The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) (41 page)

Gerald frowned. “Lieutenant-Commander Driscoll?”

Edwin pressed his lips, rolling spit, but the carpets were too expensive for that, so he swallowed it noisily. “Commander Driscoll, now.”

Gerald nodded. Yes, Wilbur was dead, assassinated. “Doesn’t he have a wife in the city?”

“I’ll have a chat with her.”

“No, you don’t. I’ll take care of this.” He turned toward Amalia. There was so much more he wanted to tell her, so much to talk about. But the moment was gone. She had steeled her face. She was the angry, petulant ruler of Athesia, with a personal grudge against the world. “Your Highness.” He excused himself.

The three female royal guardians took their positions in the chamber. Amalia feigned innocence, but they could tell something had happened. Gerald did not miss the silent chatter. He pretended to inspect their gear and readiness, nodded once in approval, and left.

Outside the chamber, the mother-empress waited, her white gown dappled with patches of color from the lead glass panes in the tall, narrow window, an arrow slit turned decorative. She stood with her hands folded in front of her, patient, knowing. She smiled softly at Gerald.

“What now?” Edwin insisted, not very tactful, like his usual self.

Gerald rubbed his neck, goading fresh blood into his tired brain. Before his death, Emperor Adam had been the supreme ruler of all Athesian legions. Amalia had left that rank vacant, as a not-so-subtle incentive to her commanders, hoping to squeeze extra loyalty from them. It did not seem to have worked. And now, it could not.

Still, Athesia needed a general, someone to take command of the remaining troops. Sadly, he felt there was no one more suitable than him. All of the high-ranking officers had been assassinated. Those few who remained might have more experience, but they were dispersed, isolated, leading troops just as unfit as his own watchmen, seeking guidance and support that never would come. Adam’s death had left Athesia without its war leader.

Deep down, Gerald feared his own arrogance and ineptitude. Did he dare step into the shoes of the greatest military mind in known history? Did he dare presume that much?

“You will do well, Commander,” Lisa said, reading his mind.

Edwin frowned, looking confused. Gerald knew his deputy; he just wanted to get rid of some traitors.

I’m a city boy. I’ve never seen war before. What can I do?
Gerald didn’t know what to say.

“Take care of my daughter. Keep her safe. Help her.” She moved toward the door to her shared chamber.

Gerald felt the heavy weight of responsibility crush his chest. He sighed and muttered bravely, “I will, my lady.” He couldn’t stand her compassionate, too-wise stare any longer. With a curt bow, he fled, Edwin trailing after him, asking questions.

Councillor Stephan realized that things had really gotten serious the moment they locked him up. The moment they locked all of them up. Prior to the siege, they had been allowed to wander almost freely in the guest wing of the palace, go outside into the gardens, enjoy the sunshine, even fence for sport. But not any longer.

They were prisoners now.

The atmosphere among the Eracians and Caytoreans was not pretty. You could barely stand your own family for that long confined in one place, let alone total strangers, all of whom thought themselves the cream of society but farted like the commonest commoner.

His one friend was Duke Vincent, the grizzled, bitter Eracian noble. They played chess every day, each one imagining those were the divisions of troops they shuffled across the battlefield, dealing deadly blows to their ancient foe. They didn’t talk much, except to revive their old bet.

Today, they were doing just the opposite—talking, not really playing. On the table before them, all of the figures were arrayed in an intricate pattern, but the checkerboard was gone. They were simulating the battlefield raging outside. In the center, black pieces stood for Roalas and her forces. Bunches of white figures on all sides were the siege lines as they imagined them.

“What next, do you think?” Stephan asked. “A hundred gold.”

The crowd muttered its share of comments. Men, women who had little else to do but join this friendly banter.

Duke Vincent grunted. He had lost three hundred gold coins, and his confidence was slipping. He genuinely believed he would lose a thousand coins by the end of the year. It was not the financial loss that worried him; it was his pride at stake. Not that he would not like to be gone from this prison like the rest of them.

“All right, you slimy Caytorean money-grubber.”

Someone chuckled. It was William, and he seemed to be mildly drunk already.

Stephan took a piece of paper and wrote the sum down. Forgetfulness was such a common occurrence when money was discussed. “Your bet, old man?”

“She will sally forth to the east. Try to break into Caytor.”

The councillor rubbed his chin. His suspicion had proved correct again. The old fart was so predictable. But as much as Stephan liked squeezing coin from him, he liked the mental games even more. They gave him an intimate glimpse into how his enemy thought. Knowing the thoughts and feelings of every Eracian in the hall meant knowing what they might try next year. And this knowledge was power. He would bet the price of commodities against political winds. He would gamble his luck against the mood of the rival nobility and their war strategies. No spy had ever had such easy access to such private information. It was a ruby mine of opportunity.

“No, she won’t try to break the siege at all. We are outnumbered here. She will wait for the winter. The Parusites will suffer in the snow and hail. Why waste your men in battle when you can let the elements do all the hard work for you?”

Duke Vincent was not pleased. Stephan could easily guess the thoughts festering in his old head. The duke was already envisioning himself rotting another half year in this place. The moment Stephan said it, it sounded true.

Lady Silvia drifted by. She nodded at Stephan. He nodded back. Well, not all relations were that tense. Sometimes, proximity forced friendships. Bedding an Eracian countess made him feel rather sophisticated. She was also supposed to be a distant cousin of the monarch, which made the situation even more exciting.

