The Humbled (The Lost Words: Volume 4)

by Igor Ljubuncic

  “And what will you do now? You know I am the Athesian empress. My duty is to the realm my father stole from you.”

  He did not have an answer. She hadn’t really expected him to spout wisdom. How could anyone really sum up four decades of national turmoil, disgrace, and bitter competition between the nation’s finest in a few quick sentences?

  “Thank you for your time, Malik.”

  He nodded and dashed off, glad to be free.

  Amalia paused in the shadow of a ruined buttress being smeared with fresh mortar, blocks of stone waiting near a catapult-like ramp. Workers were having a simple break in the simple routine of their simple lives, dicing and eating, smoking and laughing. When they saw her, they stood up and bowed. Then, they went back to not really worrying. She almost envied them.

  Not far off, Jarman glanced toward her and nodded in support. She pursed her lips at him, as if her expression could tell all she felt. Ever since their agreement, he spent more time around her, trying to help her. She should be grateful, she felt, but it jarred her, his presence, a reminder of her weakness and the impeding doom from the north. She still found it hard to believe, but whenever she doubted his words, she recalled the night in Roalas when Calemore stole the bloodstaff and the book, the day he had utterly ruined her. But her mind would not linger long on those black thoughts, shutting itself against the stark white fear that bore into her temples.

  She looked the other way. No time for silly, girlish doubts, she swore. “Master Hector.”

  The leathery man detached himself from the group of officers and stepped in stride with her. She had not yet spoken to him about James, and she wanted his perspective. “Your Highness.”

  Tread softly, she told herself. No. Tread hard. “Why are you here?”

  “You called me.”

  “In Athesia, following me?”

  The man snorted. “We never had a heart-to-heart discussion, Your Highness. I expected it would happen sooner or later. Do you really want the truth?”

  Amalia looked at Jarman again. He would protect her, he had promised. She needed friends. The best way to find if you had any was to push people into a corner. Everyone was always nice when things were in order.

  “Please.”

  He spat in the grass. “Doing my duty.”

  She smiled at him. “Isn’t your duty to follow the orders of the High Council?”

  The former sergeant smiled back. His teeth were in much worse shape than hers. “Rather than answering that, Your Highness, let me ask you something else in return. You must be wondering what all these men will do if they stop liking the Athesian coin one day. Or Caytorean coin. Or any coin. Aren’t you?”

  Amalia let his rude manners slide. “That thought did cross my mind.”

  He clicked his tongue as if he had gained a strategic lead in an argument. “You must understand the Caytorean society first, before you can hear my answer. A long time ago, we had our kings and emperors and the like. Wasn’t very profitable. We realized power is much better governed when there’s a whole lot of people fighting for their own interests rather than uniting under one leader. That way, they keep scheming among themselves rather than cooperating. Keeps everyone busy. Makes things stable and predictable.” He paused. “Loyalty became a matter of profit, rather than principle. You follow the man who pays you, and you do not question morality too much.”

  “That does not sound very noble,” she hazarded.

  Master Hector laughed. “Killing people when ordered by a king or a councillor is still the same thing. You might sleep better at night knowing you had no choice either way. So no, my duty is not to follow the orders of the High Council. My duty is to protect my realm.”

  “Is this why you joined my brother?”

  “I joined your brother because I was paid to do so. With time, I learned to like the lad, a lot. He had spirit and honesty, in his unique way. You may think I’m mad, but you forget yourself, Your Highness. When you became the empress of Athesia, you took our finest hostage. You threatened my realm. We didn’t know if you might lead another war against us, like your father did. When our councillors decided to oppose you, many of us figured we should side with Councillors Otis and Melville to fight you. I got gold to train James, but I was there to make sure he did not suddenly become a greedy bastard with an eye for the rest of our land.”

  Amalia was fascinated. “Do go on, please.”

  Hector snatched at an annoying fly buzzing near his ear. He missed. “Lady Rheanna made the greatest sacrifice. She got herself into his clutches, a dangerous game if you ask me, but she did prevail, and she made him into a fine husband.”

