The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) (7 page)

Philip ignored the tantrum, and the fact His Majesty had just expelled the master of coin. When Konrad returned, he would take care of the matter. “Only small contingents. However, I would advise against it. We do not need any unrest on our northern and western borders.”

Monarch Leopold puffed wearily. “Perhaps one of those tribes that live near Lia Lake. They might be interested. What are they called? Kataji?”

Philip shook his head. “Hiring sell-swords has dire consequences, Your Majesty. It should be our last resort.” Every highborn Eracian had read and studied the
Chronicles of a Warrior
, which told the story of a much more turbulent history between the monarchy and its restless neighbors to the west. The time when tribesmen roamed the land, pillaging, burning, killing, stealing cattle and people until they finally had been driven back and held at bay for the past three centuries. Allowing the nomads to enter Eracia freely would be a grave mistake.

“Your Majesty, with your blessing, I will learn about our opponents,” Bart persisted. The diplomatic opportunity was slipping away. It would be foolish to go to war just because Leopold had made his troops march a few leagues.

“And what do I do now, sit by and do nothing?” the monarch moaned.

Count Bartholomew swallowed. “Yes, Your Majesty. Please.”

There was a long moment of silence while the monarch thought about the prospect of his own impotence. Sometimes doing nothing was the smartest thing to do, but it was also the hardest thing.

Seconds trickled like old honey as Leopold paced around, thinking. Luckily, the chamber doors stayed blessedly closed. Bart feared if Commander Raymond showed up right then, the momentum would be shattered. But the man was taking his time, and the ruler had little patience, for anything really.

“All right, Bart, you can go. It’s a diplomatic mission. I want you back and alive.”

Bart smiled. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

Leopold waved him away. “Go. Do your diplomacy thing.”

CHAPTER 5

“A
re you sure about this?” Alexa asked.

“No,” Mali answered.

Her son, James, deputy bailiff in Windpoint, stood fifty paces away, talking to one of the citizens, radiating ease and assurance.

“If you don’t want to do this, I’ll send them away,” Alexa spoke. She touched Mali’s shoulder.

“But he must know the truth,” Mali croaked. “He deserves to know.”

“He’s a happy man, betrothed. He has a decent job.” Alexa squeezed lightly.

Mali buried her face in her palms, thinking. Her hands, so soft. After countless years of bloody blisters and calluses handling weapons, she had never really gotten used to the smooth, unblemished touch of skin in her life as a simple civilian, wielding quill and pen rather than cold steel.

“But he could be a leader of a nation.”

“He already is a leader. People love him. People listen to him. I’ll send them away.”

“No!”

Alexa released her grip. “I will never abandon you, Mali, but sometimes you rile my nerves. I have sworn to you as my commander and friend, and I will follow you to the grave. You know I love James like my own child.”

Mali nodded vaguely. Alexa’s womb had suffered too many cold nights and too many kicks to bear children, so she loved James all the more fiercely.

She wiped her hands on her skirt. Another part of her life that she never really got used to—the feel of her thighs rubbing against one another when she walked. But there was no other way. Respectable women did not wear men’s clothes.

“The boy’s happy. Let him be.”

“He can be so much more,” Mali whispered. She adjusted one of the long sleeves of her blouse. Scribes did not have long white-and-red snakes of scar tissue running up their forearms either. It was a small price to pay, though.

In a tavern not far from her small office, two men waited, Caytorean nobles. The truth was, she had summoned them. And now, she did not really know what to do. But she owed James the truth. She had hidden him away from the world in this little town for too long. He deserved more.

“Hi, Mom,” James shouted, beaming, waving across the cobbled street.

“Hi, Son.” Mali waved back.

The boy looked so much like his father. Sometimes, she swore Adam was there, talking to her. The son of a madman, a butcher, an emperor, hidden away in a small town in northern Eracia, living the simple life of a town watchman. He could be so much more.

“Let’s go,” Mali whispered, steeling her resolve.

The tavern was a respectable establishment for the town’s middle class, clean, airy, well lit, with patrons who paid in silver and never vomited back into their cups. Two men, dressed as simple merchants in brown and blue wools, sat at a far end of the common room, sipping ale and forking roast pig.

The two women joined them. Alexa chose the outer side of the bench. Mali knew she was ready to fight if need be. In secrecy, her friend still practiced with a sword an hour every day, even though her old limbs ached.

No one paid them much attention. A smile here, a smile there, a nod, a wave. Mali was known in Windpoint as the scribe with the fine filigree manuscript, a woman many sought when they needed letters and documents written. The town hugged a busy trade route, so merchants coming from afar often came by to have notes of commerce and trade agreements copied.

“Greetings,” one of the merchants offered. “Councillor Melville. Councillor Otis.” The other man nodded. They did not smile. They seemed somber and very businessman-like.

Alexa looked at Mali one last time.
Are you sure
, she mouthed. Mali closed her eyes slowly.

“What will you do?” Mali asked.

“If the lad proves to be who he is, then we will see him crowned. In return, he will sign a hundred-year alliance with Caytor and offer special privileges to the wool and steel industries.” Otis was the one who spoke.

“We won’t lie to you, it’s a terrible, terrible risk,” Melville said. “But it’s worth it.”

Your son is going to be a puppet in the hands of adders
, her conscience hissed. She pushed it back into its hole. “You will treat my son well.” It was part question, part threat.

