Soon, Ewan was working in three different places. He would finish his shift with one shipmaster and then walk across the harbor to another, where he would continue laboring hours without end. The Tempest, the Black Wave, and Her Lady’s Cutter all saw him scrubbing their decks, rolling barrels of spices down gangplanks, lugging crates of silk, and juggling urns of oils. He started making some money, but it was not enough. After a few weeks, he got bored with manual labor and decided to try riskier jobs. He volunteered to handle dangerous animals that came aboard some of the foreign ships—cats as large as a horse, spotted bears, and evil-looking monkeys that could strangle you in a blink of an eye. Dockworkers never liked those tasks, but he rushed forward, fearless, bored, even angry. He was wasting his time, and the sense of urgency grew by the day.
Word quickly got round. They named him Ewan the Terrible, and he soon became the one man everyone sought for suicide missions. He played with snakes and scorpions. He let them stab impotently at his iron-hard skin. He wrestled sharks, and he retrieved lost goods from the bottom of the murky harbor channel. Whenever a valuable item fell off the gangplank and vanished in the gooey soup called Eybalen Harbor, Ewan would dive in, daring death. It was not that he had a death wish. He just knew that fate had something far more sinister in store for him. Even the Abyss did not want him.
One day, after rescuing a sunken culverin that had snapped its ropes and killed two of the crew, Ewan sat on the dock, water dripping off him, thinking. He could become famous and utterly rich. He could fight in bear pits and do stunts no human would hope to survive. He could rule the world. But he had no dark ambitions. He did not think any less of his ordinary human fellow workers. He wanted nothing to do with power. He just wanted to belong.
Less than a month later, he had enough gold to buy a horse, decent clothes, weapons, and still have some left for any unexpected costs. And it was enough. Eybalen was a sweet trap. He could stay there forever, hiding in the shadows, playing god to people who could not read or write, rot in the comfort zone of invincibility and ignorance. But the black hole in his stomach would not let him be. It pulled on his soul like a restless child, its tiny, clammy fingers invasive and relentless.
It was time to leave. It would be extremely simple. He would just vanish one day and never show up again. Eybalen ate people for breakfast and shat their bones in the evening.
He had a room in an inn called Flotsam Luck half a mile from the docks. It was a simple place where he could keep his belongings, a point of sanity he could refer to. It told him to stop laboring endlessly and take a little break, sit back, and relax and think. But now, he was leaving that place, too.
He walked the horse toward the West Road. The clatter of hooves soothed him. Dawn was still an hour away. Only drunkards, madmen, and the City Watch walked the streets now. No one paid him much attention. He was just another desolate, undigested merchant in an overcoat, vomited by Eybalen for having been found unworthy of its lures.
Yes, he could rule the world. He could be the perfect assassin, the best sword fighter, the tireless hunter, the unsung hero of coal mines, and the crown champion in a faraway kingdom. He could do it all. But he always remembered his friend Ayrton, his simple, humble ways, and knew that he belonged in the small, insignificant world with everybody else. Glory happened to other people.
A rat skittered across the rain-wet cobbles, its long, fat tail wobbling. Something clanged in one of the side alleys. Ewan paid no attention. Then, there was another clang. There was a moment of silence, then a sound like a whip. A faint moan, almost like a whimper. A scraping noise. Unnatural sounds for a drowsy early morning.
Ewan looked toward the alley. He could see nothing. But he could feel a presence, the heat of chaotic life bunched up. He shrugged. It was none of his business. Eybalen was history.
He stepped past the alley and heard a groan, a wet thud. More scraping. Some sort of a chatter, but then it could have been hushed human voices talking very rapidly. He backtracked toward the alley’s mouth, staring down its black, sore throat.
“Anyone need help?” he offered gallantly. What else could he do? He tied the horse’s reins to a rain pipe and stepped carefully into the alley, half blind, minding his step.
