Trina had a dark reputation in Jecusta, Ultner’s Fist having fought against the Jecustans in several skirmishes with Algania. There were many who sought to challenge her as a result, thinking that slaying the Silver Lady would grant them glory. But, not a soul could touch her.
Dien fought with a blunted blade, as well. Ferl had sent him as a friendly competitor and perhaps as an insult. You could never tell with those two. Yet, despite the man’s obvious skill with a blade, Trina struck again and again, her weapon clashing against his guard like a she was a woodsman chopping down a tree. Dien began to tire after a time, his blocks and parries each a fraction of a second slower than the ones before. Soon, he found himself off-balance, flailing his arms as her blunted sword point stabbed into his chest after a fierce lunge.
Emma winced at the sight. That would leave a wicked, ugly bruise.
Trina, panting heavily from her exertions, her hair popping out of her tight, silver braid, stood over Dien for a moment as if deciding whether to jam her practice sword into his eye. Then, she sucked a glob from her nose and spat it onto the fallen warrior’s boot, then striding toward Emma without a backward glance.
With the mercenary captain walking toward her with a drawn sword and a glint of violence in her eyes, Emma had to fight the urge to retreat.
“It’s not like you, my lady, to sully your gown with the dirt of we filthy warriors,” Trina said, digging the tip of her weapon into the dirt as she came to a halt. Emma was, in fact, wearing a gown of blue silk, worn under a fur shawl to shield her from the growing chill. Both gifts from Evina Linstael of the Eastern Sweeps. The lady had sent her many gifts, though they had yet to meet in private. Emma had ignored them up until this point, instead wearing her road-worn military outfits. But, today she’d attempted to look the part of a lady. Jecustan politics would be in her favor this day if she could win some hearts as a lady in distress. Harivor had informed her that her thick, shining red hair was even rarer in Jecusta than in Ardia, and highlighting that against—he had loudly “ahem’d” at this comment—what he called ladylike clothing might gain her war efforts some traction.
“Well-fought,” Emma replied, ignoring a sudden burst of anger from Trina’s caustic, insulting tone. Any fear she felt from seeing the captain dissipated. “I see your reputation is well-earned.”
“Yes, some of us earn what we are given.” A second flash of anger pushed against Emma’s resolve like wine against a leaky cork. Trina knew just how to hurt her, almost baiting her to attack. But Emma wasn’t stupid.
“And we must make the best of it, regardless. Tell me, I’ve heard rumors that your ranks are beginning to swell with new recruits, with Jecustan women anxious to work with the legendary Silver Lady.”
Trina spat again, somehow well-hydrated despite her vigorous dueling all morning. From afar, she appeared to be some silver warrior woman out of legend, perhaps one of the Martyrs. Then, she spoke, sharp and uncouth.
“Dross. They are chaff.” Trina began to stretch, spreading her legs wide and pressing her head well past her knee like some boneless sea monster.
“So, none worth salvaging? None to add to your ranks?”
“A handful might show some promise,” she grumbled reluctantly from where her forehead rested on the cold ground.
“When do you expect to be back to a full contingent?”
Trina straightened and met Emma’s eyes. “I will never be back to the strength I once had. I picked and trained those women myself. Some had been with me for near fifteen years, from the beginning. And they were killed for you. For your poorly led, pointless war against a force much larger than promised, and willing to use those goddamn… beasts.” The last word was a choked hiss, Trina’s eyes glinting with murder. Emma stepped back hurriedly before steeling herself. Nail and Havert were yards away, giving her privacy for her private discussion with the Silver Lady. By the time they reacted, the Silver Lady could slice her into eighteen equal parts.
But, Emma found that, aside from bracing herself, she didn’t care. Death, it seemed, didn’t hold the threat that it once had. Disorder’s warmth flared in her heart, and she clenched her jaw with the strength to snap a walnut’s shell.
“You are a mercenary. You choose a side and are paid for your work. And if that work requires that some of you die, so be it. You’ve lost soldiers before. I know for a fact you lost nearly the same number in that skirmish at Wenan. And, now, you are so broken? The Silver Lady, beaten into a depressed lump of wax after a loss on the battlefield? Even Ferl has more of a backbone.”