“As befitting a future emperor,” Otis promised in his merchant’s voice. “Well, he’s not exactly court material, but the lad is honest, he can write, and he knows how to wield a sword without cutting his toes. That’s a good start. There have been worse candidates.”

“Trust us, my lady, your son will be in good hands,” Melville added.

“I don’t trust you,” Mali snapped. Suddenly, she wanted to leave. “And don’t use that tone with me ever again.”

Otis was the first to recover. “My apologies, lady. We never meant to disrespect you.”

Mali placed a largish bag on the table. It clinked heavily. “Do you know what this is?” she asked. They shook their heads. “It’s my life’s savings. Years and years’ worth of hard labor and lots of blood. Enough to hire a Pum’be assassin for two simple, quick contracts.”

Melville paled. Otis held his composure more successfully.

“If I ever learn that you have tricked me or my son in any way, you won’t live long to regret it.”

Otis raised his hands. “My lady, we plan no trickery. We see a huge profit for us. This is business. Our land will profit immensely from our contract. We will become richer and more powerful than ever before. Who knows, in ten years’ time, one of us may be the head of the High Council. Believe me, it’s in our best interest to see James crowned as the emperor of Athesia.”

“But he will have to cooperate,” Melville added. His eyes were fixed on the silk bag.

Mali licked her lower lip. She had not told James yet. He…he may even refuse.

“Did you tell him?” Otis asked, as if reading her mind.

“Not yet. And if he refuses, you will go away and never come back.” She did not need to finish her threat. They were not fools. They were greedy, heartless bastards, but they were not among the richest Caytoreans without a reason.

“We will need proof,” Otis said.

Mali nodded. The proof of blood, of course. She handed him a handkerchief. Folded inside was a lock of James’s baby hair. “Be careful with that,” she warned.

“And the other thing.” Otis extended his pudgy, beringed hand.

She handed him a vial of her menses blood. It was old, dark, clotted. The Shame Blood, they would call it. Witches would use it to trace fathers of children born outside of wedlock. In villages, whenever there was a dispute of a child’s parenthood, witches would sample the woman’s blood and learn all her dark secrets. They would know every man who had lain with her and spilled his seed inside. It was a forbidden practice, but it was so deeply ingrained in the people’s culture it would be impossible to weed out, even if the head executioner for the monarch personally came into every village and town.

Otis lifted a finger. It was a sign. Mali stiffened. From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed Alexa draw a short knife under the table.

From across the room, a nondescript middle-aged man wearing a filthy green robe and cape stood up and walked over. He accepted the vial. He uncorked it. The metallic tang of dried blood wafted out. Mali gagged involuntarily. She felt strangely weak. As the former commander of the Eracian army, she had tasted blood in the gallons, killed and maimed hundreds, and seen her comrades die whispering the names of their loved ones as they clutched slippery, hot guts between their broken fingers. But now, even a few drops were too much.

The man shook the vial, scooped a trace with his elongated small fingernail. He tasted the old blood.

Mali felt shame and rage coursing through her veins. Her guests had brought a magic wielder of some kind. By his features, he looked like a mongrel Sirtai.

“This woman tasted the seed of just one man,” he said eventually, his Continental lilted.

The former commander swallowed her pride. One man, Mali thought perversely. She had lost count of her lovers long before she met Adam. She hardly remembered their faces and names now. But she had never let any one of them spill their seed inside her. The frogskin had never failed her until that night. One tiny mistake, and James was born.

The Sirtai took the hair and chewed on it. He nodded. “The hair belongs to the man’s child.”

Otis seemed pleased. “That’s good. But now, we need to make sure it’s the emperor himself.”

Mali scowled. The merchant, oblivious of her anger, produced a small paper bundle from one of his pockets. Inside, there was a woolen sock, with a thin, stale aroma of sweat.

“Luckily for us, the emperor used only the best Caytorean wool for his garbs.” Otis snickered. He waved the sock. The heel was smeared with ancient brown blood, probably from a blister. “It cost a fortune to get hold of one, you can imagine.”

Once again, the sorcerer performed his bizarre ritual, sniffing and licking the sock. He nodded.

Otis exploded with modest glee. “Congratulations!” he hissed. “Now, the hard part.”

James sat on a stool, hunched, a tired man. He looked ten years older. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Mali wiped the tears from the corners of her eyes. “I could not. If you knew, if anyone knew, your life would have been in danger. People would have hunted you and tried to kill you. They might have abducted you and used you for ransom. I could not defend you against this world’s assassins and murderers. The only way to stay safe was to bury the secret deep down inside my soul.”

“And now he’s dead?” James whispered.

“Yes, he died a few weeks ago.”

“My father did not die in a raid?” her son repeated his childhood fantasy weakly. The tale of his father, a wood ranger, dying in a heroic fight against forest brigands. The reason he had chosen to become a town watchman. A lie.

“Your father was not a wood ranger, no. But he was a great man, your real father. He was a great military leader. And he built a nation. You should be proud.” Her words sounded hollow, cheap.

James held a branch in his hands, rolling it between his fingers. “What now?”

She shrugged. “It’s your choice.”

“I don’t want to go.”

Mali bit her lower lip. “But you should. It’s a dreadful responsibility, but you were born to it.”