They had beheaded Philip, simple and quick. But then, they had set Ludwig on fire and watched him run around the yard screaming, laughing and dodging his tiny burning frame. A small bear had been brought out, and it danced to the beat of their drums and claps.
Sonya had imagined she would vomit seeing these horrors. But she hadn’t.
Then, she had also realized that her new master had placed the captured noble ladies in rooms facing toward the city, higher up, so they could glimpse beyond the cascade of sloping tiles of the armory and the low, fat palace walls and enjoy the view of the destruction of the Eracian society. A statement, a message. Probably saved him hours of intimidation and clubbing them to oblivion with his meaty fists, not that they did not deserve it, most of them, spoiled bitches.
At that moment, Countess Sonya had decided she had to be very careful around Pacmad.
He might be an animal, but he was a clever one.
Still, she could not just give up and let him feel like he had defeated her. She allowed neither the beatings, nor the rapes, nor the vivid atrocities to break her spirit, and she had showed her resolve at every given opportunity. Pacmad never despaired or got angry at her; he just punished her more, in his simple, brutal ways. Very soon, Sonya had learned that in a contest of physical strength, she would quickly lose the battle. And no matter how tough she was, she hated the abuse and the pain, hated being helpless and weak.
She needed to bring Pacmad down by wit.
She was far from being defeated, but she had to adjust her strategy.
Quickly, she had adapted her behavior to suit her new master and deferred to him as little as she could while plotting her revenge. Not that she would stoop to trying to get back at him for the humiliation and pain he had caused her, or for ruining years of careful planning of becoming a margravine and later a duchess. No, she intended to use him, make him into her tool. So maybe one ruler was dead; there was another ruler, another opportunity. Perhaps Pacmad could give her what Leopold hadn’t, or even couldn’t.
So she no longer teased him about his smell and looks, no longer laughed at the small size of his cock. She did not laugh at his dialect, even though for a savage, he spoke a very decent Continental. And she would not argue or delay against his commands. It also spared her the kicks and punches. Not because Pacmad hated her, but because domesticated animals, beast and captive women alike, were meant to be treated that way, he reasoned. And maybe, maybe because his great-great-grandmother had been raped by Vergil. That gave her some small satisfaction. She knew she was above that, but still, she could not feel just a tad joyful about the fact so many of the tribesmen had paler eyes and russet hair three centuries after the conquest.
Even so, the general was never a gentle man, even when he was not bent on punishment and submission. He was also somewhat unpredictable, which worried her, but the worst part was, she was not really sure what kind of a man he was.
Did he like his concubines willing or fearful?
That was one thing she still had not checked and didn’t dare just yet. The plan she had set for herself was extremely dangerous and delicate. She could not let her eagerness, her lust for power destroy it. And that meant she had to be careful around Pacmad, make sure she was timid and frightened and confused in the right doses. Then, slowly, when his guard dropped, she would own his soul.
Sonya got off the bed, stretching. Her ribs were still sore from that kick a week back. She wished she had a mirror so she could check her face. She didn’t fear getting fat, not on the meager diet he fed her, but the lack of exercise did make her muscles sag, made the fat crinkle under the skin on her thighs. She could not shower, so she stank like a beast, and her eyebrows had grown back to their original thickness.
She looked at her fingers; a tiniest flake of red polish still lingered on some of her nails, almost half an inch longer than they had been several weeks ago, when Pacmad had taken over Somar.
Slowly, she hobbled over to the small desk and drank from a pitcher. The broken toe had not healed well, and it sent a needle of pain up the arch of her foot every time she stepped on it. Grimacing, she drank, thinking. She had to exercise somehow, she had to keep her mind sharp even though she had no books, and she had to gather information about who still lived and try to ally with them or use them to her advantage. She had to get better food and maybe clothes and jewelry, and try to convince Pacmad to give her access to a bath once a week. She had to find a way to insinuate her ideas and suggestions into his brain. She had to—
The door latch clicked, on the outside, and the lacquered wooden panels slammed inside, hard. Pacmad stepped into her room, glowering, breathing hard. Sonya felt a stab of fear in her gut, and she hated it. This man was not supposed to frighten her. So why did he?
General Pacmad, the chieftain of the Kataji, the Father of the Bear and undefeated warrior of his clan, stood watching her with a mix of hatred and lust. In the bright midmorning light, his oiled skin glowed, and he looked every bit the brainless primitive that the Eracian literature had made him into. But she could see in his eyes, Eracian blue, that he was not a fool. They glinted with intelligence and soaked in every little detail around him, quickly. A dangerous man.
What did he like, a willing pet or a terrified slave?
Sonya swallowed, thinking what she should do next. But she just hovered there, holding the pitcher, and licked her lips.
“Woman,” he said, “get undressed.”
She obeyed. She put the jug down and slipped the filthy nightgown off, the one rag she had been given after her expensive silk-and-gold dress had been torn off her body. It irked her, this poverty, this humiliation, this filth, more than the fact she faced a violent, armed man naked and could see his chest falling and rising with unbridled emotion.
