The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) (57 page)

However, wanking or no, the Oth Danesh also threatened to divert the spotlight from his objective. If the merchants were too busy spending money on recruiting mercenaries to fight the pirates, they might not have time to invest in furthering his goal. It could be a major setback to his plans.

After receiving the last conflicting report that placed the Parusite forces in a war of their own against the pirates, he convened a short session with Melville, Sebastian, and Xavier. Councillor Otis was away on some private affair, probably conspiring against him. He kept the rest of the lords and ladies away.

“You can use the invasion as a pretext to consolidate additional allies,” Melville said, a man who saw a business opportunity in everything. “Shurbalen could be their next target. If you lose the city, you’ll lose Curtis and Dwayne. And many other undeclared councillors.”

“I don’t think the High Council will take lightly to a foreigner leading armies of salvation through the realm, even if it’s for a noble cause,” Sebastian disagreed. “I wouldn’t want to see an Eracian youth with thirty thousand soldiers bossing his way around. Especially not when he’s the future Athesian ruler. Do you just want to give him another slice of Caytor?”

James nodded, pleased. Sebastian spoke bluntly, freely. Everyone thought the same, but few dared utter the truth. James was grateful for the admission. Yes, he was a foreigner, nursed into a deadly weapon that could swing back and cut the hand that wielded it. It was a precarious relationship, and he had to do his best to maintain the facade of trust. He was still not powerful enough to do whatever he pleased. And he had no intentions of starting a civil war in Caytor.

His Eracian upbringing reverberated in his bones. Yet, strangely, he felt no deep affiliation with his mother’s realm. But he did not feel Athesian, either. If anything, he was a man of the law, a citizen of Windpoint. And yet, every morning, he reminded himself of the truth. He was an outsider, after all. He was a stranger in Caytor, a beast they’d bred for their own goals.

No, he could not march. Not yet. The High Council would have to figure out what it wanted to do on its own. He would not push them into war. They might even decide he was the bigger threat of the two.

He had no ill feelings toward Caytor. In fact, he felt nothing at all. Pain Daye felt like a surreal island of insanity, far away from the real world. But many people who lived at the mansion and the area around remembered the border skirmishes between the two neighboring realms, even before Athesia had existed. Bad blood pumped in the veins of Caytoreans and Eracians. Very little was required to precipitate a national war. What he needed to do is convince everyone that all he cared for was his half sister’s realm, and that he meant to repay their generosity many times over. He still had to convince himself that this was what he really wanted.

Xavier shook his head in disapproval. “You can’t let those pirates roam free.” As the newly appointed army commander, he itched for battle. It would legitimize his status and give him a chance to baptize his troops in real warfare.

“I want to know what’s happening,” James said at last. “Xavier, see to it.” The butcher grunted his approval. “But I don’t want any trouble. Keep it quiet, and no bloodshed, you hear me?”

Melville was not pleased. But his wool trade was suffering from the unexpected invasion. Trade caravans feared going south. The routes to Athesia were cut, blockaded by the Parusite siege lines. There was a trickle of commerce into Eracia, but even those lanes seemed constipated.

“Where have all the refugees gone?” James asked.

“North mostly,” Xavier answered, picking at his short, grimy nails with a dirk.

“We could recruit from among them.” James leaned back in his chair and put his boots on the desk. Melville frowned. “A freedom brigade, so to speak.”

The councillor coughed and launched an uncommon military speech. “If you go to war with Empress Amalia, you will have to plow your way through the Parusite ranks. And you’ll have your left flank infested with the pirates. You will have to fight on two fronts. And there’s a rumor of an Athesian legion making its way here. You don’t want a third front.”

James turned toward Xavier. “Do we know where that legion is?”

Xavier shook his head. “Not yet, but we’ll find out.”

James remembered something else. “What about that assassin? Amalia?” Had his half sister tried to kill him? He should not have felt anything, but the thought irked him. Deep inside, he hoped that he might meet Amalia on friendly terms, get to know her. He wondered if he might not work out a peaceful deal with her after all. Perhaps they could join their forces and even rule together. However, not if she intended to see him dead. He had refused to send killers against her, and the notion she might not share his mercy left him vulnerable, exposed. He banished the morose thoughts quickly.

“The man squealed all kinds of information when we poked him with glowing iron, but he ain’t one of hers, no. That one is from Caytor, for sure. Don’t worry. He’s alive. He’ll talk some more.”

James blinked away the brief images of torture. “Good. Make it so.”

There was more, but Xavier did not easily share his findings when other people were present. The secret interrogations scared the councillors. They could never really know what desperate men might divulge under torture. Wrong confessions could incriminate them, mark them as enemies, make them into a target. Especially if those admissions were true.

Sebastian seemed peaceful enough, though. He had done his share of trying to kill James, and now he followed him with zealous devotion. Melville fretted, but it could just be his wool trade suffering.

Xavier remained after the two men left. “Who was it?” James asked simply.

The warlord handed him a note. A name was scribbled on it. James grimaced. He was not pleased.

“See to it,” he said. He had just commissioned another assassination against a would-be ally. But he had no choice.

