Now, there was the boy Ewan, and he was a great piece of confusion. Unrelated somehow, it seemed. And yet, he held the key to the victory of the people of the realms against Naum. Which made Jarman’s plan of a great unity among the continental nations redundant. He did not like that. If this awful war was a tree, then Ewan had just pruned a giant branch off the crown. Or created his own sapling.
Jarman kept staring at his drawing, a piece of coal pressed between his fingers. No, Ewan came much later. So did Gavril. There were older, unresolved mysteries. He knew his father would never neglect any detail. Armin called it cause and effect.
When Lucas and he had first met James, the emperor had reacted with too much familiarity to their claim of magic. And then, when they had asked him to believe their story of an impeding doom, that dandy Caytorean Rob had intervened and helped convince him to listen to them.
There it was. Why would Calemore want Rob dead?
Amalia had met the witch, but not James. And yet, he had been rather receptive to the notion of an ancient enemy threatening the realms. Far too receptive, now that Jarman had hindsight of the situation.
Months later, the Eybalen investor got assassinated with the bloodstaff.
Not James or Amalia. A seemingly unimportant adviser to the emperor. Why?
Jarman realized once he solved this piece, he would know the whole truth. But his best investigative skills had only left his fingers smudged in soot. Frustrated, he tore yet another piece of thin paper off the clerk’s notebook and tossed it away. There was a small heap of intellectual failures lying crumpled behind him.
It all comes together, he thought. But I lack the reasons. I lack the motive.
His father would probably have figured it out long ago. Jarman’s Anada education had left him well versed in spells, but he was a lousy explorer of the truth.
Jarman wished he had Lucas’s pragmatic approach to life. The old, experienced wizard did not worry too much about all these uncertainties. He knew he could not control them, so he focused on the elements that he could. At the moment, he only worried that the protective shield around Amalia held, and that it would alert against human intruders, too. And there was the small matter of defeating the gigantic Naum army, which was still sitting maddeningly idle.
Was Calemore waiting for all the nations of the realms to consolidate their might before he attacked? Would that make his conquest swifter? After all, the larger the defender’s forces, the easier they were to track down and destroy. Jarman was all too aware the witch had the second bloodstaff. He had used it once already.
His thoughts strayed to the Eybalen investor. Why had the witch murdered a wealthy member of the High Council? What did he matter? Why did he matter?
If Calemore had not bothered targeting either Amalia or James, it meant he considered them meaningless. True enough, James had died, and Adam’s daughter was now a puppet in the hands of the Parusite ruler. For some reason, Jarman felt the witch would not bother with King Sergei either. For some reason, he felt the scrawny youth named Ewan was the champion of the realms.
That meant his mission was a complete failure.
Jarman wondered what would have happened if he hadn’t bothered sailing for Caytor. Thinking more deeply, he was fairly certain he had breached the first rule of investigation. He had let his emotions steer him. He had lost objectivity. Now, events were unfolding in some bastardly manner, because of his meddling. In fact, he might be responsible for Rob’s death. He had pushed James toward difficult truths, he had prodded him about magic and ancient weapons, and it was the councillor helping James along. What had Rob known to warrant his death?
There. That was the key to the victory against Calemore, he knew. But he had destroyed that possibility. Now, he had Ewan, and he was frightened to push the young man, because he might precipitate an untold disaster that he could not control.
Jarman rose, smoothed the wrinkles of his robes, and left the inn. He found Lucas in the backyard, talking to Ewan. The holy man, Gavril, was not there.
“Only human blood,” the blue-faced wizard said.
Ewan nodded. “Yes.” He pushed a bucket with his foot. It joined half a dozen other pails, each brimming with a syrupy maroon liquid that had the unmistakable texture of slowly congealing blood. “Cow, horse, sheep, goat, dog, cat, pigeon, pig.” He shrugged.
“Jarman,” Lucas said, turning.
The young man nodded in solemn greeting. Jarman had a feeling Ewan did not like him very much, not since the butchery of those Naum soldiers near Bassac.
“We were trying different types of blood to see if any could substitute for human sacrifice,” Lucas explained. “It seems not.”
Jarman leaned against a large barrel. It probably held winter cabbage. He glanced at the boy and his weapon of destruction. No story had ever had such an unlikely hero, he thought sourly. Jarman was almost too afraid to contemplate dissecting this young man’s past. He was troubled by his eyes, troubled by what he might discover. Ewan had the countenance of someone just coming to terms with his body and voice, but he had the behavior of an old, tormented being who had witnessed too much pain and suffering.
Perhaps this war was too big for him. Maybe he should just listen to Lucas. They could pack and leave, head back to Sirtai, leave the crazy people of the realms to their gods and wars, let them resolve their ancient feuds on their own. Sirtai would survive anyway, he figured. Just like it had in the first war so long ago.
“Are you planning an attack against the Naum forces?” he asked.
Ewan looked at him coolly, almost derisively. “We are defending ourselves, are we not? So we will defend ourselves.”