Pacmad pointed toward the bed. Sonya climbed into it and rested on her back. She lifted her head a little, trying to see what he would do next, but her ribs ached.
“Turn over,” he growled.
And then, there was pain, deep black pain. She promised she would not cry, but she did; she promised she would not utter a sound, but a small whimper escaped her clenched teeth. Worse of all, she could hear someone’s snigger farther down the corridor. The chieftain had not bothered to close the door.
“Stop babbling. You’re distracting me,” he panted above her, big and heavy and smelly.
“Sorry,” she heard herself say, and it sounded thin and shrill.
Sonya let the world slip away and imagined herself strolling through the city dressed in samite, with a cloak made of pure white silk and lined in pearls. She imagined herself stamping her seal onto letters of credit. Margravine Sonya of Barrin, she would sign.
Pacmad flopped off her, grunting, and in that moment, she recalled how small his member was and how he never lasted more than a minute. But the humiliation felt like an eternity.
This was her moment. Men were least violent after they had spent their seed. Ignoring the pain between her legs, she spun about, facing him. He was trying to don his trousers, but he had left his boots on, and they made him flop about, making small jumps on the carpet.
“General Pacmad,” she called.
The Father of the Bear slipped one leg on, tried to slip on the second. He paused.
Sonya rose on her knees, facing him. The tears on her cheeks itched, but she dared not wipe them off. Only silly women acknowledged their tears.
“Let me help you, Master.”
That got him by surprise, she knew. After several weeks of fighting him and then several more obeying him quietly, this was the first time she had spoken to him without being addressed first. A grave gamble, but Sonya was not going to play the victim forever.
The undefeated warrior looked reluctant, but she didn’t dare call the spasm of muscles flashing across his face fear or even confusion. He didn’t seem to like the fact one of his concubines would try to help him. Was that it? She wasn’t sure. She wished she knew more about their barbaric customs. Wa
s she supposed to hate him? Or accept him and look up to him for shelter and food? Or something else entirely?
Pacmad grunted and let his arms slip to the side. Sonya slid off the bed, knelt before him, and gently tugged on the trouser leg until it slipped above the boot sole. She pulled the rough hide up, higher, toward his crotch…
He slapped her arms off and laced himself up, his Eracian blue eyes staring at her from above. Did she dare smile? Did she dare—
He hit her. She reeled, fell, felt the musty rug lick her face like a dog’s tongue.
“Don’t presume too much, woman.” He gathered his vest, tinkling with little chains holding baby bear paws. Such a hideous outfit, Sonya thought. There were lice in that old fur.
And he walked out before she had another opportunity to charm him.
Sonya remained kneeling, the room slowly spinning. Pacmad didn’t trust her. Not yet. And she still did not know if she could win him over by being the most obedient, most willing concubine or if he desired them with dread in their heart. The second would be much harder, but she would bring herself to do it, if needed.
For now, General Pacmad and his clan were her world. It was almost like a court, in every essence except the filth and smell. She had to fight her way to the top, edge out the other concubines, eliminate her competition, make Pacmad trust her, get him to share his plans and thoughts with her, make him like her and want her. And then, she would have her revenge.
This bloody coup was a setback, nothing more. She just had to adjust her game. The rules had changed somewhat, but the principle remained. She had to fuck affluent men in dominant positions to get what she wanted. And when it came to raw appeal, General Pacmad was not ugly. He sure was more handsome than Leopold under that rugged, primitive mien. And his eyes were beautiful. Shame about his cock.
Sonya allowed herself a moment of weakness and wiped the itching tears away, then went back to planning what she would do once she had the power of the Kataji tribe in her hands.
CHAPTER 2
Jarman Wan’der Markssin watched the big city grow in his vision with a mix of wonder, apprehension, and vague memories from back when he was six, a child in a huge, smelly city. This was the place where his third mother had been killed.
And now, he was coming back. With an agenda.
He stood in the prow of the Sleek Maid, a cutter used for quick voyages with small but important cargo, in this case, passengers—two men. The ship rode the dark waves with speed and elegance, rising in a hiss of spray before it sliced down into the water like a huge ax. The land rose and fell rhythmically, and each undulation revealed more details.
Jarman watched as the nearby hills, brown and blue at a distance, coalesced into terraced farms and vineyards and rows of olive trees. He saw the shiny colors of buildings transmute into filthy shades of gray as his gaze went from the high, rich parts toward the vast, sprawling harbor. This place was the heart of Caytor. Eybalen.
They still had more than an hour before they reached that stench. Strange, how his nostrils remembered the flavor of the city with alarming accuracy when he had all but forgotten the sights and sounds. He just recalled streets strewn with rubbish—narrow, hot, dense—and tall buildings that leaned onto each other and blocked the sun away. So much different from the lovely Tuba Tuba. So much different from the Temple of Justice, where he had spent the last ten years of his life. It should have been one year, but he had stayed.
“How do you feel?” Lucas said, standing at his side.
Jarman turned toward his friend, the true nature of his age hidden beneath a veil of blue tattoos. He had never considered asking Lucas about his age; the man had never considered giving it. Anada wizards had their way with information and knowledge. For them, both were extremely precious.
