Sergei shook his head. “This is not what we have agreed upon. You were supposed to hold the eastern flank and blockade the sea. That was all. You were not supposed to pillage Caytorean villages and rape their women.”
Despite his situation, the Oth Danesh persisted stubbornly. “We have not broken the law!”
“You will be punished for this,” Sergei stated simply, ignoring the man’s protests. Then he turned toward his son. “What should his punishment be, Prince-Heir?” But before Vlad could answer, he turned toward the Eracian. “What do you think, Count Bartholomew?”
Bart did not seem pleased, but he considered his answer carefully before responding. His grubby fingers reached up to scratch that shaggy growth, but he remembered where he was and let his arm fall to the side.
“I’m not familiar with this man’s transgressions,” he said slowly.
Sergei was somewhat disappointed by this lukewarm, diplomatic answer, but it didn’t mean anything. The count was most likely being prudent. Perhaps he was undecided. Or he may be studying the Parusites, learning their habits and ideas.
The king began pacing around the room, thinking.
A swath of dull light arced through the tent, making those facing the entrance squint. Princess Sasha stormed in, followed by two female bodyguards and a priestess. The command tent was getting crowded. The women were wearing their red uniforms, but the leather was so wet it shone black. Beads of rain were inching down the mounded, woman-shaped breastplates.
The king almost felt slightly alarmed with so many people around him. He knew each face, except the Eracian count and the pirates, but the subtle threat of retaliatory assassinations hovered in his mind.
Sergei noted the Eracian noble was no longer listening to him. He was focusing on his sister, staring with deep intensity.
Sergei frowned. “Your verdict, Count?” he insisted.
The taut canvas above their heads sang with the erratic beat of fat raindrops. The late summer rains had begun. The roads would turn soft and mucky soon, making travel and resupply more difficult. It would also hamper the siege efforts, as animals and engines got bogged. Clearing the slums of the Inferno would take much longer than he had hoped for. Despite sending numerous hunting parties into the razed suburbs, the burned ring of rubble still belonged to the defenders and the crazed refugees.
Outside the tent, Roalas stood unconquered, its wall drenched by the afternoon patter. Volunteers, prisoners, and auxiliary units had spent the last several days clearing debris while dodging artillery shots from the walls. They had plowed a clean wedge toward the city’s southern gate, but it was still a narrow corridor. The Parusite forces could not bring their numerical advantage to bear. Sergei rubbed his neck.
Bart pursed his lips, making a soft plucking noise. “Death,” he said simply.
Overlord Ro’man shot him a glance of pure hatred, but said nothing.
Sergei nodded thoughtfully. Either the count was a tough man or he pretended to be one, but he did understand diplomacy. And he probably understood the burden of leadership.
“Prince-Heir?”
“I agree, sire,” the boy said, holding the sword steady and extended.
“Very good. So it shall be. Captain of the Seas, before you die, I’ll let you appoint your successor, who I hope will be more reasonable than you. I will also demand compensation for all profit lost and full reparations to be paid to the Caytorean High Council of Trade.” He reached for the man’s gold-and-diamond-studded earrings and tore them out. The overlord screamed.
Sergei blinked the blood off his eyelashes. He tore the man’s necklace of gold and pearls off. “Giorgi, prepare a letter of apology for the council. I want fifty percent payment for the Oth Danesh debited as restoration for damages against Caytorean property. All of the people taken as slaves shall be returned ashore. And add these to the stash.” He handed the bloodied jewelry to the white-faced clerk.
The overlord was furious, clenching his teeth, snarling, struggling against his captors. Tears of pain streaked down his face. His ears bled like overripe plums. “This is madness!” he howled.
“Your successor?”
One of the pirate’s escorts was coming back to his senses. He was kneeling, but he raised a hand. “Your Kingship, I will do it,” he rasped.
Sergei leaned toward the speaker. Ro’man tried to kick the man. One of the Talkers jabbed a fist in the pirate’s ribs. The overlord folded with a groan.
“And you are?”