He moved away instinctively. A metal rod zipped past his ear and smacked into the brick wall, chipping stone. His assailant grunted, cursed, and swung again. Ewan let the weapon connect this time. The other man wailed as the recoil of the blow shot up his arm, and he dropped the rusty bar. It clanged onto the cobbles, too loud for the surreal, wet morning.
The same thing had happened to him eighteen years ago. Some things never changed.
The first attacker retreated, obviously terrified. But a second man lunged at him, nursing a short knife and stabbing rapidly. The thin blade snapped in two, cutting back through the owner’s palm. The man’s scream exploded into the night.
Ewan’s eyes slowly got accustomed to the dark. There were five of them, two others still bent over someone or something behind a pile of debris and trash. They were looking at him now, gauging their chances. The only way they could escape the alley was to run past Ewan—or through him.
Ewan was no fighter, but he was familiar with the terror his phenomenon invoked with humans by now. He was not interested in bloodshed. He did not want to hurt anyone. He just wanted to be left alone.
He pointed behind him, toward the main street. There you go, his gesture signaled. Leave. Go away. I have no quarrel with you. You don’t want me to hurt you. Just go.
They might be criminals and street mongrels, but they were not stupid. The five men knew they had been given an opportunity that would never come again. They understood mercy, even if they had never shown it to their victims. Slowly, they shuffled past him, backs pressed against the wall, keeping their distance as much as they could, beady eyes glazed with horror locked on him, watching his every move.
Once they hit the clear road, they broke into a run, never looking back. The crazed patter of their feet soon faded into nothing. The night remained cold and wet and empty. Ewan stood, staring at the debris heap, listening to the weak pants and sobs that came from the far side. He hesitated. What should he do? Go there? Who knew what he would find. He did not really want to know. He was no hero. He could not go about saving everyone everywhere. It was pure chance that he had walked by this alley.
But his body moved of its own volition. Like a puppet, he marched into the alley, his steps wooden, his heart hammering in his chest.
Behind the rubble, a small form cowered, curled into a ball, trembling. Whoever he or she was, it had its clothes torn. There was blood all over them.
“Don’t hurt me,” it whispered.
“I am here to help you,” Ewan said in a weak, frightened voice. He did not know what to do.
The thing stirred and looked at him. It was a girl, most likely. It was hard to tell under the massive swelling of her face. Her nose was broken. Some of her teeth were missing. One of her eyes was closed shut. She had been beaten badly.
“Help?” she said as if dazed. “Help. Help…me.”
Ewan knelt. The girl shied away. She tried a weak kick in his direction.
“My name is Ewan. I will help you. I will take you to the City Watch. They will administer your wounds. And then, they will hunt down those criminals.” He didn’t really know any of that, but he had to say something reassuring.
At the mention of the City Watch, the girl panicked. “No, no! No City Watch, please.”
Was she a criminal, too? His mind raced. Maybe it was just gang rivalry? Settling old scores? He wondered who this broken thing was. What had she done? Who would send five grown men to beat her senseless, maybe even kill her? And why?
“Help me,” she sobbed. Tears ran down her cheeks.
Ewan took a deep breath. What could he do? Turn her over to the City Watch and forget about her? Take her with him? But he could not do that. He didn’t even know who she was. Besides, she would be a burden.
Unlike him, she would need food and rest and shelter.
And so will your horse, he reminded himself. He could have walked, but the notion of marching day and night without end made him sad. Riding a horse gave him a sense of sanity.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“No names, please. Just help me. Take me away from here.”
Ewan reached for her arm. She winced. Then, she realized he was trying to help her and let him touch her skin. She was cold. Gently, he helped her rise. She was in no shape to walk. She stood bent, as if her ribs were bruised. One of her arms looked broken. She limped, too. She was one step from the grave. She might not even survive the night.
No names, he thought. But it made no difference. Ayrton would never have left a wounded person to die in a gutter; he would help now and ask questions later. And that was what Ewan would do.
“I’ll carry you,” he said. “Don’t worry about anything. You’re safe with me.” He lifted her. She cried out in pain, but once she was snuggled against him, her wails subsided. Seconds later, she was sleeping, the weak sleep of the deeply hurt.
