“I don’t see why. My presence here is statement enough. I guess another ‘Your Highness’ will hardly impress you.”
James pursed his lips and nodded. After so many phony smiles and flatters, hearing the truth was like dipping his balls in icy water, cold, refreshing, shocking, and exhilarating.
“Besides,” the man continued, “you probably don’t want to be called Your Highness.”
James stepped closer. He almost tripped; his legs were rubbery from too much alcohol and weird food. “Why is that?”
“Well, two reasons. One, your father never quite insisted on fancy honorifics. He was a practical man with a practical style. Titles never meant anything to him. He counted on trust and friendship, and that was all that mattered. I guess he chose to be an emperor because he understood what the title would mean to his people and the neighboring realms. Might be he planned on carrying on with his conquest, but then suddenly he changed his mind and focused on building and protecting the one region he ruled.”
It was fascinating to hear about his father. He had never known him, except old and exaggerated stories, well spiced before they reached Windpoint. His mother had never talked about him, most likely deliberately. Even now, the truth of his heritage hurt like an old broken bone, a dull tingling that came and went when the weather soured.
This stranger did not look that old, which made the intimacy of his knowledge about his father all the more intriguing.
“Did you know Emperor Adam?” he asked. Calling him Father aloud felt awkward, especially now.
“I did meet him a few times,” the man admitted, but did not elaborate. He craned his head. “You do look like him. Sharper features, though.”
James chose not to press, for now. It would not do to appear too eager, like a child with a wrapped gift he must not open. There would be enough time to ask questions later. He had lived without his father for almost eighteen years. A few more days would not matter.
“What’s the second thing?”
“Ah.” The man bobbed his head knowingly. “Technically speaking, neither ‘highness,’ nor ‘majesty,’ not even ‘grace’ will work. All these are historically wrong. Incorrect. Because the realms already have their supreme ruler.”
James frowned. This was starting to sound like the type of thing drunkards told when excited. But the stranger spoke clearly. If he had sampled some of the nine hundred wines, it did not show that much.
“Who would that be?”
“It used to be someone you won’t find in most history books. But he was the ruler of all the realms, including the lands belonging to what we call nomad tribes and desert people and many others. It was a brief reign. In the end, the supreme ruler was forced to abandon the realms, but he never did abandon his claim. And it was never annulled by the string of kings and monarchs that came after him. In theory, you are all impostors or, in a better case, throne keepers.”
Neither Blackwood nor any other of those historians mentioned something like this. You had the proper old stuff, romance, patricide, treason, assassinations, power marriages, and alliances forged with spite, malice, envy, and greed. The nations changed names. The languages evolved. The letters shifted. The borders snaked across the map. But no book spoke of a supreme ruler fleeing the realms with an apocalyptic vow to return one day.
“You seem to be well versed in history,” James said after a while.
The man in white fished another cigarette from his pocket and a piece of flint with an ornate silvered grip. He rubbed the stone against the wall, striking sparks. The tip turned red. He pressed it against the herb roll and puffed. Fragrant, if somewhat acrid smoke wrapped around him. Matches were easier, but this man aimed for style.
“The best,” he said shamelessly.
Any other time, any other person, James would have never mentioned divine things, but the knowledge and questions burned inside him, and he yearned for true friendship.
“What about prophecies?” Nigella’s words echoed in his head. Did he have a friend yet?
The stranger was silent for a while, smoking, thinking. “I’ve read my share.”
“And what about magic?”
“I’ve seen my share.”
Fascinated, James rubbed his nose. Such an open admission was worse than admitting to beating your elderly parents. But this man did not seem afraid or even slightly miffed.
“What kind?”
“Blood magic, herb magic, proper Sirtai stuff, all kinds. Ancient magic, too.” The man nodded twice.
More footsteps. It was Councillor Otis himself, flanked by armed guards and a servant bearing a tray with a porcelain pan and a towel. “Your Highness, we’ve been looking for you. You’re missing the celebration. Norm the Fire-Breather is performing in your honor right now.” The tone was polite, but there was no mistaking the unspoken command laced in it.
“Councillor,” the stranger in the white coat greeted. He knew Otis.
James filed this piece of information for later, even more intrigued now. But then, his slow brain caught up. Of course they knew each other. All of Caytor’s rich and important knew one another. It was a fairly small and exclusive circle.
“Greetings,” Otis replied, his tony icy and formal now. “May your winter be short.”
“Hardly ever snows in Eybalen,” the other man said. “It should be a good autumn and an even better winter.” He looked at James. “We shall meet again for the year’s turn, I presume?”
Otis said nothing in return. He pointed back toward the festivities. “Shall we, Your Highness?”
James considered the witty exchange. “I’ll be there shortly. I know the way.”
The councillor knew he was being dismissed. Pursing his lips in a subdued show of agitation, he retreated.
The servant remained. “Chamomile tea, unsweetened. And a towel, Your Highness.”
James understood. Apart from mortal danger, the quickest way to sober up was to breathe in hot tea fumes. Cleared the head almost instantly.
“Put it down there. Thank you.”