  “Why are you still here?”

  The once head of the Caytorean Military Academy looked at her like she was asking him to marry her. “Where else would I go? Go back to training peasants how to tell left from right? Adjudicate feuds between lords in backward regions?”

  She didn’t like this, not the mention of James’s fat-arsed widow, not the man’s casual manner about loyalty. “You expect me to retain your services after this admission?” Not what she had planned when she had summoned him. But then, she had challenged him, and he did not yield, a tough old man with nothing to lose.

  He pointed in the general direction of Ecol, his thumbnail black from sword practice blows. “Most lads out there are just paid killers, and they don’t give a dog shit about your cause. Some of us do care and want the best for Caytor. Things got out of control with your brother. Now things might get out of control with you, but we are going to make sure you do not threaten our realm. We will support you if you keep true to your brother’s promise.”

  “What is it?”

  “Profit for Caytor. Handsome profit. Alliance.” He made a pained, forced expression. “Your peace efforts with the Parusites are not encouraging. Your spring-cleaning sure didn’t invoke any extra loyalty. Now you’re turning your wrath against Lady Rheanna. That will not go down well with the Caytoreans.”

  Honesty, in the form of a rebuke and a threat. James might have been some honest Eracian, but he seemed to have done quite well keeping everyone happy. He killed some of his patrons, then gained loyalty by marrying Rheanna. Perhaps that was what she needed? To marry some rich, handsome Caytorean, someone who would not remind her of Gerald so she did not get sad every time she looked at his face?

  She often forgot she was a young, presumably attractive empress, if not for her scars, without a husband. That was a great tool if she dared use it. However, she felt weak considering it. That was what ordinary women did, and she did not want to be just another maid seeking a strong man to help her and keep her safe. Then again, Father married a Caytorean woman, a commoner, and that made the small folk adore him. He had united his fledgling empire by carefully balancing the factions.

  Sacrifice for her nation. Her own love ideals were unimportant.

  She steered the subject gently back to her brother. “Did he tell you anything about his life in Eracia?”

  Hector scrunched his nose, deep-gorged skin turning into tree bark. “No. He kept it to himself. No one knew anything about his kin. If the councillors did, they kept it secret, too.”

  Amalia nodded. Finding friends did not quite work for her. Not only was she all alone in this, everyone hassled and threatened her in the process. Jarman’s help had its own wicked barb. Her army consisted of mercenaries making sure she did what they wanted while counting the gold she paid. Even this old man didn’t bother lying to her about it; he was simply unafraid. Her face sagged.

  “Amalia,” Master Hector said in a gentle voice, surprising her, “I’m an old man. I’ve been fed so much shit in my life, if you put me in a bucket of night soil, you couldn’t tell me apart from a dried turd. You seem to have dignity, and that’s good. But power does not come to people just ’cause they were born to it. They gotta earn it. You have to prove yourself. If you want your father’s respect, then you have to be like your father.”

  She was confused.
“He took land from you.”

  The master blinked slowly. “He gave us eighteen years of the best trade we ever had. He gave us peace.”

  Amalia sighed. Peace. Everyone just wanted her to make peace, even if it meant killing thousands just to get it. Forgive everyone, ignore her enemies, placate them. Bow to King Sergei, bow before the High Council, pray for scraps of mercy and gratitude.

  She had promised the Sirtai wizard to seek a just agreement with the Parusites. But that meant alienating her fickle allies. If only she could somehow use either of these weaknesses to her advantage. With Caytor behind her, she could maybe force King Sergei to offer greater concessions. Or maybe the threat of Parus could sway the councillors to help her, lest they lose all their hope of future profit and cooperating.

  She was tired. Exhausted. She hated all these speculations, games, deals. She hated having to barter with her soul and honor. The worst part was, her imagined truth of how Father had managed the realm was coming undone. She had once simply believed he had ruled fearlessly, tossing bones to his foes and watching them fight over them like rabid dogs. Now, though, she was beginning to suspect the reality might have been different, more complex, more difficult.

