Melville was not pleased. But his wool trade was suffering from the unexpected invasion. Trade caravans feared going south. The routes to Athesia were cut, blockaded by the Parusite siege lines. There was a trickle of commerce into Eracia, but even those lanes seemed constipated.
“Where have all the refugees gone?” James asked.
“North mostly,” Xavier answered, picking at his short, grimy nails with a dirk.
“We could recruit from among them.” James leaned back in his chair and put his boots on the desk. Melville frowned. “A freedom brigade, so to speak.”
The councillor coughed and launched an uncommon military speech. “If you go to war with Empress Amalia, you will have to plow your way through the Parusite ranks. And you’ll have your left flank infested with the pirates. You will have to fight on two fronts. And there’s a rumor of an Athesian legion making its way here. You don’t want a third front.”
James turned toward Xavier. “Do we know where that legion is?”
Xavier shook his head. “Not yet, but we’ll find out.”
James remembered something else. “What about that assassin? Amalia?” Had his half sister tried to kill him? He should not have felt anything, but the thought irked him. Deep inside, he hoped that he might meet Amalia on friendly terms, get to know her. He wondered if he might not work out a peaceful deal with her after all. Perhaps they could join their forces and even rule together. However, not if she intended to see him dead. He had refused to send killers against her, and the notion she might not share his mercy left him vulnerable, exposed. He banished the morose thoughts quickly.
“The man squealed all kinds of information when we poked him with glowing iron, but he ain’t one of hers, no. That one is from Caytor, for sure. Don’t worry. He’s alive. He’ll talk some more.”
James blinked away the brief images of torture. “Good. Make it so.”
There was more, but Xavier did not easily share his findings when other people were present. The secret interrogations scared the councillors. They could never really know what desperate men might divulge under torture. Wrong confessions could incriminate them, mark them as enemies, make them into a target. Especially if those admissions were true.
Sebastian seemed peaceful enough, though. He had done his share of trying to kill James, and now he followed him with zealous devotion. Melville fretted, but it could just be his wool trade suffering.
Xavier remained after the two men left. “Who was it?” James asked simply.
The warlord handed him a note. A name was scribbled on it. James grimaced. He was not pleased.
“See to it,” he said. He had just commissioned another assassination against a would-be ally. But he had no choice.
Xavier coughed. “There’s one more thing, sir. Two things, actually. One, the impostor named Norman died four days ago. Food poisoning, sir.”
James nodded. He was down to just two rivals. Good.
“And the lady you have requested is waiting for you in town.”
James did not know her name. She was a nameless upper-class whore, the kind who catered to bored merchants and high-ranking officers. She was well at ease with yet another customer who demanded total discretion. He was hesitant at first, but Nigella’s advice pounded in his head. Then, his lust took over. But he was careful to don a frogskin before he lost control of his body.
Rheanna avoided him for almost a week after that brutal night. Then, a week after that, she had her menses and he had to leave her alone. It gave him time to practice his detours into the nearby town of Goden, meeting with all kinds of women. Sometimes, he would go disguised as a common merchant, followed only by one or two guards, and try to seduce women using his tongue and wit. On those nights, he usually came home frustrated. Other times, Xavier arranged for expensive whores to entertain him.
He felt no guilt. Rheanna meant nothing to him, he tried to tell himself. Occasionally, he would remember Celeste, and a wave of sadness would envelop him, but he was helpless against the throbbing desire in his belly. His love felt dulled, crippled. Time played evil tricks with memories, making them blunt, wearing them down. He could hardly believe it had been less than half a year since he left Windpoint. It felt like an eternity. What a foolish, naive child he had been.
The excursions into town did hone him. When he spoke to the ladies of the court, he felt more secure, more confident in his manners. He was less confused, less frightened. His cool, sure energy swayed their hearts easily. He was the gallant champion of their dreams and ambitions. And he moved them like puppets on strings. Bless that woman, Nigella, but she knew what she was talking about.
