The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2)

by Igor Ljubuncic

  The councillor was not happy with his decision. “That man is a traitor. You don’t—”

  “I decide how things are done here, Otis.” James cut him off. He kept his voice low. He didn’t dare raise it, lest they hear the tremor of panic.

  Otis hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “Of course, Your Highness.” He waved his hand and walked away to a distance of about fifty paces. The soldiers all retreated, taking the rest of the prisoners away. James and a bound kneeling man remained alone in a bubble of piss-colored light, the soggy night pressing around.

  “Are you who they say you are?” James asked. He lowered the knife.

  Sebastian did not even blink. “Yes, I am. I am Guild Master Sebastian.”

  James nodded once. “And have you conspired against me?” This time, the man was quiet for a few moments. He was contemplating his answer. “Yes, I have.”

  “Why?”

  Sebastian swallowed. “Because I don’t believe the claim is true. I feel the whole idea was conceived to shift the balance of power in the council. Whoever supported the would-be emperor would gain from lucrative trade benefits and long-term alliances once the claim for the Athesian throne was realized. This was a direct threat to my own assets. I could not accept that. So I countered this scheme with one of my own.”

  “I am the rightful heir of Athesia,” James spoke. “You think I’m a fake?”

  Sebastian was quiet once again. “It makes no difference.”

  “Did you try to have me murdered?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Do you expect me to show understanding or mercy?”

  The guild master shook his head. “No, I don’t. And I would not give you any, either.”

  James pursed his lips. “If I let you live, what will you do?”

  Sebastian shifted his weight. Kneeling with your arms tied behind the back was hard. “I would be very grateful for your decision, but I would keep doing what I’ve been doing. I would not change my ways. I cannot allow the council to be devoured in a war of greed. I cannot allow Caytor to slide into civil war. I will fight you tooth and nail.”

  James lifted the knife and pressed it against the man’s neck. Sebastian closed his eyes. “You sound very angry, but I don’t think you’re suicidal. I appreciate your candor and your honesty. Probably not the wisest course of action given the circumstances, but you probably think you’re dead anyway.” He put the weapon down again. “It would be a shame to kill a man like you, though. You’re probably the first Caytorean who hasn’t tried to grease my butthole with sweet lard.”

  Sebastian opened his eyes. He said nothing. He waited. He listened.

  “Would anything change your mind? If I let you live, would there be anything that could convince you to stay your assassins?”

  “Only if you convinced me that you don’t intend to plunge Caytor into civil war. I’ve seen the Movement do it once. I’ve seen Adam almost destroy us. I will not let it happen again. Not even if it costs me my own life.”

  James rubbed his chin. “Convince you? I can’t do that. You won’t believe me anyway. But I have a better idea.” He needed a partner. “What if I asked you to join my side? You could make sure I didn’t make any hasty decisions that would precipitate your realm into chaos.”

  Sebastian seemed shocked. His composure melted. “Is this some kind of a sick joke?”

  James shook his head. “No, it is not. Use your head carefully now. You don’t want to lose it.”

  “Why would you extend this offer to me? Why would you let an enemy of yours have a second chance? Not the smartest way of becoming an emperor.”

  “I’ll decide what’s the smartest way. And you’re not my enemy. You may be opposed to Otis or Melville or both of them, but you’re not my enemy. You may be a greedy bloodsucker like the rest, but then, it would not be any worse than it is now. I’m surrounded by people who would see their realm burn so they could become richer and more powerful. I guess that’s how things work. You don’t want to allow that. And I don’t want to see Athesia go down in ashes because of pride and avarice. I can’t say I really care about my father’s realm. I never knew him or his people. Yes, it is just an idea. But maybe it is a noble idea that can flourish into something good.”

  James paced around the man, thinking. “I didn’t come to Caytor to destroy it. I came here because I believe I can make the realms a better place. It sounds naive and simplistic, but that’s what I believe in. Even if that means eating through this enormous pile of lies and deceit. And shit.”