The servant left too. The emperor turned to his mysterious companion. He had a thousand questions, but they would take more than a short break during the Autumn Festival.
“Why did you come here?”
“To pledge my support for you, of course. I believe you will need my assistance.”
“Why is that?” James tottered and leaned against the wall.
“My business in Eybalen is insurance,” he said.
James was not quite familiar with that line of profession. “What does that mean?”
The stranger stubbed out his second cigarette. “I sell people hope, in return for a small fee. You see, when people have something really valuable, they don’t wish to lose it. Be it theft, fire, or just wear, they come to us. They ask us to evaluate their property and insure it. We take a small sum of money, just a fraction of what it’s worth. In return, we promise people to pay them back in full should their property ever get lost. Sounds like a bargain, does it not?”
James considered this for a moment. “It sure does. For them.”
The stranger grinned. “It would bankrupt us if all people lost all of their property all at once. Luckily, only a small percentage of items gets lost. In total, we pay back far less than we take in commissions and collateral. It’s a game of statistics. Odds, if you will.”
“And…?” James cooperated.
“And you are a very valuable investment that must be insured. I believe you already have your physical security taken care of. I can’t help you there. But your mind will benefit from my assistance. Have no illusions, I’m betting on you in this game of power. We’ve already had a good start. We share the same taste in women.”
James had to admit the man had charm. He really liked this fellow. The only piece missing was why an Eybalen insurance man would take such a personal interest in him.
But the stranger in the white coat could read thoughts, or at least dumb and obvious facial
expressions. Being drunk sure didn’t make you cryptic.
“Because I have met your father, I know what he was capable of, and I see the same qualities in you. Besides, my grandfather had the honor of serving under your father. It would be an honor if I could do the same thing.”
More truths, more unknowns. “Your grandfather served under my father?”
The stranger nodded. “Yes. He helped Emperor Adam forge his new realm. No one gave him his due credit, but he did that.”
James finally remembered to ask. “What is your name?”
The other man slapped his forehead. “Forgive my manners! Too many drinks tonight. My name is Robin. But you can call me Rob.”
They shook hands. James liked this man. He saw no reason why he should not extend an invitation and let him stay at the estate. My new friend? James wondered. At the very least, they shared the same taste in women.
“Well met, Rob. Call me James.”
“Sure, Your Highness,” Rob said, and James laughed in earnest.
CHAPTER 40
“Look here,” the mercenary whispered, producing three leather-bound boxes from behind his back.
Bart leaned forward, swaying slightly. His head felt heavy.
The soldier placed the boxes in front of him. Each was a different color, red, gold, and black. Carefully, the man pried them open. Inside each, seated on a velvet cushion, was a scorpion, matching the color of the casing.
The count grinned like a fool, delighted.
“Pick one,” the other man lisped, just as drunk as the Eracian.
“The yellow one,” Bart said, pointing. His finger inched close to the scorpion.
The Borei gasped and swatted his hand away. “No! You get stung, you die.”
The count nodded solemnly. “Yes, yes. The yellow one for me.” He placed a handful of gold coins on the dirt in front of him. All around, the soldiers of all nations lay down their bets. The Borei man chose the red arthropod.
Carefully, he picked them up with a mailed glove and placed them in a deep sieve, shook it hard to get the scorpions riled, and then the fight to the death started. Men crowded around the miniature arena, cheering. Soon, it was over. The red one won.
Bart slapped his thigh. “Damn.”
The mercenary spread his arms amicably. “Ah, Lord Count, no matter. You win some, you lose some.” And then he roared with laughter.
Bart slid over his coins, then reached for the flask of snake wine. The thing had the taste of a dead animal embalmed in wine, but it sure did send fire coursing through his veins.
The Borei did not celebrate the Autumn Festival. Instead, they called the event the Balance. There was one in the spring too, when light and dark shared equal portions of a day. For them, the holy day was not so holy, more sort of a day of luck and chance. From now on, until the next Balance, the night would be stronger, but sometime again in the uncertain future, daylight might prevail again. With uncertainty looming ahead, the best you could do was drink and fuck.
The count of Barrin had been invited to join the Parusite celebrations, but he was in no mood for praying and some more praying, diplomacy be damned. He might be considered a guest of honor, but apart from dry hospitality, the king had given him no promises, no reassurances, nothing. And he sure was not going to beg. So perhaps declining the invitation might convince them that he was displeased. And if Bart were displeased, so would the monarch be.
Besides, he felt more at ease with the mercenaries and his own retinue. He was not quite sure why obstinacy had gripped him so suddenly, but he was proud of his shaggy beard and the deep tan and the newly acquired cultural wealth. Gambling with the Borei taught you more than a whole year in the academy of politics.
His companions were easygoing soldiers of fortune who cared little for reasons beyond killing. What mattered was the money. Bart thought he ought to despise them, but their convictions were no less true than words of patriotism and sermons of faith that the people in the realms professed. They fought just as other men hammered metal and baked bread. If you accepted that simple truth, you realized the mercenaries were ordinary men who enjoyed life and would accept anyone who cared to join them for a drink or a toss of the dice.