For them, he thought. For me. I’m one of them.
He had been elected to wizard status only this last winter. It meant decades more of hard learning and training before he could become a master at his craft, like Lucas. But he could only look forward to that journey with excitement and wonder. Ten years at the temple, and he still felt like a baby making its first hesitant steps into the world. Not timid or shy or clumsy. Exhilarated.
“I am fine,” Jarman answered.
Lucas nodded once. The man was probably his father’s age, but it was really hard to tell. With no hair and almost completely blue skin, Lucas did not merit ordinary human measures. Jarman would get his first ink only the next year. Probably.
“This is an evil city,” Lucas offered, a rare emotional moment for him.
Jarman did not remember the night his third mother, Inessa, had died. Sometimes, he felt ashamed for having been so young when it’d happened, for not being able to understand the tragedy. He wanted to have that memory etched in his mind, but all he had was a recollection of stories, which he had twisted into a tale of his own, complete with its false images and words and feelings.
His father, Armin, had taken Inessa’s death badly. He had never returned to Eybalen since, even though the High Council of Trade would invite him often. Lucas had gone there to avenge her, but he had failed to find the killer. Oh, he had gotten to the assassins, but not the mind behind the plot. When he had finally learned the identity of the man responsible, it was already too late. He had already been killed by someone else. The death should have satisfied most people, but not the wizard. Lucas had failed to exact the punishment, had failed to deliver the promised revenge.
Now, Lucas was a life slave to Jarman, because that’s what his honor and code of justice dictated. Just as Jarman had been sent as an apprentice to the Anada. It should have been a single year, but it had turned into a decade.
Eybalen was an evil city. Luckily, Jarman was not going to Eybalen.
They would land in its port, then make their way out of the capital as soon as they could. The goal of their journey rested to the north and west. The last report placed their goal some three hundred miles away, in the center of the realm.
The ship was coming toward the harbor now, and the wind direction was turning more erratic, buffeted by the crease of hills to the north of the city. He could see fishing boats struggling to make it out of the cove into the high sea, where they could finally pull their rigging taut and begin trawling.
So many ships, Jarman noted. Sails didn’t tell him much, but he knew there would be people from all corners of the world converging here: Sirtai, Parusites, Oth Danesh—those who did not practice piracy and preferred peaceful trade instead—Badanese. They came to sell their spices and souls. The High Council never turned down money.
Jarman did not relish the encounter with foreign civilization. Well, if you could call it civilization. He had read all he could on the continental customs, but reading and experiencing them were two different things. He knew about cutpurses and cripples begging in the tiny alleys, and sick whores trying to sell off their flesh. He didn’t want to meet them. He didn’t want anything to do with this ugly place.
But it was the first stop on his journey.
Strange, he thought, how such a barbaric, outright nation when it came to violence and lies could be so timid when it came to celebration of life. These mainland people treated love as a hidden thing, something to be practiced with shame and secrecy. They married single partners only. As a wizard, he was not allowed to wed, but he didn’t see anything wrong about having several wives. Why couldn’t these Caytoreans understand that?
A first stop.
Oh, he could smell the city now, brine and urine and stale water mixed together. The harbor was not deep, but he could not see the bottom. The sea stared back at him, murky and deep green, almost blue. The Sleek Maid slacked her sails and glided to a bobbing halt maybe five hundred paces from the shore, waiting for the tugboats to guide her in. As a quick cutter, it did not have its own oarsmen.
The next hour turned into two as Jarman stood and watched helplessly as the locals manhandled the ship, tossing large ropes to the crew, then drawing them
taut, and finally rowing slowly toward one of the piers. They looked like fingers of some twisted giant, long, thin, and there were too many of them. Most had some kind of vessel moored, mostly big, fat cargo ships. Mainly those that had valuable cargo to unload. Others were forced to anchor in the shallows and use tiny boats to get to the city’s filthy streets.
Sirtai were always welcome here, he knew. The Caytoreans appreciated the accuracy and wealth of his countrymen and maybe even feared the mysticism and magic that veiled them, almost as thick as the rumors and stories. But there was no denying the influence of Sirtai on the realms. The small island had brought most of the technology and culture to these land peoples.
It all went back to the war between the gods.
It was a war that had not yet ended.
Jarman lost his footing as the cutter jarred into the pier. Lucas grabbed his upper arm, steadying him. Men cursed, ropes lashed like whips, and then the Sleek Maid settled. Jarman looked about. No one seemed flustered. There was no damage, it seemed.
“We have reached our destination, sir. Safe and dry,” Ship-master Arimo said, grinning.
Jarman knew what was expected of him; his father had told him about the unhygienic continental habits. Somewhat hesitantly, he extended his smooth, scholarly hand and rubbed the skin of his palm against the rough, callused hide of the ship’s officer. The man’s fingers twitched, tried to make that contact stay, but Jarman slipped his hand back.
The shipmaster did not attempt the same thing with Lucas, Jarman noticed. He realized it would take time before he gained the same intimidating presence as the master wizard. Having your skin pricked a hundred thousand times with ink needles also helped.
The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3) Page 2