Jarman wanted to urge the boy to commit himself. But it was so easy goading someone else to do the killing when you didn’t have to do it yourself. He kept his mouth shut. He might have mastered the basics of communication that passed for civic behavior among these people, he knew, but he still could not comprehend their sense of honor and guilt. The continental nations didn’t believe in right or wrong, he realized. They believed in justice, no matter how they defined it.
No, he must not push this lad. That would truly kill his investigation.
Lucas realized Jarman wanted to talk to him. “Thank you for your time,” he said to the youth.
Ewan nodded at the older wizard and walked around the back stall of the stable. Once alone, Jarman finally spoke his mind. “How do you measure a man’s worth? Is it his word?”
Lucas’s face was unreadable, as usual. He beckoned Jarman to follow him and led out of the backyard, the same way Ewan had gone. They greeted the handful of sentries casually and wove their way out of the busy square and into a side alley. The sky above was racing them, as if someone was pulling on a carpet of puffy white and lead and pale blue.
Ecol was so crowded, it was impossible to breathe. With all of the refugee population of northern Athesia converging on the town, with the addition of Gavril’s pilgrims, Sasha’s troops, and the Parusite reinforcements trickling from the south, Ecol was bursting. Any stretch of dry land of flat cobbles was good enough to pitch a tent. There were grubby, naked children everywhere, playing in the gutters, chasing rats.
Lucas led, his massive, forbidding presence clearing the path better than a file of shock cavalry. Jarman trailed, all too aware his question remained unanswered.
It wasn’t long before they left the town’s center, and it became easier to inhale. Still, the fields around Ecol were just as busy, but at least you did not have the buildings hugging you, smothering you. The old manor house was almost finished, and hopefully, Lucas’s and his assistance would be valued enough to relocate them from the greasy inn. On the surface, everyone behaved as if the world was just lazily inching toward rain and wind. No one seemed to care it might all end in a massive surge of Naum forces.
Soldiers had little to do except to gamble and associate, men on one side, women on the other, a gulf of curiosity and old animosity yawning between them. The B
orei were there, and all the wild-eyed pilgrims, and the elite troops of the Parusite nobility, drawn over from their secluded camp by simple human curiosity. The strained relations between different factions had thawed a little since the Autumn Festival. The end of the world had color and style, for sure.
Lucas kept walking, his stride long and efficient. He did not look back. Jarman got distracted by the figure of a fairly busty servant woman returning to her camp, but there was no time for that. He followed his friend and mentor.
Finally, the tattooed wizard stopped near the mining camp. The din was impressive. A thousand smithies growled and rang and hissed. The air stank of burnt metal and wood. You could hear men cursing as they mauled iron against anvil; you could hear the miners gasping in relief as they left the dark, hot pits and brought a fresh load of ore to the brisk autumn midday.
“You think supporting Amalia is a mistake,” Lucas said, insightful, candid, brutal.
“I promised to help her. I convinced her to give up her father’s empire…for what? So all these people can die by an ancient weapon they cannot see or hear?”
Lucas was silent for another long moment. “You made the best decision given the facts and knowledge you had at that time.”
“Did I?” Jarman really wondered. Had he been blinded by his desire to avenge his third mother? “We are protecting Amalia with our magic. Soon enough, we will start killing people using our skill. To what end?”
“This war will not be won by the bloodstaff. The fact the nations of the realms fight together is more important. It is how it should be. You know that.”
That gave him a pause. “Is it?”
Lucas made a slow, deliberate nod. “Yes, it is.”
Jarman sighed. “How can you be so certain, friend?”
“I share the same doubts as you. However, I choose to respond in a different manner. You asked me how you measure a person’s worth. This is how you measure it.”
Jarman wondered if he deserved his first tattoo. Lucas had not mentioned anything yet. “I wish I had your courage.”
Lucas started walking again. “What is courage? Stick with your decisions, no matter what? Ignore reality? Adapt? Choose the best or the worst alternative once you realize your plan is not panning out as you expected? Keep your promises?”
“I don’t know,” Jarman admitted.
“Courage is being willing to live with the consequences of whatever you decide. So tell me, Jarman, are you willing to accept the outcome of this war, whatever it may be? We have come here to avenge your third mother. The same reason I was bonded as your life slave all those years ago. You are following your instincts, your experience, your desire maybe. Perhaps Amalia is not the brave leader you wish her to be. Neither was her dead half brother. This peace is not the teary-eyed union between respected rivals, but a bitter necessity among old enemies, none of which know the full extent of the truth. So your courage, Jarman, is to understand you do not control the situation. Are you still willing to keep on fighting? This goes against everything the Anada have taught you. What are you going to do now?”
Jarman stopped walking. His friend moved on awhile longer; then he turned and faced him, his blue face radiating brutal honesty. Did he want to be a part of this ugly reality? No. Was he going to give up? No. If he left now, he could not live with himself.
Lack of courage is also courage, no? he mused.
“We are staying,” he announced. “What now?”
Lucas approached him. “We minimize the elements we cannot control.”
Jarman looked around him. He had to examine the situation from the perspective of their foe, not his own. Calemore considered the humans insignificant, it seemed. He was not worried about kings and emperors. But he had come forth to assassinate a young Caytorean.
Then, there was that half Sirtai in Amalia’s camp.