“Ro’erdi, I’m the windmaster of the seas,” the man spoke. “I will take the helm.”
The king paused for a moment. In general, he had no desire to meddle in Oth Danesh politics, but they did seem like they needed supervision. If he could install a lackey and control him, he might undo some of the damages.
“No, let him stand.” Sergei motioned for a Talker to stand down, as he was about to slam the pirate with the blackjack again. “I want to hear what he can offer me.”
Momentarily forgotten, Bart listened to the bizarre exchange, studying faces. The king looked calm and bloodthirsty, his son tenfold so. Princess Sasha looked bored and annoyed. His eyes kept straying toward her, even though he knew he had to focus on Sergei.
The count listened as the Oth Danesh windmaster repeated pretty much everything the Parusite monarch demanded, agreeing to return the slaves and the loot, cease all raiding activities inside Caytor, and punish with death all shipmasters who defied the order. He also agreed to transfer his command to the Parusite king. Bart was not sure if the man was merely being generous to preserve his life or if he truly feared the retaliation of their bigger, more powerful ally. Either way, he had yielded all his power in one gigantic act of humiliating submission. It felt too easy. Bart doubted such a promise would survive the autumn storms and the chaos of war in a foreign land.
Still, it was a good move. Sergei had just demonstrated solid leadership. He was uncompromising, strong, respected, and feared. Bart wondered if all this were not just an elaborate show meant to impress him. Most likely, it was. But the blood seemed too much.
A few moments later, the king dismissed the pirates. The former overlord screamed his defiance, cursing, but he was gone. Outside, a storm of noise exploded as the pirates’ retinue learned they had turned from allies into slaves. A hundred knights and spearmen were waiting nearby to make sure they did not do anything foolish. Soon, the cursing and shouting subsided.
“What is your business here, Count Bartholomew?” Sergei said suddenly.
Bart rolled his thoughts for a moment. “I’m here to negotiate the safety of the Eracian hostages in Roalas. Monarch Leopold has asked that you intervene personally to ensure no Eracian dignitary will be harmed should you attack the city.” He handed over the monarch’s letter.
It was blunt and simple. Sergei liked it. “I can promise no such thing. Wars are messy. I can’t say no one will be hurt in the fray of battle. Nor can I guarantee that the Athesians may not execute them as an act of desperation or retaliation.”
Bart said nothing. He had not expected anything more, not after three weeks of avoidance. This was negotiations, after all. Very soon, they would be talking about young Ludwig and King Sergei’s daughter Galina and a possible marriage of alliance. But before he did that, Bart had to meet with Empress Amalia, too.
“I will need your permission to go into Roalas, Your Highness.”
“Out of the question,” Sergei said. “I can’t allow that.”
The count nodded somberly. He had known this in advance—which was why he had smuggled one of his men away. The man was supposed to carry a message back to Eracia, but he would then cut due west and try to infiltrate the Athesian capital from the Red Cap siege lines. It would take him a while, but he might succeed.
Spending the last three weeks among the Red Caps had been an invigorating experience. Not always pleasant, but it had given him a unique view into the life of the emancipated Parusite woman, into the history of repression an
d servitude. Eracians and Caytoreans used to be like that, hundreds of years back. And now, Parus was becoming more like them, liberal and dangerous. They were no longer content with their seclusion.
Most of all, he was fascinated by the king’s sister. She was sharp, intelligent, even witty in an acerbic sort of way. He liked her. But she didn’t really seem that interested in him, except to glean information from him and make sure he did not wander away.
He wondered what it would be like to court a woman again, but this time the way he wanted it to be, not just a fixed affair, a contract between his parents and those of his wife. He wanted to be able to really talk to a woman, tell her his true feelings and his fears. He wanted honesty. Sonya cared nothing for honesty.
It was lunacy, but he wanted to court Princess Sasha. She was still unmarried. If she weren’t the leader of the Red Caps, her maidenhood would have been considered a scandalous embarrassment to the king’s family. Perhaps it was. He really did not know why she had not wed all these years, but there must be a reason. Many Eracian military women did not marry early, if at all. Bart cared nothing for the fact he had a wife. He tried to ignore the fact Princess Sasha was royalty while he was a middling noble, at best. It didn’t matter. The thrill of it made this journey exciting.