Xavier coughed. “There’s one more thing, sir. Two things, actually. One, the impostor named Norman died four days ago. Food poisoning, sir.”

James nodded. He was down to just two rivals. Good.

“And the lady you have requested is waiting for you in town.”

James did not know her name. She was a nameless upper-class whore, the kind who catered to bored merchants and high-ranking officers. She was well at ease with yet another customer who demanded total discretion. He was hesitant at first, but Nigella’s advice pounded in his head. Then, his lust took over. But he was careful to don a frogskin before he lost control of his body.

Rheanna avoided him for almost a week after that brutal night. Then, a week after that, she had her menses and he had to leave her alone. It gave him time to practice his detours into the nearby town of Goden, meeting with all kinds of women. Sometimes, he would go disguised as a common merchant, followed only by one or two guards, and try to seduce women using his tongue and wit. On those nights, he usually came home frustrated. Other times, Xavier arranged for expensive whores to entertain him.

He felt no guilt. Rheanna meant nothing to him, he tried to tell himself. Occasionally, he would remember Celeste, and a wave of sadness would envelop him, but he was helpless against the throbbing desire in his belly. His love felt dulled, crippled. Time played evil tricks with memories, making them blunt, wearing them down. He could hardly believe it had been less than half a year since he left Windpoint. It felt like an eternity. What a foolish, naive child he had been.

The excursions into town did hone him. When he spoke to the ladies of the court, he felt more secure, more confident in his manners. He was less confused, less frightened. His cool, sure energy swayed their hearts easily. He was the gallant champion of their dreams and ambitions. And he moved them like puppets on strings. Bless that woman, Nigella, but she knew what she was talking about.

It was she he wanted to see the most, for some reason. Her not-so-attractive features compelled him. Maybe it was the intimacy of their short time together. Maybe it was the subtle humiliation he had suffered at her behest. Maybe it was the lure of magical powers and the glimpse of the future. But he wanted to see her.

Twists of fate kept him away. He was too busy working, plotting his future. He realized how critically important it was to see her, but there was not a moment to spare. And then, a week of bad weather left him confined in the mansion, bored and hungry for female companionship. Rheanna still eluded him. Maybe she sensed his indiscretions and felt hurt or betrayed. On his part, he stayed away from the vixen trying to ensnare him. At night, he was all alone.

Like many times before, he sinned. The images that flashed before his eyes were of Rheanna and Nigella, entwined, mixing, colliding, combining. He did not want to admit it, but there was a seedy pleasure in imagining Nigella’s simple, plain figure wrapped on top of him. He had never expected it.

Then, he recalled how she had drank his seed. His tongue rolled involuntarily.

“Like warm custard,” he intoned.

Leaning over, he reached down and swiped a drop off the floor. Gingerly, he touched the tip of his finger to his tongue.

“Bleeeeah,” he wailed, grimacing. He rubbed his tongue against his sleeve, trying to banish the foul taste.

“It doesn’t taste like custard at all,” he complained when he finally met her again. It had taken him almost three weeks before he could come see her.

Nigella burst into laughter. “You tasted your own seed? Fool.”

James blushed. “No.” He tried to change the subject. “You were right about the smiling man.”

The witch pursed her lips knowingly. “So it seems,” she said simply.

James knew what was expected of him. Spit, blood, semen. Once again, he asked her to turn away. Only this time, her foretelling was just a vague sentence that left him confused.

“What am I supposed to make of that?” he complained.

Nigella took her glasses off and rubbed her eyes. “I cannot control the magic of time. I am just lucky to see glimpses of what the future may hold. No more. This thing may not happen for another ten or fifty years.”

James sighed. “Is there nothing else you can do?”

The witch gave him a long, unblinking stare. “There is. You could spill your seed inside me.”

The future emperor felt a cold, sudden tingle between his legs. “What do you mean?”

She puffed. “Suddenly he’s an idiot,” she complained. “Your seed tells a lot, but it would tell more if you had sex with me. The bond of that union would strengthen the magic, make the prophecies more accurate. The womb is the forge of life. It has its own special powers.”

James frowned. His instincts were hiding in a corner, carefully contemplating the next move. He knew very little of this woman, and frankly, she frightened him. Was she highborn? Lowborn? Should he heed her adamant advice and stick to common women and whores? Maybe it was all a trap. Maybe she was trying to get him to lower his guard and do something regrettably stupid. Like getting her with child. Well, that would be a colossal blunder, a half Sirtai witch with the future Athesian emperor’s heir growing in her belly.

But he needed her prophecies. He desperately needed them. Besides, she stirred something base inside him. Maybe it was her status. Maybe it was her plain looks. Or just the simple intimacy he shared with her.

“I can’t do that,” he said. There was a feeling of woolen panic at the back of his throat. Something was not quite right, his mind was trying to tell him, but his body fought back, rigid with hunger and taut with intrigue. The nagging, frantic feeling of wrongness that imbued him made him furious. It was weak and vague and annoying. He rubbed his temples, trying to banish the unease.

“Why not?” she persisted.

James ignored the growing sense of alarm. “I don’t know. I need to think.”

Nigella patted his hand. “You do that.”

He nodded dumbly. “I will.”

He left. His future suddenly seemed very dangerous.