“Why would the White Witch kill Rob?” he spoke loudly.
Lucas shrugged. “I do not know. Let’s find out.”
They walked back into the chaos.
CHAPTER 31
“Why have we stopped?" Stephan complained.
“Wait here, sir,” Bader said and stepped out of the carriage into a world painted golden, russet, and dying green.
Stephan slumped against the padded seat. Best silk, best feathers, but after so many weeks warming his backside against the soft, supple fabric, the texture chafed like a leper’s cheek. He had traveled halfway across Caytor, and with every mile, the journey got uglier. Oh, the nature turned pretty with the shortening of the days, but the news coming from the northwest was grim.
On his last travel through the realm, he had rested in one of Goden’s fairly cozy lodges. Not this time. The little place had become a ghost town, with all its inns closed. Too little trade, the townsfolk complained, which meant he had been forced to evict half a dozen families to lodge his considerable entourage. He had paid the villagers, and they had been glad to accept the coin, but their faces had been sour and full of rancor as they herded their children into a barn.
Then, the village of Pasey had offered equally lukewarm hospitality. The freight station outside the village stood abandoned. No known reason, no sign of a plague or banditry, no fires. They found the stables empty, without even a single bale of hay. Strange, because the High Council paid for those so that couriers and messengers could have a place to spend the night or change their horses. The phenomenon worried Stephan because it had occurred less than a day away from Pain Daye. Did it mean something bad had befallen the mansion and its inhabitants? Or had Sebastian lost all power and control of the area?
Bader returned, looking cryptic with his one healthy eye. “Refugees clogging the road, sir.”
Refugees? Stephan thought. He stepped out, ants tingling in his arse.
His small private army was waiting for the surge of humans to step off the gravel and let them pass, but there were just too many people, and they were milling. Stephan shielded his eyes against the silver glare of a clouded afternoon, the sun hiding somewhere to the west.
Entire families were migrating away from Pain Daye, carrying what little possessions they had on their shoulders, dragging filthy children behind. Most of the boys and girls had a rope round their waists so they wouldn’t get lost. A few thin-ribbed dogs were slinking round the group.
“What do you wanna do, sir?” Bader asked. Some of the riders were getting impatient, their horses frisky, neighing, stomping their hooves. One of the men was donning his iron-padded gloves, as if he expected to get his hands bloody.
“Ask questions,” Stephan said. He reached out and grabbed the sleeve of an old man walking nearby. “What is going on?”
The fellow touched his straw hat in a respectable greeting. “Fleein’ the war, milord.”
“What war?” Stephan asked, but the grubby tide swept the man away.
“Ask questions. No violence,” he told Bader. The mercenary melted into the mass.
Stephan waited, and the flow just would not end. Bader returned soon thereafter, shrugging. “Just nonsense, sir. Some army got their villages burned. They don’t know who.”
This won’t work, Stephan figured. He stuck his head through the carriage window. His clerk, Nudd looked up. “Get a bag of coppers, quickly. And get out.”
Confused, the clerk stepped out.
“Get up there, onto the roof.”
Frowning, Nudd obeyed.
Once his aide was standing on the carriage, in plain view of all the refugees, Stephan clapped his hands. “A copper and free bread for those who answer questions!”
Soon enough, he was under siege, and his men had to draw weapons to keep the hungry, almost riotous crowd at bay. Mouths started gibbering and shouting, answering questions that had not even been asked. But Nudd somehow managed, pointing, and Bader and his men flicked coins and some of the hard bread they had in their baggage. They would reach Pain Daye soon anyway, and they could get fresh food there.
I hope, Stephan thought.
When some of the refugees got too pushy, they got slapped or shoved away, and when a grown man tried to pry a loaf from a screaming girl’s hands, Bader waded into the seething mass and broke his nose. No one tried to steal bread or coin after that.
Soon enough, they were out of currency and pastry, and the refugee train moved down the road, but Stephan had heard enough to feel worried. Lord Sebastian, as they called him, would not permit them to stay. He had even expelled some of the last of Amalia’s folk, which gave him some credulity, and instilled a sense of fairness among them, they said. There was a huge army coming from the north, burning, pillaging, killing everyone. War was at their doorstep, and they had to flee to save their souls. It was the end of the world.
A purple evening greeted them at the doorstep to the highly protected manor house. The many walls hugged the path left and right, with torches burning in alcoves at head height so they illuminated anyone approaching the well-armed guards on the parapets and in the sentry towers above. Stephan could see their silhouettes against the canvas of darkening colors, and he felt there were just too many guards and patrols present.
Guild Master Sebastian and a respectable regiment of help was waiting for them in the front yard. The servants carried lamps, and their faces looked lurid. Still more soldiers with crossbows and wickedly sharp spears stood everywhere around.
“A pleasant, if unannounced, surprise,” Sebastian greeted.
Stephan shook hands with the man, wondering how much he should disclose right away. He chose nothing. “It’s been a long and hard journey,” he offered in return. “I hope you can accommodate my retinue.”
Sebastian pretended to look over his shoulder and appraise the train of horses, wagons, and armed men. “We will manage.”
The Humbled (The Lost Words: Volume 4) Page 32