Ewan gently propped her into the saddle. The horse frisked, nervous around the scent of blood. He made sure she would not fall off. Then, he pulled a woolen blanket from one of the bulging side bags and covered her back, keeping her warm. That was all he could do for now. Later, there would be time to ask questions. It was a mistake, he felt, but he had no choice.
He had to leave Eybalen. But what about the girl? She might be bleeding inside. She had to see a healer. But anywhere he went now, he would arouse suspicion. If he sought a healer in one of the more expensive parts of the city, there would be too many questions asked, and he had none of the answers. The rich people did not like anything disturbing their peace. They would want to investigate. They might even alert the City Watch.
Should he go back? Find another place to stay for a few days and then seek someone who could help the girl? His stomach protested. It felt like hunger, but it was deeper than that. He had to go west. The urgency of his soul pleading almost made him panic.
It can wait, he told himself. If a man had no time to help a fellow human being, then the grand scheme of things did not really matter anyway. Divine matters would wait. They had waited for eighteen years. A few more days would not matter.
He untied the reins and walked the horse back to the waterfront.
CHAPTER 9
Life as an emperor in exile was nothing like James had expected. Well, he wasn’t really an emperor yet, nor had he been exiled from anywhere, but that was who he was supposed be. So, the journey became one of excitement, wonder, and learning. Most of all, it was one big political game, and he was no good at it.
The day after he had agreed to accept the imperial duty, he had left Windpoint. His mother had wept a lot. Bailiff Edmund had seemed confused, but he had not prodded into the hidden reasons that compelled James to leave so suddenly. He trusted James’s judgment. “See you later, lad,” was all he said.
The hardest part, though, was parting with Celeste, his betrothed. She was devastated. Worst of all, he had to lie to her, spin a vague story about duty, and reassure her that it would all be all right, that he would return soon. But he did not believe he would ever be back. He only hoped that he could become an emperor fast enough so he could send for her. Her father had stood by, his face dark and grim and disappointed. The old man’s eyes were unforgiving.
Mother and Alexa said their good-byes as the Caytoreans came by. His mother had hugged him fiercely, crushing him close, whispering in his ear. He nodded dumbly. She stepped back, sobered, and showed a small purse to the merchants called Otis and Melville.
Then, he joined the Caytoreans and didn’t look back.
They had traveled east for a week, with minimal escort, a dark-robed Sirtai and several burly men who looked like personal guards. They slept in roadside inns. They spent the evening hours in the common room, talking about the grim tasks ahead. James did not want to sound like a fool, so he asked little and let them speak. The two men radiated businesslike honesty that James knew was a pretense. He had seen that kind of look on the faces of confidence tricksters. Otis and Melville were dangerous people, he decided there and then. In fact, only two days into their journey, he realized he could not trust anyone around him. He knew he was being used; he just hoped they did not know he knew. It might lend him an advantage in the days to come.
The border crossing between the two realms was a depressing landmark, a single hut, with the roof green with old rot, and cowhide for windows. A man with dark, wrinkled skin and shining silver hair stood in front of it, waving at them. He did not seem afraid or even suspicious.
The Dead End Road became the Northern Highway, and the land changed its name. They left the weird villager and his eerie abode behind and crossed into the enemy state. James felt a shiver run up his spine as he considered the implications. Nothing marked the graves of the countless souls who had been forced to shed blood in order to move the invisible border further west or east, but he could almost sense the weight of history, imprinted in the rocks and loam.
There was little to tell the two rival countries apart, except that Caytor bore fresh scars of a civil war that had mercifully passed over Eracia. Well, it had been stopped dead in its tracks. If his father—it felt so strange to think of that man as his real father—had not stopped the Feorans, their scourge would have spilled into his homeland.
James wondered which one it was, neglect or purpose, that had made these Caytoreans leave ruined temples and abandoned villages dotting the roadside. Perhaps it was a warning sign of what had happened, a reminder to the younger generations.