Trina’s mouth dropped open, her expression somewhere between astonishment and a sputtering rage. Emma began to imperceptibly stray her good hand toward the knife that she still wore at her side, despite her gown. It was unlikely the knife would do any good against this bestial woman, but she would not die without a fight.
The Silver Lady began to reach for Emma, her lips twisted back in a snarl. But, all at once, she seemed to deflate, all of her rage escaping her body like water from a shattered vase. Trina’s shoulders slumped in sorrow, hard muscles suddenly turned to jelly, her eyes focused at Emma’s feet. Emma reached out, touched the woman on the shoulder with her mutilated hand for just an instant before Trina stepped back, scrubbing hurriedly at her haunted eyes.
“I… I overstep, my lady. You are right. This is my own fault. It’s just. I lost a… good friend that day.” Ah, so that was it. A very good friend, Emma wagered. “This… all this…” Trina swept her hand to take in the drilling soldiers marching in formation, the blacksmiths hammering away at armor and filling molds for arrowheads, the cooks dumping unnamed slop into boiling water, “…it seems meaningless. I cannot bring her back.”
Emma’s mind, the twisted bastard that it was, summoned images of Escamilla. Her subtle teasing. Her precious, rare laughter. Her constant quizzing and training. A thousand good memories swarmed her like a disturbed nest of red ants, each memory’s bite bringing a spot of pain that threatened to bring her to tears. She twisted her mangled hand with her good one, the physical pain combatting the swirl of emotions she fought to subdue.
The tingling in her heart—Disorder’s gift—subsided.
“Captain Almark, believe me, I understand. Though Lady Escamilla just left us, I have been feeling her loss for weeks. We were as close as two women could be.” Perhaps as close as Trina and her unnamed friend. “But, though I never wanted this for myself, in the dark of night, I think about what Escamilla would want of me. What would bring her joy in Harmony…” Trina winced. Emma released her words, knowing they sounded hollow since she, herself, didn’t believe in the Yetranian notion of a joyous, peaceful afterlife. “…Or what would honor her memory. Escamilla desired that I step into her shoes and continue to fight our battle. Fight against this great evil, for who other than utterly soulless, evil people would release the Feral or send a man to murder a dying woman?”
Trina clenched and unclenched her fists, her powerful forearms rippling with strength as she fought to control her own emotions. A hot anger? An empty depression? Something volatile, it seemed.
Emma pressed on through Trina’s struggle. “I try to live the life that Escamilla wanted for me, even if it is… challenging. Even if there is a chance that I will be killed by those we oppose. But, I do it for her, and I do it because it is the right thing to do. Would your… friend want to see you having given up? Or, trying to fill your void with these dangerous duels? Would she see you dead for nothing?”
Trina once again seemed to relax, even smiling a weak smile.
“Alexa never liked fighting, violence. She always advised me to retire—‘You have the coin,’ she’d say. ‘We could find a small city, somewhere, open a clothing shop for women…’; she had the eye of a seamstress. ‘Why continue to fight? Why continue to help rich, powerful men grow richer and more powerful?’ she’d ask.” Trina’s eyes grew unfocused, staring past the impromptu military camp set up in Landon, the long-abandoned western region of Farr
ow’s Hold. She was probably seeing her own visions of Alexa. Her smile turned wistful, sad.
“Alexa was one of the reasons that we even contracted with Escamilla. Escamilla was different, she said. She didn’t seek to absorb others. Rather, she sought to preserve something, something fundamental about Ardia. So, we took this job. My last job, I told Alexa; I told myself.” Trina picked up her discarded practice blade, staring long at the dull, dirty metal. “But, that was almost certainly a lie. These things—they have a tendency to continue pulling you in like water circling a drain. I would, and will, always be the Silver Lady, Captain of Ultner’s Fist.”
She dumped the sword into a loop on her belt. “Alexa wouldn’t want me to continue to battle. It seems, though, that I have little choice. That is my life. My lady, your leave?”
Emma nodded, watching as the lithe, beautiful, crass, and melancholy warrior strode away, her hips swinging in a way that would tempt men into a hopeless course.