“You are welcome to stay as my guest,” Sergei spoke, breaking his reverie.
Bart nodded. “Thank you, Your Highness.” And that was that.
Count Bartholomew left. Captain Speinbate and his siege expert left, too, the mercenary leader pasty-faced and shaking. Soon, only the royal family and Sasha’s ever-present companion remained in the tent.
“You haven’t told me about this Eracian emissary,” Sergei chided his sister when they were alone. He sat down again, wiping blood off his tunic with a piece of cloth.
“There was nothing to tell,” Sasha said, sitting behind a table, staring at a map.
“You’ve had him under escort for three weeks. Didn’t you feel it prudent to inform me?”
Sasha tsked. “You were too busy burning the city suburbs. And letting your pirate thugs torch Caytor. If you had any subtlety, you would have handled this a little better.”
The priestess stood by the princess, emulating her interest in the battle charts. When the king’s sister berated her brother, the woman raised her eyes and fixed him with a hard stare.
Sergei ignored the priestess. He sighed. His sister was hotheaded. “What do you know about this count?”
“Except that he has a suicidal need to prove himself, you mean?” Sasha tapped the map and rose. “He hasn’t done any harm yet. But he’s trying. He plans on smuggling one of his men into Roalas. The man was supposed to head back to Somar with some reports, but his real mission was to try to cross the siege lines and enter the city. We have the soldier detained.”
The king grimaced. “All right, then. He’s your responsibility. Keep him occupied.”
Sasha nodded. “What about his terms?”
Sergei shrugged. “Let him fret for a while.” He paused, thinking. “Sister, I want to talk to you—”
“Don’t,” Sasha snapped. She turned angrily. “Don’t.”
“Sister, please. Just hear me out.”
“No. There’s nothing to discuss. I’m leaving.” She strode out without a word of farewell.
“Sire?” Vlad asked gingerly. The boy actually looked uncomfortable.
Alarmed, Sergei realized he had forgotten about his son. He shook his head. The boy was too young to understand this.
“Nothing, Prince-Heir. Proceed with your plan. I want Roalas conquered before the year’s end.” With that, Sergei left the tent. It was suffocating inside.
Vlad stood silent for a moment, then shrugged and went back to planning his takeover of Roalas. He didn’t really care about what his father and aunt were fighting about. His father had given him a task, and he meant to see it through.
CHAPTER 29
James felt his luck turn for the better. After months of wallowing in confusion and self-doubt, he was now riding the tide of change. His choices were difficult, bitter, sometimes almost unbearable, but he finally understood the grim responsibility that stood before him. He would become the Athesian emperor and deliver peace to the realms. It was a simplistic, almost laughingly naive goal, but there was no other way. How else could he bear what he had to do? He knew it, and it hurt.
Deeper inside still, beneath the thick, fat layers of budding duty and sharp morality, there was the pure, simple animal survival instinct beating raw and bloody, untamed, wild, pulsating with unbridled rage and frustration. Until only a few days ago, he’d had no one to trust, no one to confide in, no one he could really call a friend. And still he didn’t.
But he would change that.
He could not let Otis and Melville shape his destiny. He could not let thousands of other plotters, conspirators, glory grabbers, and sycophants decide his life. He may be a tool in their hands, he may be a stupid Eracian kid with lofty ideals, but he would not go down without a fight. Since that one meeting with Nigella, something new and strange and dark had been growing inside him. And then, when they had tried to coerce him into killing Sebastian, it had snapped.
There was no place for a small-town deputy bailiff in Pain Daye. He would have to become one of them. But it did not mean losing his beliefs. It did not mean abandoning his identity. He would play their dirty games, but he would never forget what he stood for. He didn’t want the power. He just wanted to make sure the wrong people didn’t get it.