  Everyone urged me to make peace. Mom, Theo, Gerald. Everyone. They must have known something I missed as a child growing in my father’s protective shadow. I should have listened then.

  Two years later, with her honor in Ecol’s gutters, she was learning the lesson the hard way.

  “Make peace,” Hector repeated.

  Amalia realized she was nearing the city, having lost her sense of time. Her court trailed behind her, all except Agatha, who rode a palfrey. “Sounds simple.”

  “Do it while you still have the initiative, Your Highness. You’re lucky you have that butcher Xavier. That piece of shit likes his gold so much; otherwise you’d be having open rebellion right now.”

  He had quite an incentive, she thought. “You waited a long while to tell me this.”

  Master Hector looked serene. “You never asked before.”

  “You think I should not have kept Lady Rheanna locked up?” she asked, intrigued.

  “That surely did not help your position. Now that she’s escaped, she made you look weak. And you might have an enemy when she could have been your ally. You seem quite fond of keeping people captive under armed guard.”

  She deserved the jibe. “What do you think of the Sirtai’s omen?”

  He bent down, groaning, and plucked a dandelion. He twirled it between his fingers, then puffed, scattering the seeds. “I am not the one to ask about wizardly affairs. I can give you advice on matters of steel and blood and a man’s honor. Piss makes for a good thing to cool hot, forged iron, but it’s a poor way of soothing one’s pride.”

  In some lunatic reality, I might call this old hound a friend, she thought. But she realized it would never be that way between them. His open admission was his way of distancing himself from her, she knew. He probably believed she was not going to win this war. Rather than being a traitor, he just closed his heart to her. Erased her. Easier to cope, she knew.

  “You would not pay heed to his warning of a large foreign army,” she pressed.

  “I would not. But you should. In fact, you’d better hope that army comes, ’cause it’s your best chance now. Once the forces of this or that witch descend on the realms, we will be all too busy fighting it together. Might give you a chance to save face, amend old wrongs.”

  She had such a splendid repertoire of options before her. She could choose between a Caytorean murderer for her champion, a sly Sirtai wizard with his own vendetta, or serving King Sergei, whose family had been orphaned by her own father. And in between, she could hope she might get on friendly terms with James’s widow and the whole High Council, both of which she had scorned, snubbed, and insulted on several occasions. She also had to choose a husband for herself, go back on her promise to Xavier, and outlast a war against an incredible, magical enemy force. If all these turned out all right, she might not have a realm left. All the while, she still had not even the slightest idea who had betrayed her and freed Lady Rheanna.

  She could not trust anyone, and that made her attempts at friendship even trickier.

  For all she knew, the leathery sergeant might have been the one to help the widow escape. He might be blunt and honest now, but that did not mean he was telling her the whole truth.

  Father, what do you do when you don’t have anyone you can trust? Oh, Father, I miss you. But late Emperor Adam had no answers for his daughter.

  “Thank you, Master Hector,” she said and dismissed the wiry sergeant.

  Amalia woke in the middle of the night, her bladder bursting. She was quite alert, despite the hour, she realized, the flickering images of her dream gone. It was hot and stifling in her room, even though the window was cracked open. Her soldiers warned her against assassins using the opportunity to slip inside, so she had posted a pair of crossbowmen on the roof at night. Sometimes, she could sniff the stench of their smoking or hear them chatter, mostly about women. Ever since James’s dead friend Rob had brought his ugly habit from Eybalen, more and more men had embraced it.

  Amalia walked to the small privacy chamber built into the corner of the room. Inside, it had a seat made of polished wood, a funnel, and a bent length of pipe connecting to the drain outside. Marvelous invention. You did not have to tinkle into a pot under your bed or brave the night going to a smelly outhouse.