She blew out a long sigh. She was no closer to determining whether Trina had anything to do with Escamilla’s murder. She was one of the few who had no true alibi for the days preceding Disorder’s infiltration of Farrow’s Hold. No one—not even her own lieutenants—had seen her for days. Perhaps she’d spent that time forging orders, or meeting with agents of Disorder and this Recherche Oletta, making arrangements for their infiltration. Perhaps she had been planning this betrayal since signing on with Escamilla, or since their rout at Florens.
Or, perhaps she’d merely been set adrift on a sea of her own grief.
Emma did not rule out her involvement, but Trina Almark seemed an unlikely traitor. As did all of Emma’s other suspects. Her captains each had clear alibis, what with moving her soldiers into Landon, clearing debris from the crumbling roads, and finding suitable quarters in the abandoned, blackened buildings. Landon had been taken by fire, years ago, and since the population had dwindled in Farrow’s Hold over the past twenty years following an outbreak of the Black Tear, no one had bothered to fix up this part of the city. So, the task had fallen to the Army of Brockmore, and her captains were constantly in public view and far too busy to betray Escamilla.
Eric Malless had been less involved with clearing Landon and had disappeared briefly, here and there. But, as it turned out, he’d been sinking his dwindling resources into whiskey, a favorite in Jecusta. He had been found, robbed and stripped, in an alleyway near the Central District, reeking of vomit and the potent beverage. Eric may have been disgusting in his grief, but he also lacked the willpower to create a plan as complex as forging orders and tricking the rest of the military in the process.
Opine had been at her side for much of her own soliciting among the Jecustans, bored to tears at the intricacies and delicacies of politics. He obviously longed for another cavalry charge, like the one at the Battle of Florens. To see the bodies of the enemy trampled, bloodied and broken beneath iron-shod hooves. To rally the men for a daring rescue, defying odds and gaining worshippers in the meantime. That was what heroes did, after all. And a hero never betrays an old woman, consigning her to an unholy death.
That left Trina and Ferl. Though Trina’s disappearances may have been attributable to her loss, she remained a possibility, if a vague one. And Ferl… Ferl was impossible. He was a slick-as-a-frog smooth talker who always had an explanation for everything. Emma glanced over to where he stood leaning casually against the burnt-out old cathedral which he had made the base of operations for his company. He was chatting with Dien, slapping the beaten warrior on the shoulder with a good-natured jibe. He somehow noticed Emma’s gaze, met her eye, and shot her a quick smirk.
The mercenary captain very well could have betrayed her. On a number of occasions. He could have simply ordered his greenies to stand down at Atwater. He could have unleashed Ashland’s power into the command tent while they’d been on the march. Or, he could have simply left after the Battle of Florens. They would have been chewed to pieces by the Rostanian Cavalry along the march. So, as much as Emma wanted to condemn Ferl for Escamilla’s murder, it seemed unlikely that he would go to the trouble to ensure Escamilla’s demise in such a way, given that he could have accomplished their defeat so much more easily at so many points.
But when there was no one to suspect, one must distrust everyone.
“My lady.” Harivor shuffled up, buried in his furs against the morning chill. More furs than were strictly necessary, it seemed, but the emissary had a chronic cold. “The hour grows near. They will start without you, so you would be best to begin the trek. I’ve prepared a carriage, if you will just follow me.” He sniffed, twisting his nose in such a way as to keep the protuberance from openly running.
“Of course. Let me gather my escort and I will be with you shortly,” she said, distracted. Her gaze was still fixed on Ferl. Strangely, he frowned and shied away as an Oshwon servant ambled by. Shirtless, as they often were, and painted with tattoos. This man was writhing with snakes, the scales appearing to move along his body as he walked.
“My lady, might I be so bold as to say that you are dressed quite appropriately for this event? Quite, ahem, ladylike. Although, I might point out that there is now a smidgeon of dirt along the fringes.” He gestured at her hem, which was now slathered with a generous portion of mud. Emma checked a sigh.
“Thank you, Harivor. I would change but, as you said, we have little time to waste. Let us head to the hold.”