  “So, you are courting me, is that it?”

  James smiled. Sebastian had recovered some of his fervor. “You could say that. I will not be the emperor of Athesia unless the entire Caytorean High Council of Trade backs me up. That won’t happen until you resolve your own petty wars. But if you joined my side, you would defuse some of the tension. And you’d be there to make sure I did not corrupt the council or plunge the realm into war.”

  “That sounds almost reasonable,” the guild master agreed carefully.

  James cut the man’s ropes. Sebastian stumbled forward. He lay on the ground, massaging his wrists, his face twisted in pain. His hands were blue and swollen.

  “This is your one chance, Sebastian.”

  “What if I refuse?”

  “You will go home, unharmed.”

  “You have too much faith in people,” the guild master offered.

  “That is yet to be seen. I’m offering you a business partnership. Your life and the well-being of Caytor in return for my heritage. That sounds like a fair deal. Oh, and you will help me get rid of all those impostors. As many as you can.”

  Sebastian rose. “It is a fair deal. You’re a strange man, James of Athesia.”

  James smiled again. This could be a mistake, he thought. I’m going to regret this. But what else could he do? He was a hostage. He was a puppet. He needed political leverage. Fast. Killing Sebastian would only make Otis stronger. But if he brought the guild master into his fold, it would give him an enormous advantage over his patrons. They would be forced to rethink their schemes. They would have to sidetrack their efforts toward outsmarting one another, keeping James away from the spotlight. In between confusion and competition, James would thrive.

  It was a cruel choice, but there was no other way. The only thing that kept him going was the feeble, dying sense of justice in his veins. “Partners or enemies?” he asked.

  “I will not forget what you’ve done today,” Sebastian said.

  “If you ever betray me,” James warned, “you will die.”

  Sebastian nodded. “Fair enough.”

  “Stay here. Don’t move. Don’t say anything.” James walked over to the assembled party and summoned them back. The expression on Otis’s face went from curious and miffed to livid with rage.

  “What is this?” he demanded.

  “Your Highness,” James corrected him. He had put the killing knife away and held his own sword ready.

  The councillor opened his mouth to say something, but he checked himself in time. He took a deep breath. “I apologize, Your Highness. Why haven’t you killed the traitor?”

  This is it, James thought. Tonight, he would become the emperor he truly was, or he would die a nameless nuisance in the grand scheme of political intrigue of Caytor, forgotten in the annals as yet another pretender who craved for glory.

  “First, if you want to kill someone, don’t you ever summon me in person. You have professional soldiers for that. Second, I’ve decided to spare the life of Guild Master Sebastian and grant him full immunity. His past crimes are all pardoned. He is under my protection now.”

  Otis paled. “Your Highness, that man is dangerous. He is your sworn enemy.”

  James smiled. “Not anymore. Guild Master Sebastian has seen the error of his ways and has decided to pledge his full support in my name as the rightful heir of the Athesian throne. He will be transferring the authority of his private armies to my command.”
>
  James turned to face the other man. “Is that not so, Guild Master?”

  Sebastian was silent for a moment. “Yes, that is so, Your Majesty…Highness.”

  Otis seemed on the verge of panic. All around, soldiers waited in silence. James knew what the man was thinking. If he gave the order, would they follow it? James was wondering about the same thing. The paid butchers owed him nothing. He was just a figurehead, if that. They could kill him on the spot, and he would never become the ruler of a nation.

  James decided to take the initiative. “Captain, release the other prisoners, and escort them to the mansion. Make sure they are fully accommodated. If any require medical assistance, see that a healer visits them. If their personal belongings have been taken, they are to be given back.”

  “Yes, sir,” the squad commander growled. The soldiers obeyed.

  James stared at his benefactor. Your turn, he thought. Remember, you can kill me, but then you will never own the trade monopoly with Athesia. Do you really want to risk it all over pride?

  The man obviously did not. Otis deflated. He became slick and formal, as usual, his face a cultivated mask of well-practiced honesty.