His scorpion adversary was called Junner, a mahout by profession. He promised to take Bart for a ride one day, preferably not during a battle. Next to him sat Anbal, a sapper with few words in his mouth and fewer teeth. Corporal Kacey was lounging some distance from the pits, sharing a skin of wine with a Red Caps woman. The relentless advances seemed to have worked, or perhaps it was the loneliness that brought strange souls together. A furtive and intimate hug spoke of more than roadside friendship.
Captain Paul was at Bart’s side, acting as a sort of bodyguard, although in his current state, the best he could do was not cut himself when drawing a sword. Half a dozen other soldiers were dispersed in the colorful crowd of Borei and a few odd Parusites, enjoying music, spicy food, and wild stories of war. Hundreds of women mingled with the soldiers, the collective wifehood of the mercenary camp. Bart was amazed that they cared nothing for marriage or even blood ties like people in the realms.
“Incest is wrong,” the count tried to argue only yesterday.
“Incest only, yes,” Mennad the footman agreed instantly. “That’s why you must have orgies.”
Yes, orgies, Bart thought inanely. The Balance was not just a celebration of luck; it was a massive spree of lust and wild abandon. Nine months from now, hundreds of bastards would be born into the ranks of Borei, who would grow into warriors without knowing who their father is. But it made no difference, because they raised all children as their own.
“The women know who their pups are. That’s the important thing,” Mennad said.
Apparently, the bad blood sorted itself out, Bart thought, looking at his hosts. They all looked healthy, with clean features and healthy bodies, minus the battle scars.
Paul giggled like a girl as he collapsed into the lap of one. The woman was wearing a large pelt over her naked form and feeding the captain with figs. He seemed to be enjoying himself immensely.
Even his half-deaf servant Edgar had gotten past his terror of partying before his lord and was nuzzling the breasts of a woman a third his age. Everyone had someone, except him. He was entirely alone, and his groin ached. Sonya would not let him around her very often. She thought that if she denied him, he would grow tougher and more deserving of the reward, but he just considered her cold and cruel.
“What, no woman for you, Lord Count?” Junner shouted, reading his mind.
“I’m a married man,” Bart said, almost automatically.
“And I have a cock and two hairy balls!” the man exclaimed, fondling his crotch. He rolled backward as he laughed. Everyone joined in. Except Bart. He sipped more of the vile wine and thought about his life, his choices.
He shook his head. Enough of that. He was here to enjoy himself. “What other games can we play?”
Junner rubbed his callused palms together; they rasped like dry wood. “Oh, many. We can do cockfights. We can do bear fights. There’s mongoose and cobra dance. There’s frog racing, anything you want, Lord Count.”
Bart considered the options. He was too tired to shamble to another game pit. “Let’s do another scorpion fight. I’ll take the black one this time.”
Again, he lost.
Junner patted him on the shoulder. “You will win one day, Lord Count.”
Bart nodded solemnly. Will I? He wondered how this war was going to end. If the Eracian nobles and dignitaries ended up on rusty spikes on some wall somewhere, he was not going to win. So far, he had managed nothing at all. But he had a new plan.
Back home, the Autumn Festival was a half-happy, half-serious affair. Peasants had it much like the Parusites, except they didn’t focus on religion so much. In the cities, much like Caytor and the Borei camp, there would be great celebrations raging through the night, bringing up the tally of base-born children to a new record. At the Ba
rrin estate, he would be hosting a large dinner followed by some sort of exotic entertainment. He would have to squander money to hire a troupe of dancers or singers or saber jugglers or some such nonsense so that his peers would consider him courtly and modern. A few months back, it would have seemed a totally reasonable thing to do. He was not so sure anymore. There was old black anger inside him, crying to be released.
He had a plan.
“Cards?” Junner persisted.
Bart waved his hand in dismissal. “You will cheat.”
Instead of being offended, the mercenary just winked. “Ah, the snake wine sharpens your mind, Lord Count.”
The night stretched. Bart rose and walked a few paces away to piss against a bush. The night was brisk, but mercifully without rain. A woman trotted past him, waving. He waved back and followed her with his eyes until he realized he had turned half a circle, still pissing.
“Shit,” he mumbled, lacing himself up. He had drunk too much. And the night had just begun. “What else you got for me?” he asked Junner when he returned and plopped back onto the soft rugs.
Junner looked at Anbal. The toothless man nodded. “Come.”
Groaning, Bart rose again and followed. Steady on his feet, Junner led him away from the noise. They weaved a seemingly random path through the Borei camp and then entered one of the tents. Inside, there was a woman in a cage.
“For you,” Junner said.
Bart frowned. “What? Who is she?” A kidnapped Athesian? he thought with rising alarm. Worse, could she be a Parusite soldier? He had heard rumors about the mercenaries taking liberties with women. If they were alone and unescorted, they were free for the plucking, the Borei reasoned. But that seemed to have stopped since King Sergei threatened to cut manhoods off any perpetrator caught. So what now?
Junner pointed. “For you.”
“Did you kidnap her?” Bart insisted. When he went back to the main camp, what would he say? Would he mention her to the Parusite king or his sister? Would he ignore her?
The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) Page 46
