The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) (46 page)

The king almost felt slightly alarmed with so many people around him. He knew each face, except the Eracian count and the pirates, but the subtle threat of retaliatory assassinations hovered in his mind.

Sergei noted the Eracian noble was no longer listening to him. He was focusing on his sister, staring with deep intensity.

Sergei frowned. “Your verdict, Count?” he insisted.

The taut canvas above their heads sang with the erratic beat of fat raindrops. The late summer rains had begun. The roads would turn soft and mucky soon, making travel and resupply more difficult. It would also hamper the siege efforts, as animals and engines got bogged. Clearing the slums of the Inferno would take much longer than he had hoped for. Despite sending numerous hunting parties into the razed suburbs, the burned ring of rubble still belonged to the defenders and the crazed refugees.

Outside the tent, Roalas stood unconquered, its wall drenched by the afternoon patter. Volunteers, prisoners, and auxiliary units had spent the last several days clearing debris while dodging artillery shots from the walls. They had plowed a clean wedge toward the city’s southern gate, but it was still a narrow corridor. The Parusite forces could not bring their numerical advantage to bear. Sergei rubbed his neck.

Bart pursed his lips, making a soft plucking noise. “Death,” he said simply.

Overlord Ro’man shot him a glance of pure hatred, but said nothing.

Sergei nodded thoughtfully. Either the count was a tough man or he pretended to be one, but he did understand diplomacy. And he probably understood the burden of leadership.

“Prince-Heir?”

“I agree, sire,” the boy said, holding the sword steady and extended.

“Very good. So it shall be. Captain of the Seas, before you die, I’ll let you appoint your successor, who I hope will be more reasonable than you. I will also demand compensation for all profit lost and full reparations to be paid to the Caytorean High Council of Trade.” He reached for the man’s gold-and-diamond-studded earrings and tore them out. The overlord screamed.

Sergei blinked the blood off his eyelashes. He tore the man’s necklace of gold and pearls off. “Giorgi, prepare a letter of apology for the council. I want fifty percent payment for the Oth Danesh debited as restoration for damages against Caytorean property. All of the people taken as slaves shall be returned ashore. And add these to the stash.” He handed the bloodied jewelry to the white-faced clerk.

The overlord was furious, clenching his teeth, snarling, struggling against his captors. Tears of pain streaked down his face. His ears bled like overripe plums. “This is madness!” he howled.

“Your successor?”

One of the pirate’s escorts was coming back to his senses. He was kneeling, but he raised a hand. “Your Kingship, I will do it,” he rasped.

Sergei leaned toward the speaker. Ro’man tried to kick the man. One of the Talkers jabbed a fist in the pirate’s ribs. The overlord folded with a groan.

“And you are?”

“Ro’erdi, I’m the windmaster of the seas,” the man spoke. “I will take the helm.”

The king paused for a moment. In general, he had no desire to meddle in Oth Danesh politics, but they did seem like they needed supervision. If he could install a lackey and control him, he might undo some of the damages.

“No, let him stand.” Sergei motioned for a Talker to stand down, as he was about to slam the pirate with the blackjack again. “I want to hear what he can offer me.”

Momentarily forgotten, Bart listened to the bizarre exchange, studying faces. The king looked calm and bloodthirsty, his son tenfold so. Princess Sasha looked bored and annoyed. His eyes kept straying toward her, even though he knew he had to focus on Sergei.

The count listened as the Oth Danesh windmaster repeated pretty much everything the Parusite monarch demanded, agreeing to return the slaves and the loot, cease all raiding activities inside Caytor, and punish with death all shipmasters who defied the order. He also agreed to transfer his command to the Parusite king. Bart was not sure if the man was merely being generous to preserve his life or if he truly feared the retaliation of their bigger, more powerful ally. Either way, he had yielded all his power in one gigantic act of humiliating submission. It felt too easy. Bart doubted such a promise would survive the autumn storms and the chaos of war in a foreign land.

Still, it was a good move. Sergei had just demonstrated solid leadership. He was uncompromising, strong, respected, and feared. Bart wondered if all this were not just an elaborate show meant to impress him. Most likely, it was. But the blood seemed too much.

A few moments later, the king dismissed the pirates. The former overlord screamed his defiance, cursing, but he was gone. Outside, a storm of noise exploded as the pirates’ retinue learned they had turned from allies into slaves. A hundred knights and spearmen were waiting nearby to make sure they did not do anything foolish. Soon, the cursing and shouting subsided.

“What is your business here, Count Bartholomew?” Sergei said suddenly.

