Read Online The Mad God's Muse (The Eye of the Lion Saga Book 2) by Matt Gilbert - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Matt Gilbert
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Ridiculous.” He chuckled again,
this time with a darker, malevolent undertone. “This is
terribly embarrassing, friend, but it seems I may have eaten your
lunch.”
“What have you done?”
“The same thing you intended, I'd wager, only with panache.
Really, poison? Longing for a part in a penny dreadful, are we?”
Rithard felt his jaw clench, but he offered the man only a placid,
blank regard. “I'm afraid I don't know your name.”
The man's demeanor shifted from humorous to threatening in an
instant. Rithard felt himself begin to sweat, and knew full well it
was not from nerves. The room was hot like a furnace now, in the
space of moments. “Count that as a blessing. We could end this
with neither of us knowing names, and both walking away alive, eh?”
“A Meite assassin,” Rithard muttered, more to himself
than as a reply. “Who could have predicted that?”
“Maralena, had she the sense to think things through.”
The Meite glared at Rithard. “Will you stand aside or no?”
Rithard
paused a moment, then slipped the vial back into his pocket. I
have what I wanted, it seems. “I never saw you.”
The Meite smiled again, and the temperature of the room dropped back
to normal in an instant. “Nor I you.” With a wink and an
impish grin, he turned to depart, then seemed to reconsider. He
turned back, his nose wrinkled in annoyance as if he smelled
something foul. “Mei! I can't do it that way! Not when you've
looked me in the eye. It would be pure cowardice.” He locked
eyes with Rithard and announced imperiously, “My name is
Sadrik Tasinal.”
Rithard maintained eye contact as he considered. “I am Healer
Rithard of House Amrath,” he answered after a moment.
Sadrik nodded in appreciation. “I know that name. You have
courage, Rithard. Will you keep my secret, if I keep yours?”
“I will. I've no quarrel with you.”
“Nor I, you. And now that I know what sort of man you are, we
might even be friends in the future.”
Rithard nodded and said, “It is good to have friends.”
Shirini stirred her
soup again, smiling at the perfect silence in her kitchen. Young
hens did indeed learn, it seemed. Not that it mattered much, in that
the master and his lady 'friend' were making no effort at all to be
discreet. They sat at Davron's table, cold fury so chilling the air
between them that Shirini almost expected snow.
Davron glared across
at the mystery woman, hands clenched into fists, his face dark with
anger. “I will not ask again, witch! Where is it?”
Parala cringed as
she mixed dough. Cyndi laid a heavy beef roast on the counter and
hissed, “What's he talking about? I missed it in the larder!”
“Shh!”
Shirini answered, waving her spoon.
Parala answered
softly, “He thinks she's stolen his father's sword.”
Cyndi's eyes grew
wide in appreciation. “Did she?”
Shirini stirred her soup furiously and muttered, “If you'd
shut up we might find out!”
Cyndi mimed a sewing
motion on her lips, then reached for a tenderizing mallet. Shirini
gave her a look that must have communicated exactly how stupid a
thing that would be, because Cyndi changed course and reached for
the salt and pepper instead.
Some young hens
learn slower than others, I guess.
Other than rolling
her eyes, the dark-haired woman (whom Shirini had named “The
Bitch”) had not responded, and Davron had grown even more
incensed. “Answer me!”
The Bitch fluttered
her eyelashes in feigned shock. “How dare you accuse me of
theft!”
Davron grunted at
this. “Oh, I doubt you're the thief. You had someone else do
your dirty work for you, no doubt. Isn't that how you Prosin weasels
do things? Dead drops, cut-out agents, plausible deniability?”
Shirini and her two
underlings stared back and forth at one another in shock. The
Bitch is House Prosin!
The Prosin Bitch
threw back her shoulders and inclined her head. “I work in
information. I do favors for people, they tell me things. Other
people do me
this time with a darker, malevolent undertone. “This is
terribly embarrassing, friend, but it seems I may have eaten your
lunch.”
“What have you done?”
“The same thing you intended, I'd wager, only with panache.
Really, poison? Longing for a part in a penny dreadful, are we?”
Rithard felt his jaw clench, but he offered the man only a placid,
blank regard. “I'm afraid I don't know your name.”
The man's demeanor shifted from humorous to threatening in an
instant. Rithard felt himself begin to sweat, and knew full well it
was not from nerves. The room was hot like a furnace now, in the
space of moments. “Count that as a blessing. We could end this
with neither of us knowing names, and both walking away alive, eh?”
“A Meite assassin,” Rithard muttered, more to himself
than as a reply. “Who could have predicted that?”
“Maralena, had she the sense to think things through.”
The Meite glared at Rithard. “Will you stand aside or no?”
Rithard
paused a moment, then slipped the vial back into his pocket. I
have what I wanted, it seems. “I never saw you.”
The Meite smiled again, and the temperature of the room dropped back
to normal in an instant. “Nor I you.” With a wink and an
impish grin, he turned to depart, then seemed to reconsider. He
turned back, his nose wrinkled in annoyance as if he smelled
something foul. “Mei! I can't do it that way! Not when you've
looked me in the eye. It would be pure cowardice.” He locked
eyes with Rithard and announced imperiously, “My name is
Sadrik Tasinal.”
Rithard maintained eye contact as he considered. “I am Healer
Rithard of House Amrath,” he answered after a moment.
Sadrik nodded in appreciation. “I know that name. You have
courage, Rithard. Will you keep my secret, if I keep yours?”
“I will. I've no quarrel with you.”
“Nor I, you. And now that I know what sort of man you are, we
might even be friends in the future.”
Rithard nodded and said, “It is good to have friends.”
Shirini stirred her
soup again, smiling at the perfect silence in her kitchen. Young
hens did indeed learn, it seemed. Not that it mattered much, in that
the master and his lady 'friend' were making no effort at all to be
discreet. They sat at Davron's table, cold fury so chilling the air
between them that Shirini almost expected snow.
Davron glared across
at the mystery woman, hands clenched into fists, his face dark with
anger. “I will not ask again, witch! Where is it?”
Parala cringed as
she mixed dough. Cyndi laid a heavy beef roast on the counter and
hissed, “What's he talking about? I missed it in the larder!”
“Shh!”
Shirini answered, waving her spoon.
Parala answered
softly, “He thinks she's stolen his father's sword.”
Cyndi's eyes grew
wide in appreciation. “Did she?”
Shirini stirred her soup furiously and muttered, “If you'd
shut up we might find out!”
Cyndi mimed a sewing
motion on her lips, then reached for a tenderizing mallet. Shirini
gave her a look that must have communicated exactly how stupid a
thing that would be, because Cyndi changed course and reached for
the salt and pepper instead.
Some young hens
learn slower than others, I guess.
Other than rolling
her eyes, the dark-haired woman (whom Shirini had named “The
Bitch”) had not responded, and Davron had grown even more
incensed. “Answer me!”
The Bitch fluttered
her eyelashes in feigned shock. “How dare you accuse me of
theft!”
Davron grunted at
this. “Oh, I doubt you're the thief. You had someone else do
your dirty work for you, no doubt. Isn't that how you Prosin weasels
do things? Dead drops, cut-out agents, plausible deniability?”
Shirini and her two
underlings stared back and forth at one another in shock. The
Bitch is House Prosin!
The Prosin Bitch
threw back her shoulders and inclined her head. “I work in
information. I do favors for people, they tell me things. Other
people do me
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