The Misbegotten (An Assassin's Blade Book 1) by Justin DePaoli Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Justin DePaoli
ceramics in front of it.
“Interesting arrangement,” I said, noting the peculiar emptiness of the room. Well, empty except for the cluster of drawn satchels and cloth bags bursting with pots and pans and cups and sheets and pillows and paintings and various knickknacks.
He chuckled nervously. “Bugs,” he said.
“Bugs?”
“Oh, sure, sure. Got a nasty, er, infestation. Roaches, spiders, that sort of thing.”
“I see. Does giving off the appearance that you’re moving out scare them away?”
“It’s the oils,” he said, scratching his neck. “They, er… kill ’em off. The bugs, that is. Just got to apply them all around the house and in the morn you wake up with shells and corpses of, um…”
“Roaches and spiders,” I reminded him.
He snapped his fingers. “Yes, yes, roaches and spiders. Don’t want the oils touchin’ all your belongings, though. Anyways, sit, sit. Have some peppermint tea with me.”
He went over to the corner of the room and began rummaging through some bags.
“Hmm,” he muttered. “Now I could have sworn I sat them on top here. Or maybe it was in this one.”
“Rivon,” I said.
“No, not here either,” he said mindlessly. “Now where in the hells…”
“Rivon!”
He picked his head up and brushed his stringy hair from his eyes.
I pointed to the collection of bags littering a small table and both chairs. “It seems your chairs are in use.”
“Oh, don’t mind those things,” he said, waving a dismissive hand. He plodded over to the table and tossed the bags to the floor. “Ah,” he said, stuffing his hand inside a small pouch, “here they are.”
He produced a thin leather casing that when opened up revealed bright green leaves.
“There, there,” he said, pouring them onto the table. “Now, where is that pot…”
For the next twenty minutes, I twiddled my thumbs as Rivon raced around his house, riffling through his stowed-away possessions, cursing, muttering to himself that he ought to have really prepared this in a much more orderly fashion, and generally mumbling whatever four-letter word came to mind. He eventually found the teapot, but then he had to go fetch water from the well. And of course that meant meticulously sneaking out of and back into the house for no discernible reason.
Finally, the tea was steeped, warmed and poured into two clay cups that had handles carved into the shape of rooster tails.
“Enchanting,” I said, nodding at the craftsmanship apparently inspired by a chicken fetish.
“Oh, yeah, yeah, got a potter ’round these parts to fix them up for me. For free too! Monetarily speaking. I did provide her with twenty-four extra-large eggs laid by Big Momma out back.”
I sipped on the scalding tea, sighing as the coolness of peppermint soothed my throat and warmed my belly. “How long have you had bugs?”
He lowered his cup. “Bugs?”
“Roaches, spiders.”
His eyes grew big. “Oh, oh. Yes, roaches and spiders, all around here. Infestation! Er, a couple days now. Started getting real bad for a couple days, yeah. Been hanging around here weeks, though, just a few here, a few there, you know how those little bastards are, anyhow what’s this about a king slayer?”
“Someone put Vileoux in an early grave. I would have just waited for the old coot to die, but not all assassins are as patient.”
Again, he lowered his cup and his eyes got big. “Killed him? Oh, my. No, no, never heard that. Word got around that he was dead, but I thought it must’ve been natural.”
“More like magical,” I said.
Rivon choked on his tea, spewing forth frothy peppermint and spittle into his hand.
“Are you all right?” I asked, watching him carefully.
He pounded his chest and licked his lips. “Fine, fine. Went down the wrong tubule there. Anyways, you said, er… magical?”
“Just a figure of speech,” I explained, allaying the concern in his voice. “ Seems almost magical to assassinate a king and get away with
“Interesting arrangement,” I said, noting the peculiar emptiness of the room. Well, empty except for the cluster of drawn satchels and cloth bags bursting with pots and pans and cups and sheets and pillows and paintings and various knickknacks.
He chuckled nervously. “Bugs,” he said.
“Bugs?”
“Oh, sure, sure. Got a nasty, er, infestation. Roaches, spiders, that sort of thing.”
“I see. Does giving off the appearance that you’re moving out scare them away?”
“It’s the oils,” he said, scratching his neck. “They, er… kill ’em off. The bugs, that is. Just got to apply them all around the house and in the morn you wake up with shells and corpses of, um…”
“Roaches and spiders,” I reminded him.
He snapped his fingers. “Yes, yes, roaches and spiders. Don’t want the oils touchin’ all your belongings, though. Anyways, sit, sit. Have some peppermint tea with me.”
He went over to the corner of the room and began rummaging through some bags.
“Hmm,” he muttered. “Now I could have sworn I sat them on top here. Or maybe it was in this one.”
“Rivon,” I said.
“No, not here either,” he said mindlessly. “Now where in the hells…”
“Rivon!”
He picked his head up and brushed his stringy hair from his eyes.
I pointed to the collection of bags littering a small table and both chairs. “It seems your chairs are in use.”
“Oh, don’t mind those things,” he said, waving a dismissive hand. He plodded over to the table and tossed the bags to the floor. “Ah,” he said, stuffing his hand inside a small pouch, “here they are.”
He produced a thin leather casing that when opened up revealed bright green leaves.
“There, there,” he said, pouring them onto the table. “Now, where is that pot…”
For the next twenty minutes, I twiddled my thumbs as Rivon raced around his house, riffling through his stowed-away possessions, cursing, muttering to himself that he ought to have really prepared this in a much more orderly fashion, and generally mumbling whatever four-letter word came to mind. He eventually found the teapot, but then he had to go fetch water from the well. And of course that meant meticulously sneaking out of and back into the house for no discernible reason.
Finally, the tea was steeped, warmed and poured into two clay cups that had handles carved into the shape of rooster tails.
“Enchanting,” I said, nodding at the craftsmanship apparently inspired by a chicken fetish.
“Oh, yeah, yeah, got a potter ’round these parts to fix them up for me. For free too! Monetarily speaking. I did provide her with twenty-four extra-large eggs laid by Big Momma out back.”
I sipped on the scalding tea, sighing as the coolness of peppermint soothed my throat and warmed my belly. “How long have you had bugs?”
He lowered his cup. “Bugs?”
“Roaches, spiders.”
His eyes grew big. “Oh, oh. Yes, roaches and spiders, all around here. Infestation! Er, a couple days now. Started getting real bad for a couple days, yeah. Been hanging around here weeks, though, just a few here, a few there, you know how those little bastards are, anyhow what’s this about a king slayer?”
“Someone put Vileoux in an early grave. I would have just waited for the old coot to die, but not all assassins are as patient.”
Again, he lowered his cup and his eyes got big. “Killed him? Oh, my. No, no, never heard that. Word got around that he was dead, but I thought it must’ve been natural.”
“More like magical,” I said.
Rivon choked on his tea, spewing forth frothy peppermint and spittle into his hand.
“Are you all right?” I asked, watching him carefully.
He pounded his chest and licked his lips. “Fine, fine. Went down the wrong tubule there. Anyways, you said, er… magical?”
“Just a figure of speech,” I explained, allaying the concern in his voice. “ Seems almost magical to assassinate a king and get away with