Weed and hail and snow had almost eroded these scars, but they kept peeking through the tangle and brush, a rib cage of a monastery here, the broken wheel of a mill there, the still-standing wall of a once-prosperous inn now all on its own.
After a handful of boring days on almost-deserted roads, with wind and rainfall fouling their travel, the land turned friendlier, cultivated fields with peasants working, towns enveloping road junctions, trade wagons rolling in well-used ruts. It seemed to James that at least some parts of this country had been rebuilt. Neglect could be a punishment, James realized.
At last, they arrived at a large mansion somewhere in northwestern Caytor. Pain Daye, it was called.
It was a huge, sprawling thing, designed with style and elegance, made from expensive, shiny marble-like stone and red clay roofing. The estate was encircled by a checkerboard of plowed fields that stretched for miles, with hundreds of farmers toiling knee-deep in the muck. They paused in their work and stared at the little convoy with focused interest.
His country’s foes did not look that much different from the Eracian farmer, he realized. The councillors may not have long titles like the Eracian nobility, but they were still lords and ladies and had the common men working for them. It was a sobering thought.
Up close, the mansion lost some of its idyllic magic and became a thing of solid, layered defenses, with several perimeter walls topped with rusty metal spikes, horsed patrols, and even a sentry tower. There was no straight route leading to the manor house itself. The cobbled path angled and twisted, sometimes going half the way around before circling back. Armed guards with crossbows manned the passageways and gates.
The presence of soldiers disturbed James. His claim for the Athesian throne was a dangerous military affair, not a courtly game. In a way, it made things easier. He could understand that sort of danger.
His first night at the estate was a flicker of images, of opulence, decadence, a torrent of vulturelike faces frozen with artificial smiles, fancy honorifics and names, and polite retainers who tried to do every little thing. During the course of the evening meal, one of the servants tried to dab a napkin against the bread crumbs on his lips. Surprised, James leaned back and grabbed the man’s hand in his fist. The servant yelped in shock, and several female guests gasped in astonishment. Only t
hen did James realize what had happened. He felt good about it, if dizzy with the sickly sweet glamour that engulfed him.
The next day, he was briefly taught about etiquette. Master Angus was going to be his teacher on history, language, poetry, and manners. “To be the ruler of a nation, a man must have intelligence and power, but most importantly, a man must have charisma,” the elderly, well-groomed tutor proclaimed. “At the moment, the lad has none.” He spoke in third person, even though James was sitting directly in front of him.
“To be the ruler of a nation,” James repeated. “And how would you know? Have you ever been one?”
Master Angus seemed unfazed. “Well, he does not lack in intelligence after all.” But that ended their meeting for that day.
Next, he was introduced to more people, his personal help, his clerk and scribe, his bodyguards. He was told he could choose a cook if he wanted. Otis also politely but firmly informed him that a real gentleman needed some kind of a hobby if he wanted to blend into Caytorean society. He could choose any one popular activity. It all depended on how he wanted to be portrayed, firm yet just, pleasant yet cunning, witty yet charming. They warned him against girly practices like falconry and gardening.
His reputation as a man of the law and a good tracker was bound to earn him respect among the councillors, they thought. Perhaps he should seek interest in hunting or horse racing.
The long day became even longer as a fresh stream of advisers and teachers came to meet him, introducing themselves one after another, a long litany of honorifics and epithets. Master Neal was going to teach him about economy and negotiations. Master Alfred was going to be his instructor on architecture, alchemy, and weapons making. James wondered why he needed to know anything about how catapults were made, but he was glad for the choice. He loved machinery, but possessed only rudimentary knowledge. It would be a great opportunity to learn more.
Sergeant Hector was his new master-at-arms, and his list of titles ran the longest, including many fancy ranks. He used to be the head of the military academy in Eybalen and served in the army for almost three decades. The man was tall and thin and looked as if someone had thrown a ragged coat of gnarled, chewed leather onto his bones. James knew his kind well, deceptively weak looking but tougher than a rabid badger.
The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) Page 9
