A snort. “Sure about it. We ain’t riding here for flowers and to admire the land and such.”
“I don’t fancy fighting,” the one with the nasal voice complained.
“Thought you wanted to teach them Parusites a lesson?” his friend teased.
“Well, sure. But y’know. We’re going to this Athesia. ‘Tis different.”
“I know what you mean. But we are paid to fight, so we fight.”
“Right.”
Amalia waited, but they did not talk any more, just sat in silence, resting. She finished folding the blankets and slowly edged around, trying to look bored. In her chest, her heart hammered. She thought anyone looking at her breasts would a see a little ripple move on her skin.
“Lass!” one of them shouted, the gruff one. Amalia ignored them, moving on.
“Don’t mind her,” the other said.
She sighed in relief as she entered her small tent, set against the back of her and Agatha’s wagon. It took her a moment to start thinking clearly. What she had just heard worried her.
The Parusites seemed to have troops in the north of the realm, too. That meant more war, more death. As a would-be commoner following an army, her chances did not seem that bright. She knew King Sergei had a powerful, well-trained, seasoned force at least five times as large as her half brother’s. He had the Red Caps, the Borei, olifaunts. You would really have to be a genius in fighting to avoid total destruction. You would have to be someone like Father. Or you could wield a bloodstaff.
So far, James did not look even slightly worried.
But Amalia had been quite confident before the siege on Roalas, too.
She knew that if her half brother’s legions were defeated, the soldiers would abandon the camp followers and the refugees, and they would fall into the enemy’s hands. The Parusite ruler seemed rather forgiving when it came to the small folk, but she did not want to bet her chances on it. She did not want to contemplate what would happen when the mercenaries following James decided they were better off on their own.
After hearing the two soldiers talk, she felt their loyalty might not be as deep as it seemed.
Whatever happened, she had to act fast. Still, no matter how hard she tried to rack her brain, no smart ideas poured out. Nothing, in fact, only dull gray despair and bitterness, a deep sense of self-defeat and ineptitude, disappointment in herself and in people, a grudge against the world, loathing.
A far cry from what Father had taught her all those years. Only out here, posing as a worthless girl on the brink of mercy, the brilliance of leadership and cunning evaded her.
She had to think. Something. Anything.
Nothing.
Evening came. She sat in there alone, on the brink of tears. Agatha was too busy somewhere. Even her maid had abandoned her. She was now Jerrica in earnest, a common girl with no future. Perhaps the best she could hope for was a simple, poor life married to some officer who did not beat her too much.
How she wished she had Gerald to comfort her, to protect her, to give his advice.
Her eyes were moist when the night settled, full of flickering images of imagined Parusite troops storming the camp, death and rape, pain, treachery and lies. She watched it, helpless, useless, another speck of dust in the storm of life, meaningless in the greater scheme of things.
This was her life now, it seemed.
You must not give up, a tiny voice whispered in the back of her head. You must not.
But why would she care? Even her people thought her dead. No one cared about her anymore. They had James, he was their emperor, and they liked him. There was no reason for her to carry on.
She was afraid. She could not take it anymore, the uncertainty.
She tried to summon her hatred for James, but it would not rise. She almost felt sympathy for him. A boy, torn from his world, forced to lead, forced to tremble under the colossal image of his father, with paid soldiers in his service, men who would abandon him if things turned sour. He was just as helpless as her, only he struggled on with a smile, not showing his weaknesses.
And she missed her mother. Oh, how she missed her. She should have listened to her mother. Too late. Roalas had been taken. Her mother might be dead. Everyone she had once known and loved and cared for was most likely dead. She had no one.
Stop it, the voice in her head pleaded.
She could not. She kept sobbing until darkness engulfed her.
CHAPTER 16
Jarman watched the mansion at Pain Daye with curiosity. As a man of magic, he found great interest in architecture and science, in things people designed and built with pure skill and passion.