It was she he wanted to see the most, for some reason. Her not-so-attractive features compelled him. Maybe it was the intimacy of their short time together. Maybe it was the subtle humiliation he had suffered at her behest. Maybe it was the lure of magical powers and the glimpse of the future. But he wanted to see her.
Twists of fate kept him away. He was too busy working, plotting his future. He realized how critically important it was to see her, but there was not a moment to spare. And then, a week of bad weather left him confined in the mansion, bored and hungry for female companionship. Rheanna still eluded him. Maybe she sensed his indiscretions and felt hurt or betrayed. On his part, he stayed away from the vixen trying to ensnare him. At night, he was all alone.
Like many times before, he sinned. The images that flashed before his eyes were of Rheanna and Nigella, entwined, mixing, colliding, combining. He did not want to admit it, but there was a seedy pleasure in imagining Nigella’s simple, plain figure wrapped on top of him. He had never expected it.
Then, he recalled how she had drank his seed. His tongue rolled involuntarily.
“Like warm custard,” he intoned.
Leaning over, he reached down and swiped a drop off the floor. Gingerly, he touched the tip of his finger to his tongue.
“Bleeeeah,” he wailed, grimacing. He rubbed his tongue against his sleeve, trying to banish the foul taste.
“It doesn’t taste like custard at all,” he complained when he finally met her again. It had taken him almost three weeks before he could come see her.
Nigella burst into laughter. “You tasted your own seed? Fool.”
James blushed. “No.” He tried to change the subject. “You were right about the smiling man.”
The witch pursed her lips knowingly. “So it seems,” she said simply.
James knew what was expected of him. Spit, blood, semen. Once again, he asked her to turn away. Only this time, her foretelling was just a vague sentence that left him confused.
“What am I supposed to make of that?” he complained.
Nigella took her glasses off and rubbed her eyes. “I cannot control the magic of time. I am just lucky to see glimpses of what the future may hold. No more. This thing may not happen for another ten or fifty years.”
James sighed. “Is there nothing else you can do?”
The witch gave him a long, unblinking stare. “There is. You could spill your seed inside me.”
The future emperor felt a cold, sudden tingle between his legs. “What do you mean?”
She puffed. “Suddenly he’s an idiot,” she complained. “Your seed tells a lot, but it would tell more if you had sex with me. The bond of that union would strengthen the magic, make the prophecies more accurate. The womb is the forge of life. It has its own special powers.”
James frowned. His instincts were hiding in a corner, carefully contemplating the next move. He knew very little of this woman, and frankly, she frightened him. Was she highborn? Lowborn? Should he heed her adamant advice and stick to common women and whores? Maybe it was all a trap. Maybe she was trying to get him to lower his guard and do something regrettably stupid. Like getting her with child. Well, that would be a colossal blunder, a half Sirtai witch with the future Athesian emperor’s heir growing in her belly.
But he needed her prophecies. He desperately needed them. Besides
, she stirred something base inside him. Maybe it was her status. Maybe it was her plain looks. Or just the simple intimacy he shared with her.
“I can’t do that,” he said. There was a feeling of woolen panic at the back of his throat. Something was not quite right, his mind was trying to tell him, but his body fought back, rigid with hunger and taut with intrigue. The nagging, frantic feeling of wrongness that imbued him made him furious. It was weak and vague and annoying. He rubbed his temples, trying to banish the unease.
“Why not?” she persisted.
James ignored the growing sense of alarm. “I don’t know. I need to think.”
Nigella patted his hand. “You do that.”
He nodded dumbly. “I will.”
He left. His future suddenly seemed very dangerous.
CHAPTER 35
Gerald woke up with a scream. He catapulted into a sitting position, drenched in cold sweat. The scream thinned to a shrill moan.
“Hey, hey, it’s all right, it’s all right. You’re safe!” someone shouted.
Gerald blinked, looking around, disoriented. “Where am I?” he whispered.