  Soon, their convoy rode back toward the mansion, prisoners doubling with their former captors on horseback. Again, no one spoke. James followed behind Sebastian, his mind racing through scenarios past, present, future. The guild master kept glancing back, wondering about the strange young man who had spared his life. James had no idea if what he had just done was a terrible mistake or a pure stroke of genius. But he did know that he would not let them boss him around anymore.

  Did he have a partner now? Or a friend? Or nothing at all? He would have to see Nigella again. And figure out what to do about his seed.

  CHAPTER 25

  “The empress wants to see you,” the messenger told him.

  Gerald nodded. But it was almost an hour later that he finished his duties and went to see Amalia. He wondered what she saw when he entered. He looked and felt haggard. His eyes were sunken in deep pockets of fatigue. He was unshaven, and he smelled of oil and sweat. There was dirt in his hair. Not how an army leader should look, he thought dumbly.

  He found Amalia standing in front of a tall, silver-lined glass mirror, watching her reflection, her back turned to him. He could see his own, slumped shoulder intruding in her view.

  “I will speak with Commander Gerald alone,” Amalia ordered curtly.

  Without a word, Radburne, the chief healer, exited her chamber—her mother’s chamber. Her own was still being redecorated. Agatha lingered behind for a moment, then left, too. Not the two women guarding the door or the one sitting by the window, idly playing with the straps of her armor.

  “Your Highness,” he mumbled.

  “Do you find me disgusting?” she asked.

  The soldier by the window stopped fiddling. She raised her head and looked at Gerald, then Amalia, then back at Gerald again.

  The commander sighed. He was so tired. He had slept very little lately. It was probably a stupid thing to do when you were in charge of so many lives. He was hungry, and his muscles tingled. “Girls, exit, please.”

  The bodyguards rose and left. The door clicked closed.

  “No, Your Highness.”

  Amalia spun. There were tears in her eyes. “How can you say that?”

  Her head was covered in a fuzzy stubble; they’d had to cut all of her hair to treat her wound. A black worm of livid, infected tissue and stitching ran from above her temple to the back of her head. The top of her ear was missing, sliced clean. She looked like a street cat.

  Gerald saw no ugliness, though. He saw a sad, confused girl. The pain of her soul, oozing through her pale skin, stunned him. It was heartbreaking. Scars on a woman were the worst kind of hurt, especially for a noble lady. Her injury would be a hideous reminder till the end of her life. It would make any other man who spoke to her avert his eyes in shame, so he would not stare at the knobbly wreath of fibrous tissue. Not him. There was no ugliness there for him.

  “How can you say that?” she whispered. Amalia was holding a wig in her hands. It was her own hair. She would wear that in public so no one knew of her scar. The proud nation of Athesia must not know the truth of the assassination attempt.

  “You’re not ugly,” he repeated.

  “If I’m not ugly, then kiss me,” she said.

  He swallowed. What now? “I…I can’t, Your Highness.”

  She tottered. The Pum’be knife had been poisoned. The city healers did not know the exact composition, but it had made the wound fester. She was drinking all kinds of potions and the milk of the poppy to ease her suffering, but it made her giddy and weary and disoriented. There was no fire in the hearth, and it was rather chilly, yet Amalia’s face was covered in a sheen of fever sweat.

  “Why can’t you? I’m your empress.”

  Gerald stepped deeper into the chamber. Careful now, he thought. Oh, he was tired. In the last several weeks, he had realized that his affection for Amalia was probably more than just infatuation. When she’d almost been killed by that magic assassin, he had felt such urgency of fear in his heart that it numbed him. He had always liked Amalia, both as a woman and a person, but he’d never thought beyond the gaping chasm of reality that separated them. Then, during the Pum’be attack, he had learned that death stalked them. Any moment, they could die. There was no time for finesse, no time for pretense, no time for illusions. He should tell her how he felt.

  But his desire was just another sweet dream.

  He was sworn to protect her. His duty came first. Besides, why would she care about him?