Most of the Caytorean rich countryside looked like a blend of styles and old-time feuds. The nobles had built their homes with a clear military goal and then adorned them with the best of fashion their wealth could offer. Jarman knew that many hundreds of years ago, the Caytoreans had lived like manor lords, ruling their small stretches of land, with armies of levies to support them against rivals. Then, as the city guilds and crafts grew stronger with each new war against Eracia, the small noble houses were left impoverished, devastated, the power of the country lords dwindling. They kept the lands, they kept the villages and farms, only now they called themselves councillors, and their small regiments of peasant soldiers had transformed into private armies. Modern Caytor was a colorful mosaic of history.
Jarman wished he could explore the other realms, too, provided that they had survived for him to explore them.
A patrol on horse was coming their way from the right flank, trotting, unconcerned. They carried lances topped with streamers, one dyed in the colors of the High Council, the other daubed in Emperor James’s.
“Halt. Who goes there!” the horseman in the front shouted.
The carriage stopped. Lucas looked at Jarman. “Let me introduce us.”
Jarman nodded. Frankly, he wasn’t sure how to present himself in a way that would not sound mad.
Lucas stepped out of the black coach, smoothed his robe. The patrol drew their reins about ten paces away. Jarman could imagine their shock, facing a Sirtai with blue skin.
“Greetings. My master, Jarman Wan’der Markssin, wishes to meet with Emperor James,” Lucas spoke calmly.
The foremost rider rubbed at his face with a gloved hand; he had a long moustache twirled to narrow points. “Eh. You are Sirtai?”
“Yes, we are,” Lucas offered patiently.
It was obvious these men did not know what to do now. They had probably been told to intercept Caytorean merchants and councillors to ensure there were no local spies or killers in the incoming traffic. They surely did not expect Sirtai this far inland, or at all.
“Well, carry on,” the officer murmured, waving toward the mansion. He led his squad back into the fields.
Lucas was smiling softly when he reentered, a rare display of emotion. Being Sirtai seemed like an enormous advantage, Jarman kept noticing. He promised to make sure he coined on that when people really needed some extra convincing. As he doubtless would.
The carriage lumbered down the well-used track, cutting through the farms, where people took a brief respite from their work to gawk at the newcomers. Even now, Jarman felt ever so slightly uncomfortable with so many mistrustful stares preying upon him, but he was slowly learning to adapt. He no longer felt his chest constrict when he mingled in a crowd, entered a common room, or had to talk to these Caytoreans. Their smells were no longer so offensive; the press of people felt more natural. And long days spent traveling through open land helped soothe his soul.
He leaned out of the window and stared at the mansion, at its fortified walls, double-backed path, the sentry tower and the man inside, silhouetted with a crossbow in his hands. On ground level, people swarmed, peasants and refugees and soldiers, he noted, a filthy mix that made his eyes water.
Lucas and he had tried to gather as much information in the taverns and towns they had passed, but they could not tell truth from gossip
. Here and there, the local bards and innkeepers would tell their stories, mixing rumor, lies, and embellishments into the dish until it was a mush of rusty facts and bad fiction.
Apparently, less than half a year ago, Emperor James had ridden out of Pain Daye against the Oth Danesh and defeated them in a series of skirmishes that had stretched from Goden all the way to Shurbalen. Only in Goden, they had known nothing of these battles.
Well, hopefully, today, they would learn the truth.
The Pain Road ended before the mansion walls, hidden by a thicket of legs and hooves. People swarmed before the gate, waiting to be admitted, simple men leading horses and cows, children with goats. Jarman found the sight disgusting, and his old distaste fevered up. The smells came wafting, strong and pungent.
The driver tapped the side of the coach, then leaned over and down, his face reddening. “Sirs. Them sentries tells us we must wait. We will be a while before we get in, sirs.”
Jarman groaned, leaning back into the corduroy seat. Lucas sat calmly, unperturbed.
“You should not squander this lesson, Jarman,” his life slave said. “Observe.”