“I wonder where Blake is,” Vincent whispered, distracting him. Once again, without any warning, the old man swung into his foul, depressing mood. He had supposedly disowned the boy, but he had never really stopped caring. “He must be a commander of a five.”

“They call them legions here,” Stephan corrected him. Everyone knew the list of imprisoned nobles. If Vincent’s son really cared, he would have come to visit his father. But it had been eighteen years. He was probably retired. He may not even be in Roalas.

Stephan looked behind him, at the retreating shape of Countess Silvia. Well, tonight, perhaps, if she did not fake one of her headaches or menses.

The big double door of the common guest hall opened. A weary, dangerous-looking man stepped in. He did not bother with pleasantries. Commander Gerald of the City Guard, Stephan realized, and he looked angry. The activity in the room slowed down. Were they going home? Or perhaps to the chopping blocks? There always was the faintest doubt that you may have left too many enemies behind or displeased your superiors, and they could be steering your destiny now, holding your life in their hand and squeezing hard. His letter had gone unanswered so far.

Gerald pointed at Stephan and wagged a finger.
Come here
, his gesture said.

“Excuse me, Vince,” he said and rose. He never used any titles; he knew the slight insult irritated the old man.

“Commander,” Stephan greeted curtly.

“Walk with me,” he said and led him away, down several corridors and into the gardens. Not the Garden of Joy, but a smaller, secluded yard, where they could talk in private. The man walked stooped, as if he were very tired, but kept a quick pace. He didn’t bother waiting for Stephan, knowing the councillor would follow. Half a dozen burly royal guards around him made sure he did.

Gerald came to a sudden stop. He was standing in a patch of wet grass, his boots staining. “How would you like to see your riches increased tenfold?” It was a very direct question.

The air smelled sharp. Stephan let his mind work out a proper answer before opening his mouth. “In return for?”

Commander Gerald cracked his knuckles. “Total alliance, shared borders, shared profits. The council pledges its unanimous support for Athesia, led by Empress Amalia. You get rid of the impostors and send thirty thousand men against the Parusites. You threaten war if they do not retreat back to their realm.” Gerald waited to see if the offer had sunk in. “You own the exclusive rights on prices and taxes. Your own guild and businesses enjoy tax free trade. No road taxes, no waiting at the city gates. Embassies of your choosing anywhere. The right of crossing for your private army. A levy of five thousand Athesian troops, at your disposal for one month every year.”

Stephan nodded. “Are you sure you’re not a politician, Commander?”

Gerald grimaced, displeased. “One more smarmy remark and I’ll grind your teeth to powder. Save your humor for the rest of them. One chance. And you’ll give me your answer now.”
Amalia wanted to marry Ludwig?
Well, he would not allow that. He could not allow that.

“I can’t promise I’ll manage to persuade the house,” the councillor said.

“How you do your magic is entirely up to you. But if you do agree, I want that army relieving Keron before the year’s end. And I want one hundred thousand gold ransom for every Caytorean held here as credit funds, no interest, for ten years, in Eybalen banks only.”

“I’ll need some help getting the message through,” Stephan spoke, the plan unraveling in his head.

“Tell me what you need,” Gerald said. “And not a word to anyone.”

CHAPTER 26

T
he last time he’d traveled across Caytor, there had been a war. Now, he was traveling across Caytor, and again there was a war. It felt absurd.

His little unlikely troupe followed the West Road, sidestepping into the grassy plains to let army columns past, dusty, tired, thundering to engage in battle. Where to, Ewan wondered. But people with the sunset beating against their backs were not too forward with information.

Slowly, like squeezing an unripe lemon, he learned what little he could from rumors in roadside inns, from bards and drunkards and bored soldiers who liked to brag about battles they had never fought.

Most of those coming inland were refugees, a flood of them, Athesians, fleeing the Parusite invasion. Most of them had some Caytorean blood and now, all of a sudden, felt dearly patriotic once again. Others just wanted to save their lives. The Parusites were besieging this new realm on all fronts, pressing hard. The Athesian army was in ruins. They said Adam the Godless was dead. They said his daughter was dead. They said the old gods were taking revenge against infidels.

He could not easily tell truth from lie, but almost everyone agreed about these southern pirates ravaging their homes. They just weren’t people of the realms. They were strangers. They had come in ships around the rocky shores of the Velvet Sea and landed in a tempest of death and destruction.

Bored with the siege, the pirates were raiding into Caytor now, going deeper and staying longer, burning villages, kidnapping women and children into slavery, hijacking trade convoys, and marauding coastal shipping. Private armies were slowly mustering, but no particular councillor or mayor wanted to risk his assets on saving the day or failing miserably. In between, the poor people were dying while the rich sent letters of protest to Sigurd. Going west was becoming risky indeed. Once again, the west was burning.

Ewan had no choice. He just had to go there, no matter what. If his estimates were right, the new realm of Athesia was only a week away on foot.

The land he walked was Caytor, and yet, it felt the very heart of the battle zone. Those few who dared travel grouped in massive convoys with expensive armored escort. Occasionally, they rode under the Parus banner so that the pirates would not attack them. Now and then, the private armies would gang up on young men and conscript them against their will or let them go for money. Sometimes they harassed women and took what little food and gold they had.