The world slowly came back to him, the shapes, the colors, the smell. He was in a long room with plum-painted walls, lined with straw cots on both sides. It smelled of old bandages and vinegar. There was a handful of windows high up on the wall opposite him, thrown open. It was raining outside. A smiling man in a clean white shirt stood near a door, holding a pillow to his chest, watching him.
“The First barracks hospital,” the voice said, coalescing into the old bastard Clive.
“How long have I been here?” the commander of Roalas asked.
At his side, Lieutenant Clive chuckled. He was also lying in a bed, naked above the waist, barely covered in a rough woolen blanket. “Just three days, sir. You’re more exhausted than you are wounded.”
Gerald touched his side. A bandage was wrapped round his abdomen. The linen was clean.
“You’re a lucky bastard lad, sir. Them stab wounds fester like shit. You’re lucky I cauterized the wound with a glowing knife later that night.”
Gerald sighed and leaned back, resting his head against the cold wall. He took a deep breath. His body felt doughy, tingly with stupor. There was a warm presence of old pain below his ribs, but it didn’t feel debilitating.
“I got my kidneys poked, too,” Clive said, grinning.
Gerald noted the man had an ashen expression, beads of sweat dewing his pate. Infection fever.
The veteran noticed Gerald’s panicky look. He shrugged. “Don’t worry. I’ve lived through worse. You get a clove of garlic on your wound, and you have a young girl suck your cock every night.”
Gerald frowned. Then he relaxed and smiled. “How does the sucking help?” He played along.
Clive snorted. “It doesn’t, but it makes you happy.” He chuckled. Several other men abed joined in, laughing softly.
“Have you had any sucking yet, Lieutenant?”
The chuckle turned into a phlegmatic wheeze. “Not yet, but you must not lose hope.”
Gerald was thirsty. Almost absentmindedly, he reached for a wooden cup at the small stand beside his cot. It was filled with something soupy. He sipped the concoction. It tasted like lots of disgusting herbs, some poppy, and maybe a touch of wine.
“Yes, drink it. It’s good for you.”
A few moments later, Gerald felt warmth suffuse him. His arms stopped shaking. He relaxed completely and let his mind unwind. The terror of his nightmare sluiced away, leaving a long, crystal-clear recollection of images from the attack. He relived it twice until he was certain he wouldn’t waver when he opened his mouth.
His senses sharpening, the commander noticed a stub of a candle pooled in its own expensive beeswax slug by the cup. Looking around, he saw one decorate every stand. He frowned.
“Empress Amalia paid us all a visit after the battle. Came to you see you first, lad, but you were sleeping like a dead man. She wanted you shuffled to the manse, but the boys here protested. You fought as one of us, you get the best surgeons like us, not some soft-handed imperial healer who gets to wash bruised knees and concoct potions for flirty maids. Oh, the empress lit a candle for you and then left. For luck, I guess.”
In the long room, patients who were aware or conscious turned to look at him. They all seemed lightly injured. He was glad for that. He could not bear the sight of dying men now. But he knew he would have to come back and visit every one of the rooms in the hospital.
Gerald recognized only a few faces. Most of the wounded must belong to the other attack forces, he reasoned. Still, like one, they all stared at him like some kind of a hero from a tale, their faces slack with adoration. He could not bear it.
The captain of the city took a deep breath. “How many survived?” he asked quietly.
“Forty-two men and women,” Clive said. “But Commander Luke says we killed some three thousand alone. Other units killed another five thousand of those Parusite bastards. We did good. But you are the luckiest shithead that ever walked the city streets, sir. When we retreated, we lagged back with you and me on someone’s shoulders and my side pissing blood. So we were somewhere in the rubble, then they closed them gates on us. We were out there till noon before some smart lad on the walls spotted us. You, me, and half a dozen other young pups like you. I’m telling you, you got a lucky streak, sir.”
Gerald swallowed. “I owe you my life.”
Clive grunted. “Damn right you do, lad, sir. But I don’t want you to repay me with life. That’s fine. Just get me some girl to suck my cock!”