Jarman closed his eyes and sighed. Lucas was right. He had to learn as much as he could about this nation, about their customs, about their religion, anything that would be useful in the days to come. There was so much more at stake than his sense of smell or taste.
The young wizard decided he might as well watch the Caytoreans up close. He clambered out, stretching generously, blood flowing back into his numb buttocks and legs. His body yearned for exercise. It craved a decent bath and better food and so much else besides, but he tried to be reasonable. One man’s indulgence versus the world ending. He had to be practical about it.
The locals stared at him, a hundred different scowls. For a moment, their grumbling and pushing and haggling seemed forgotten. They had found a new object of interest, one foreign and unknown. He hated those looks, but he endured the onslaught.
“Fresh milk, m’lord?” a voice squeaked.
Jarman looked around, then down. There was a girl, half his height, standing right in front of him, uncomfortably close, holding one tiny grubby hand up, a pewter cup held in there. Jarman could see every streak of dirt outlined on her skin. In the other hand, she was holding a frayed rope, tethered to a goat’s neck.
“What?” he croaked.
“Fresh goat milk, m’lord?” she repeated. “One copper, sir.” Her tiny hand edged forward.
Alarmed, he stepped back. The crowd around him exploded with laughter. Jarman felt his cheeks flush with shame. Just a filthy girl, he thought. But he did not want that hand touching him.
The coach door opened, and Lucas stepped out. The derisive snorts and jeers died instantly. There was a man, wearing a long robe of deep purple and shiny black, his head bald and scratched in blue lines, his face hard, his eyes unforgiving. Not an everyday sight.
One of the soldiers near the gate pointed. Another saluted and went into the mansion. Jarman hoped their wait would be shortened now.
It was. A handful of serious-looking Caytoreans came out to escort them into the estate. The crowd kept staring, then lost interest and went back to their grubby affairs.
Inside, the air was clean again. Jarman could see house help and soldiers, but they were few, too busy with their tasks to stare. He relaxed once more and let his eyes study this new world. The villa loomed ahead, beautiful, old, and expensive, but the path to it was obstructed in long rows of hedges and tiny decorative trees. The house switched from the left side of the coach to the right several times before they reached the front yard. Two dozen other carriages were parked there.
A small delegation was waiting for them. The two of them stepped out and waited politely while the three coachmen set about unloading their baggage. Jarman could feel the tension and surprise among their hosts, but it was toned down, muted, wrapped in etiquette. If these men found Lucas’s tattooed head fascinating, they had long learned to master their expressions. It seemed like a unique trait, because the Caytoreans were usually so rude and obvious.
“Welcome. I am Guild Master Sebastian, in the service of Emperor James,” one of them said.
No family name, Jarman thought. So unnatural.
Lucas introduced them. “Jarman Wan’Der Markssin, of Tuba Tuba. I am Lucas.” He did not offer his own family name. Slaves did not use them.
Sebastian bowed ever so slightly and extended his hand. Jarman stared at it, then at Lucas. The Anada nodded. Carefully, Jarman grasped the extended hand, squeezed mechanically, then let go.
If the other man was surprised or insulted, his impassive face did not show it. “To what do we owe this honor? I must admit visitors from Sirtai are few and far in between.”
“We must meet with the emperor,” Jarman offered. Speaking in Continental felt easy now. He was even beginning to think and form sentences in their language in his head when he used it. Only when counting did he revert back to his own tongue.
The guild master pressed his lips into a narrow line. “I must know the reasons, my lords.”
Jarman squirmed. There it is. What do I tell them now? “We must speak with the emperor, in private.”
For all the apparent love the Caytoreans had for Sirtai, Sebastian did not budge. “We are honored, and we believe we can work out whatever business deal you require, but due to security concerns, I must first know the nature of your visit.”
“We would like to offer assistance to the emperor,” Lucas interjected.
The Caytorean was silent for a moment. “Very well. Please follow me.”
