similar effects, but not as dramatic and certainly not as quick. And I don’t know of any willing participant to take camadan-oil-spiked-wine to the face.”
    “Willing participant?”
    “You told me Vileoux wasn’t dead, so I’m assuming someone played his part.”
    “It was Vileoux who I saw dead in his room. It was Vileoux who I saw buried in the bitterly cold sarcophagus. I know the man. I know him!” she insisted. A rare glimpse into her emotions, or a calculated move to rouse me? “I’ve slept in his keep for seven years. It was him, and I am not mistaken.”
    “Fine,” I said, hoping to temper her temper. “I’ll take your word for it.”
    “When Chachant made way for