  She sat down, the cold pine making her thighs tickle. It only made her urge to pee stronger. Soon enough, she released her belly muscles and groaned softly, and the tin funnel began purring with a metallic, wet sound. Marvelous invention, indeed. Master Guilliam was not just a highly skilled weapons maker. Once she retook Roalas—if she retook it, she reminded herself—then she would have privacy chambers built in every room of the manse, as well as all the guilds and inns.

  She was finished soon enough and reached for a rag, hanging on a nail from the side wall, to dry her nethers. Something creaked. She thought it might be a last errant drop, but it did not sound like urine plinking against metal. It sounded like a floorboard being bent by a considerable weight.

  Like a human presence.

  Her breath caught in her throat. She swallowed a whimper of panic, imagining Calemore standing out there, waiting for her, a pearly smile on his face.

  “Your Highness?” someone whispered.

  She almost screamed. She realized she had buried her fingernails in her stomach, gripping hard. What now? Shout for help? Would anyone hear? Would anyone be able to respond fast enough? Who was it out there? A friend? A foe? Why would anyone sneak into her chamber? Was it Xavier, come to rape her?

  Amalia heard a reedy snivel escape through her clogged nostrils, in and out. Her body was frozen, and she could not move. She was unarmed, and all she had was her dignity pooled round her ankles.

  “Do not be afraid, I wish you no harm. Please come out.”

  Like a puppet, her arms and legs tied to strings and moved by some unruly giant, she rose, pulled up her knickers, rolled the nightgown down, reached with a trembling hand toward the door of the privacy chute, and carefully pushed it open.

  A man was standing by her bed, arms spread in a pacifying gesture. “Your Highness. My name is Adelbert. I have helped your half brother in the past.”

  “Why are you here?” Was it her own voice? It had to be.

  “Unfortunately, the presence of your two Sirtai advisers precludes me from meeting you in the open.”

  “What do you want?” Did she really sound so terrified, so weak?

  “I really wish you no harm. I just want to talk. I noticed you have been making all kinds of deals with your people, so I thought it would be prudent if I mentioned my own debt. The debt your family owes me, that is. Your half brother, but now he is dead, so the debt is yours now.”

  “How did you get in here?” Hadn’t Jarman placed magical wards around her?

&n
bsp; There wasn’t much light from the moon in her chamber, but she could see the expression on the man’s face change subtly, as if he had remembered a fond, pleasant memory. “Those two men are very talented wizards, but they are still Sirtai. They have spent too long living in their own beautiful land to really understand the extent of trickery and ingenuity people under dire circumstances may come up with. They protect you against people of the realms and the witch’s touch, but they forgot harm might come to you from one of their own. They don’t protect against Sirtai magic, you see.”

  Sirtai? Was this man Sirtai? She vaguely remembered seeing him before around the city, but he was just another member of the household, silent, distant, unimportant. So what was he doing in the room now?

  “I will tell them that,” she heard herself say, feeling morbidly detached. Drums rolled in the night, but it was just in her heart really, she figured.

  “I would appreciate if you kept our meeting secret. I wish you no harm. But late Emperor James promised I could name my price for my assistance. Your Highness, I must know you will respect your dead brother’s promise.”

  She swallowed; it was an effort. “Tell me.”

  Adelbert made a minute step toward her. She gasped, so he stopped and shuffled back. If he intended to hurt her, he was taking his time torturing her mind first. But there was nothing outright violent or dangerous about him, except that he stood in her magically warded room. Amalia regretted being alone. Agatha was in the nearby chamber, sleeping on her own. Lately, ever since she had become pregnant, she would snore quite often, because she had to sleep on her back, and Amalia preferred silent nights, without noises and grunts. Her bodyguards were just outside, in the corridor.

  Right now, she wouldn’t have even minded wet, lousy dogs for company.

  “I can’t name my price,” the strange man insisted. “I have not decided on it yet. But I wish to know if you are going to honor the agreement.”

  “How did you help him?” she croaked. She had to know.

  The interloper made a tiny smile, a flash of teeth in the night’s silvery light. “He needed magical assistance.” He paused. “Perhaps, you might require my help, too? I would be glad to assist you, but the price might be higher.”