  “Your Highness, I must—”

  “Come here.” She beckoned, and he approached. “Kiss me,” she repeated. Her eyes were closed. She waited.

  Gerald sighed. He leaned and gently laid his lips on her own. Just a soft, dry peck.

  Amalia opened her eyes. “Was it hard for you?”

  He shook his head. “Your scar does not mar your beauty.”

  Suddenly, she leaned forward and kissed him. On the cheek. “Thank you.”

  You’re such a fool, he berated himself. What the fuck did you expect? He kept the swirling black cauldron of crushing sorrow and disappointment deep, deep inside, never let the emotions float up to his face. He owed her that much, his unreserved loyalty. And there was no place for childish passion in these harsh times.

  “I am considering marrying Leopold’s son,” she admitted after a long pause.

  And just like that, your stupid dreams are dashed, Gerald thought. He cursed his naivety. Who did he think he was? How dare he?

  “Your Highness,” he said weakly, unable to contain his feelings.

  She looked at him. Her eyes were glazed and sparkly from the milk of the poppy. “Would it matter to you? Do you think it’s a bad idea?”

  Gerald clenched his fists hard. “I think a marriage should be one of love.”

  Amalia bit her lip. “I love my nation. I love my people. Perhaps Theo has it right. It is my duty to protect the people. If this means saving Athesia from destruction, then so be it.”

  Destruction. Roalas was in a hopeless state. Encircled and outnumbered on all fronts by siege armies, well prepared, trained, and better equipped. For every fighter in the city, there were ten people who needed taking care of, women and children and noncombatants who lived their lives in a surreal state between life and death. None of Gerald’s men had seen war before, except the few hard-core veterans. Most of the army’s top officers had been assassinated. The city supplies would run out in just a few short months. The situation was dire.

  They both felt the moment of silence stretch for too long. “How’s the war business going?” she asked, as if reading his mind. Since the assassination attempt, Amalia had kept to her mother’s chamber, healing, avoiding the harsh world outside.

  I must tell her the truth. I owe her that much, Gerald thought. He pushed his pain aside and delivered his report. He spared n
o gory details.

  “We need to try to communicate with other legions. If we can muster a relief force that comprises of the remaining units in Bassac and Ecol, we might break the siege on the north side. Or they could join Nicholas in Caytor and launch an offensive against those pirates. We could gain access to the sea and have fresh supplies ferried in. And we could set sail to the south and land a raiding party behind the Parusite lines.”

  Amalia was silent for a moment. “The Fourth stays in Caytor. If my would-be brother decides to make a move, they will be ready to check him.”

  “Have you considered treating with this James? If he’s really interested in the Athesian throne, he may be willing to cooperate. He might not want to see his future realm burned to the ground, now would he? Our combined forces could make a much bigger impact. We could attack both east and north.”

  “I will not negotiate with that impostor. He will die.” Some of her old fervor was back. She was energetic once more, infused with fury and stubbornness.

  Gerald forced his emotions down. The empress was mulling some bad choices. But what could he do? Oppose her? He was sworn to her, regardless of what she did. Tell her the truth? But if he voiced his opinion, would she listen to him? On the other hand, was it not his duty to let her know what he thought, to help her make the best decision? Her father had never expected any less.

  “It’s a mistake,” he blurted, choosing honesty. That or marrying Ludwig of Eracia?

  Amalia turned away, walked away. She stood in front of the window, staring outside. The enemy lines were endless. And growing in their midst, like a handful of gigantic caterpillars, were siege machines, tall, black, twisted things with fangs and ropes. It was drizzling. The world had a dreary, bleak cast to it. The rain had finally put out the fires in the slums. The city’s outskirts looked like a giant pile of dry cow dung, kicked over and savaged by a boar. People called it the Inferno now.

  Half a mile of destruction separated Roalas from the Parusite forces. On the walls, soldiers patrolled idly. Some were bored, jeering insults at the enemy. Engineers were fondling their units, oiling them, fixing them, making them even better and deadlier.