They both laughed, and most of the room joined in. Very soon, men were grimacing in pain as it racked their injured bodies. Clive hissed and guffawed at the same time, fighting tears.
“Oh, damn it. That was good.” He reached for the bandage wrapped above his ear and scratched gingerly.
Five thousand men, a legion, almost wiped out to the soul. But they had killed twice their number. It had to mean something. So many deaths had to mean something. Sadness crushed his chest. Then, he remembered why he had taken the men to their death in the first place.
“Where’s Driscoll’s head?”
Clive clicked his tongue. “Don’t worry, lad. I have it pickled in a jar, waiting for you. I’d be damned if we didn’t bring it back after all we was through. It’d be like paying for the raunchiest whore and then kissing her ear. Fuck that.”
Gerald could not bear it any longer. He pulled the itchy quilt off his naked form. “Where’s my uniform?”
“Don’t play the hero, lad. Stay here for another couple of nights. Let your injuries rest.”
If only he could. But the war waited on no one. Gerald stood up carefully, stretching. For a brief moment, his head swam, and he considered rocking back onto the cot, but then his blood flow sorted itself. His body felt like lead. There was a hot, numb sensation in his side, but it did not hurt much.
“I can’t. I must get back. There are things to be done.”
Clive gave him a long look and just nodded. There was no point arguing.
“Get to your bed!” the man with the pillow shouted, marching over.
“I cannot,” Gerald offered in return and locked his gaze with the man. A healer, most likely. The commander tried to pivot his torso left and right. His side tingled.
The pillowed warden saw the troubled look in Gerald’s eyes, and relented immediately. “Let me check you first.”
He made Gerald follow his fingers with his eyes, clap his hands, and stick his tongue out. Then, the man tapped Gerald’s chest and side with a wooden spoon. When the commander did not flinch from these light strokes, the healer nodded gruffly. Next, he carefully pulled the rim of the linen wrapping and stared at the wound. Gerald stole a peek of his own, smelling mustard and onions and vinegar. The cut looked like a displeased woman’s taut lips, pale red, tender flesh sewn shut with a neat silk thread stitching; it did not bleed or secrete pus.
The healer moaned. “Yes, you can leave, sir. You must have the bandages replaced once a day. Ask Master Radburne to inspect the wound and administer the poultices. If you get any fever, you must return here, sir.”
Gerald doubted he would have time for pleasantries. “I will.”
“What about me?” Clive teased.
“We are still looking for a volunteer to suck you, Lieutenant.”
The hall boomed with laughter. Defeated at his own game, the grizzled man slunk back to his boredom and fever. Gerald was deeply worried by the color of his skin, but saying anything would be meaningless.
“I will get your uniform, sir. Glad to see you’re well. Oh, and I will get you the sack with the head.”
The healer walked away, and Gerald waited, uncomfortable with the dozen pairs of eyes watching him with glassy adoration. Something had changed that night, and he wasn’t quite sure he was ready for that.
Half an hour later, Gerald exited the hospital.
In the small yard outside, less seriously injured soldiers were biding their time, gambling, throwing darts, stretching out, smoking, ignoring the drops of rain that slid off the awnings onto their game boards and cards. When Commander Gerald showed up, a wave of silence stretched across the yard. Everyone froze, and as one, they turned to look at him, their eyes glazed with respect and love.
Gerald swallowed a hard lump. He would ask for official numbers later. Now, he had to cope, keep his mind busy.
“Good job, everyone,” he said, his voice thin. He wanted it to sound grand and majestic, but there were no words that could sum up what he felt. But they knew.
Some men were crying. But it didn’t matter. They were brothers now, all of them.
“Commander!” a man called. Gerald turned. A short, stocky sergeant whose name he did not know watched him intently. “Sir, you are…There’s…I was told to summon a carriage when you leave.”
“I will walk. I don’t need transport.”
The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) Page 41
