The Misbegotten (An Assassin's Blade Book 1) by Justin DePaoli Page A

something that reminded him of Erior. Unfortunately for Rivon, Vereumene was no capital of the world. But dredge of the world? It was in the running, if not the only one sprinting.
    The guards received us with as much indifference as the walls. They barely recognized our presence, as if they had more important matters to attend, such as how they’d feed their family on the pittance Serith paid them.
    As we passed under the looming shadow of the parapet above, the sphere of the city opened up into a mess of haphazardly laid volcanic paths, buildings rotting at their foundation, roofs collapsing, doors barely attached to the hinges. This place was never a jewel, but it didn’t look like this seven months ago.
    “Strangely empty,” Vayle said.
    Dust bunnies sewn to life with sticks and chunks of fermented fruit bounded along the streets, sticking themselves beneath signs and propped-open doors.
    “Looks to me like everyone went out for a jolly walk,” Rivon said.
    Serith Rabthorn greeted us at the steps of the keep. “The entirety of the Black Rot?” he asked, clapping his hands together in welcoming fashion.
    “We’re having a family get-together,” I said.
    He smiled the smile of Death, which wasn’t a large effort to imagine, given he had about as much flesh left on his decrepit face as a deer has fur after meeting a skinner. He wore a cream robe, or more accurately, the cream robe wore him. Thin white hair, frayed at the ends, greased at the roots, lay in a clomped mess at his shoulders.
    Serith painfully unwound his bony fingers from each other. “Tell me. What is the occasion?”
    “I was hoping we could indulge in a little chitchat. It’s been a while, after all.”
    He smiled. “Of course, Shepherd. Your men”—as he examined the Rots, his eye caught the red hair of Malivvie—“and women will find plenty of…” He looked longingly into his abandoned kingdom. “Oh. Well, as we were.”
    He forced his cadaverous body to shift from right to left and then back again. It was like moving a diseased tree you fully expected to crumble into a mess of rotting bark and limbs. He shuffled his feet along the black pressed stones, toward his keep.
    I clambered down from my mare and adjusted my belt. “Rest your horses,” I told the Rots. “And set up camp here. Do not enter any of the buildings.”
    “Wot if they’re offerin’ free ale?” Auren asked.
    “Even then.” I turned to Vayle. “Find his daughter while I play entertain the king.”
    She smirked. “Have fun.”
    “I’m sure,” I muttered, following Serith.
    The old king took us into the empty throne room, the creased eye of the Rabthorn fox resting on the many tapestries that hung from the columns.
    Up a few steps, around a couple corners, down a hallway, quick right turn, sharp left and we stopped inside a room. A finely sanded table lay inside, beneath a golden chandelier. Dozens of pronged candles burned on shelves at both sides of the room. Six barrels spread out in rows of two and stacked upon each other sat under the left shelf, which was filled to the back with clay amphorae.
    “Pick your color of poison,” Serith said. He tapped a quavering finger on the amphorae. “Red, purple, white.”
    “Red,” I said. He filled an iron stein with the sweet smell of glazed strawberries. I didn’t dare taste it until Serith wet his mouth first — a small habit you pick up when people are out to poison you.
    Serith took a seat, groaning as he lowered himself onto the chair. “I’ve learned a few things in my life. You cannot be certain that a man stabbed through the chest will die. You cannot be certain that those you trust will not be swayed by gold. You cannot even be certain that your cock won’t betray you when you get to be my age.” He snorted. “But you can be certain that when the Black Rot comes, they’ll foul your air.”
    I leaned back and sipped the wine. “I hardly think that’s fair. The last time I came around, I