And if that meant making some hard choices, so be it.
That was the price of responsibility. This cruel truth made him feel better. It made his decisions easier to bear, if not easier to take.
The morning after botching the staged execution, he had launched his counterattack. He started by bribing his guards, the silent wall of armed men who followed him everywhere. One gold coin for any piece of information they had, two for not reporting back on what he was doing, three for reporting a lie. When a pregnant house servant walking past him stumbled, her cramps getting the better of her, he helped her collect the filthy clothes she had dropped. She was confused, but her big eyes registered the noble man who would stoop to help a common woman.
Young Timothy was a tricky one. He was part servant, part squire, and he really wasn’t good at being either. His notion of escort duty came from books and hasty lessons by Melville, and the boy struggled to align those ideals with James’s simple, straightforward manner. He was slowly getting used to his erratic lord’s erratic wishes, and he was no longer appalled when James broke social barriers and let him partake in noble matters.
Timothy was as unlikely a spy as there had ever been. So he tried to make the lad his confidant, make him a part of his grand scheme. If he were to trust his squire with his life, he’d have to earn his loyalty. And there was no easy way of trusting someone in matters of death. Still, that did not mean James could completely let his guard down. Not yet.
Warming up to the soldiers was the easiest thing of all. It almost came naturally to him. When James asked Master Hector to let him teach his men about forest tracking and animal trails and hunting, the old man had agreed gruffly. First, James would lead low-ranking men on short excursions into the nearby woods, where they would follow foxes to their holes, flush badgers from their sets, and shoot rabbits with bow and arrow. They would come back smeared in blood and mud and laughing, slinging game on cottonwood branches and with skinned pelts hanging wet from their belts. Otis and Melville disapproved of this self-inflicted debasement. He didn’t care.
Soon, his retinue grew. Curious young lordlings, minor nobles, even officers became interested in the Athesian emperor, charmed by his unusual hobby and his desire to freely share his passion with others. They would go hunting in large groups, horns blaring, hounds baying, drinks flowing freely. They even started forming units; Rabbits, Snakes, Wolves, Jacks, they called themselves. Silly names, but James understood the importance of
symbolism and unity among armed men.
Sometimes, James would almost forget what he was doing in Caytor. But every day he earned more smiles, more callused handshakes, and words and truths and secrets flowed his way. Sometimes, he would remember teaching Celeste about mushrooms and animal tracks, and he would turn sad. With every day, the emotion was that much weaker, that much paler.
During the day, he studied hard, learned about silver spoons and forks, and read ancient history. For some unclear reason, he clearly remembered the passage on some King Rudolf, who had shaved his wife’s head because she had written bad poetry. He learned all about metals and ropes and wood tensions, and alchemy was no longer such a dreadful, boring burden. He vowed to have a catapult built from what Master Alfred had taught him.
In the evening, he entertained the entire mansion, lavish and polite and generous. His patrons were there, too, eying each other nervously as their precarious protégé took liberties with their finances. James was never shy with the coin; after all, it was not his money.
Very soon, he had a thick and eager following of young nobles and aspiring businessmen who just loved his easygoing manner and carefree spending. He paid attention to their desires and fetishes, let them go unnoticed for a few days, and then surprised them with lavish, yet discreet gifts. They all felt special.
He decreed any soldier could have a new armor plate on his name day. He let servants have a day off on theirs. Ladies got expensive gifts, scented wines, jewelry, and silk. He smiled and laughed with them and shared little lies. With every passing night, it became easier.
His achievements piled up like autumn leaves. One of the officers liked red-haired girls. So when he hired not one, but two red-haired whores for the man, as compliments for his loyal, professional service, the gesture did not go unappreciated.
A servant lad needed help getting away from an angry father after knocking up the man’s daughter. James sent his private guards with a handsome dowry to settle the matter. Another time, almost without hesitation, he had hired a child for one of the wool merchants. The man had died later that week while on the road, ambushed and killed by an arrow, but not before signing over a handsome portion of his trade to the future emperor.
The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) Page 33