Bart rolled his thoughts for a moment. “I’m here to negotiate the safety of the Eracian hostages in Roalas. Monarch Leopold has asked that you intervene personally to ensure no Eracian dignitary will be harmed should you attack the city.” He handed over the monarch’s letter.

It was blunt and simple. Sergei liked it. “I can promise no such thing. Wars are messy. I can’t say no one will be hurt in the fray of battle. Nor can I guarantee that the Athesians may not execute them as an act of desperation or retaliation.”

Bart said nothing. He had not expected anything more, not after three weeks of avoidance. This was negotiations, after all. Very soon, they would be talking about young Ludwig and King Sergei’s daughter Galina and a possible marriage of alliance. But before he did that, Bart had to meet with Empress Amalia, too.

“I will need your permission to go into Roalas, Your Highness.”

“Out of the question,” Sergei said. “I can’t allow that.”

The count nodded somberly. He had known this in advance—which was why he had smuggled one of his men away. The man was supposed to carry a message back to Eracia, but he would then cut due west and try to infiltrate the Athesian capital from the Red Cap siege lines. It would take him a while, but he might succeed.

Spending the last three weeks among the Red Caps had been an invigorating experience. Not always pleasant, but it had given him a unique view into the life of the emancipated Parusite woman, into the history of repression and servitude. Eracians and Caytoreans used to be like that, hundreds of years back. And now, Parus was becoming more like them, liberal and dangerous. They were no longer content with their seclusion.

Most of all, he was fascinated by the king’s sister. She was sharp, intelligent, even witty in an acerbic sort of way. He liked her. But she didn’t really seem that interested in him, except to glean information from him and make sure he did not wander away.

He wondered what it would be like to court a woman again, but this time the way he wanted it to be, not just a fixed affair, a contract between his parents and those of his wife. He wanted to be able to really talk to a woman, tell her his true feelings and his fears. He wanted honesty. Sonya cared nothing for honesty.

It was lunacy, but he wanted to court Princess Sasha. She was still unmarried. If she weren’t the leader of the Red Caps, her maidenhood would have been considered a scandalous embarrassment to the king’s family. Perhaps it was. He really did not know why she had not wed all these years, but there must be a reason. Many Eracian military women did not marry early, if at all. Bart cared nothing for the fact he had a wife. He tried to ignore the fact Princess Sasha was royalty while he was a middling noble, at best. It didn’t matter. The thrill of it made this journey exciting.

“You are welcome to stay as my guest,” Sergei spoke, breaking his reverie.

Bart nodded. “Thank you, Your Highness.” And that was that.

Count Bartholomew left. Captain Speinbate and his siege expert left, too, the mercenary leader pasty-faced and shaking. Soon, only the royal family and Sasha’s ever-present companion remained in the tent.

“You haven’t told me about this Eracian emissary,” Sergei chided his sister when they were alone. He sat down again, wiping blood off his tunic with a piece of cloth.

“There was nothing to tell,” Sasha said, sitting behind a table, staring at a map.

“You’ve had him under escort for three weeks. Didn’t you feel it prudent to inform me?”

Sasha tsked. “You were too busy burning the city suburbs. And letting your pirate thugs torch Caytor. If you had any subtlety, you would have handled this a little better.”

The priestess stood by the princess, emulating her interest in the battle charts. When the king’s sister berated her brother, the woman raised her eyes and fixed him with a hard stare.

Sergei ignored the priestess. He sighed. His sister was hotheaded. “What do you know about this count?”

“Except that he has a suicidal need to prove himself, you mean?” Sasha tapped the map and rose. “He hasn’t done any harm yet. But he’s trying. He plans on smuggling one of his men into Roalas. The man was supposed to head back to Somar with some reports, but his real mission was to try to cross the siege lines and enter the city. We have the soldier detained.”

The king grimaced. “All right, then. He’s your responsibility. Keep him occupied.”

Sasha nodded. “What about his terms?”

Sergei shrugged. “Let him fret for a while.” He paused, thinking. “Sister, I want to talk to you—”

“Don’t,” Sasha snapped. She turned angrily. “Don’t.”

“Sister, please. Just hear me out.”

“No. There’s nothing to discuss. I’m leaving.” She strode out without a word of farewell.

“Sire?” Vlad asked gingerly. The boy actually looked uncomfortable.

Alarmed, Sergei realized he had forgotten about his son. He shook his head. The boy was too young to understand this.

“Nothing, Prince-Heir. Proceed with your plan. I want Roalas conquered before the year’s end.” With that, Sergei left the tent. It was suffocating inside.

Vlad stood silent for a moment, then shrugged and went back to planning his takeover of Roalas. He didn’t really care about what his father and aunt were fighting about. His father had given him a task, and he meant to see it through.