Jarman spared a quick glance at his friend, impressed. Jarman would have mentioned the fate of the world, the terrible war looming ahead, the need for magic. Now he understood such a reply would have earned him panic or disbelief, surely not cooperation.
“Before we enter the mansion,” their host said, almost too casually, “you must enter without any weapons. Do you carry any weapons, my lords?”
“No weapons,” Lucas said.
Learn. Watch and learn, Jarman thought. He could see the soldiers, armed and ready, hanging about, waiting. He could see them expecting an attack, not trusting their new guests. He could see the servants, carrying with a certain rigid air, as if they were partaking in a dangerous affair against their wishes. Jarman believed his presence at Pain Daye was more of a bad surprise than a delight, no matter how much the continental people loved the Sirtai.
They were led into a large drawing room, furnished in an ostentatious style, and left alone for a while. Lucas remained standing by one of the large, plush sofas. Jarman circled the room, looking at the paintings up close; he could see the brush-strokes, the flakes of paint layers.
The door opened, and the one named Sebastian came in. “Gentlemen. Please be seated.”
“Where is the emperor?” Jarman asked; instantly, he realized it was the wrong kind of question.
Their host grimaced. “Emperor James is not present at the mansion. He has left for northern Athesia on a campaign. Please, be seated.”
Jarman found the utterly soft sofas delightful after the coach ride. Lucas remained standing, as befitting his status, at least publicly. The door opened again, and several valets came in with drinks and food. They took their time arranging everything on the table, then left, except one. He took his place in the corner, just behind Jarman. The wizard could feel the man’s eyes boring into his back; he almost wanted to scratch between his shoulder blades.
“How can I help you?” Sebastian said. He picked up a glass of some clear drink and sipped.
“What is your function at this place, Guild Master Sebastian?” Lucas inquired.
“I am the governor of the estate while the emperor is away. I conduct all his business. I am also in charge of the defense of Pain Daye, as well as all other civil and judicial affairs.”
“That is good enough,” Lucas agreed. “We are here to join his emperor’s ranks as advisers. We want to offer our sk
ills and knowledge.”
Sebastian frowned. “Skills? You have diplomacy skills, perhaps? Do you wish to offer trade treaties or maybe financial assistance? I am not aware of there ever being any military intervention by the Sirtai in our land, so that would probably be out of the question.”
“We offer magic,” Lucas said.
There it is, Jarman thought.
The Caytorean spluttered his drink and coughed. His face lit up with alarm, the years of practiced composure gone in an instant. “What? What is going on here? No!” That last sentence was addressed to the valet behind him.
Jarman heard a rustle. He flicked his head and saw the butler lurch forward, a short lead pipe clasped in his arm. He no longer looked like a manservant, but a killer in a silk suit. His hand rose above Jarman’s head.
And then he flew backward, into the wall, like a puppet on strings, yanked back. His breath whooshed out in a loud grunt, and he thudded to the ground, groaning in a barely audible whisper.
“Magic,” Lucas repeated, his eyes locked on the guild master as if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened.
Sebastian was pale, lost. “You did that?”
Jarman felt lost himself. He had not expected hostility from the hosts. He knew they didn’t like magic, but he had not believed they would assault him. Fear, mistrust, yes—not violence.
“These people have lived too long without magic,” Lucas lectured from the side of his mouth. “They are so averse to it, they will sometimes do foolish things, without any real intent. I presume this unprovoked attack is just foolishness?”
Sebastian tried to rally his thoughts. “Yes. Foolishness. Please. We do not wish you any harm.” He waited for the two Sirtai to relax, but there was just no knowing what he might do. Magic was invisible, and it obviously scared him.
“We wish to offer our magical skills to Emperor James. I believe he will be pleased.”
“Yes, sure. Of course. It…It’s a blessing,” Sebastian said, his voice high with distress.
“We are Anada wizards, and we want to help Emperor James save the world,” Lucas continued.
The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3) Page 16