***
Emma wasn’t sure whether she had arrived late or whether the Jecustans had started early. Regardless, as Harivor led her into the meeting room—another unnecessarily massive, drafty room, but with a magnificent view of the city through an impressively large glass window—she found herself in the midst of an argument.
“…do not have an absolute rule over this country,” spat Marc Ervis, magnate of the Upper Plains, the region most directly bordering Algania. The magnate was a horror to behold, half of his face little more than mutilated scar tissue that had resulted from an Alganian assassination attempt fifteen years ago. More of a thwarted torture session, really, as the attacker had plucked out Ervis’ eye with a fork and covered one side of his face with a criss-cross of precise cuts. The result was a scaly mess that gave the man the permanent scowl of a freakish school teacher. But, the scowl wasn’t just a mask—Ervis had been well-known as a curmudgeon even before his disfigurement.
Unael leaned forward, his forehead resting against his hands. Clearly, this was not a new topic of discussion. “You made me the democratic leader of Jecusta, which means very little in the actual governing of this country, as no one can ever fucking agree on anything. But, in times of war, my rule is absolute. There wouldn’t be a democratic order without me, remember?” He met the eyes of each of the gathered rulers of Jecusta. Ervis of the Upper Plains, returning the firm look with a cyclops glare. Clem Linstael, the obese pedophile who did little to actually rule the Eastern Sweeps. Evina Linstael, who was not afforded a seat at the table, but instead watched from her perch, leaning against the wall, her great weight likely a strain on her ankles Rential of the Low Plains, the whip-thin man who had spoken harshly of Emma and Iolen at that first fateful meeting. And a handful of other heads of house from around Jecusta, whose votes were beholden to one of the four aforementioned men for some reason or another. Blackmail, protection, money…. The usual.
A democracy, indeed. Emma and her small entourage—a hungover Malless and a bored Opine—took their places at the table while her knights found a place along the wall and Harivor scuttled off, sneezing and coughing.
“Why would you think this is a time of war? We’ve reports of a nearly united Ardia for the first time in nearly a century. Certainly, their military has been mobilized, putting down minor rebellions in Florens and Draston, and in readiness for the final push on Hunesa. But, we’ve no expectations of hostilities directed toward Jecusta.” This from Lord Linstael, speaking around a goblet of wine. He was known for his excesses. The obscenely rich often were.
Evina folded her arms, her expression dark. Unael clearly took note. “As I’ve said, and as you know, there was an attack in this very hold,” he commented. “A guest under my protection, as well as two others, were killed. I–”
“But no Jecustans,” interrupted Lord Linstael. “Just foreign visitors, who brought this trouble across our borders. Send them back, and the problem is solved. There is no threat of war.”
Emma felt the urge to scrape the smug expression off the jowly face.
A pretty noblewoman leaned forward and spoke up cuttingly. “Of course, the Eastern Sweeps cares little for the prospect of a war hundreds of miles away, when half of the country acts as a buffer between possible hostile forces and your own fat ass. You’d have to send your share of soldiers and conscripts, your share of wealth to purchase supplies and equipment. When you never really expect a threat to reach you,” she said from between her teeth. Emma didn’t recognize her, but from her positioning at the table, she was loyal to Unael.
“You will watch yourself, little girl—” Lord Linstael sputtered, his paunchy face splashed with an indignant red.
“If she were truly just a little girl, she would certainly have to watch herself around you,” sneered Rential. Emma could see Evina scratch at her face to cover a grim smile. “Even worse were she a boy.”
“I did not travel all this way to be insulted by you imbeciles! These rumors were planted by my enemies—”
“Your only enemies are obesity and children with sharp teeth…”
“Enough!” Unael roared, surging to his feet, his eyes flashing with the hot anger of a man who had fought—and killed—in battle. Even Emma felt a flutter of panic at the sight. “Lista, you will not insult a magnate. And, Linstael, have some godsdamned pride for once in your life. We are here to discuss the protection of our country, not squabble over all of your various indelicacies. We are here to determine the best way to address the growing threat to the west!”
Wisdom Lost Page 29
