The guild master swallowed, his neck bobbing. “Yes. Of course.”
Lucas let him settle his scattered thoughts, but his mien remained hard, impassive.
To his credit, Sebastian regained some color in his face within minutes. His voice still croaked when he spoke next, but he seemed more in control of his panic. “I am utterly sorry for this incident. You must understand we have not had magic in the realms for countless generations. It is alien and frightening to us. We…I just wish to understand the nature of your mission and offer the best assistance that I can. Please. We are honored that the Sirtai would choose to help us.”
“That is most fortunate,” Lucas agreed, as if the Caytorean had any choice. But it was best to get the cooperation from the people you were helping; otherwise, they might misconstrue your intentions.
“How can I help?” Sebastian inquired.
“The exact nature of our mission is for Emperor James alone,” Jarman said, trying to sound as practiced and wise as his life slave.
“We will rest here for a day. Then, we will continue to the last known location of your emperor. We will need fresh supplies, fresh horses, an escort, as well as a personal letter from you,” Lucas added.
“You cannot share this information with anyone,” Jarman offered.
The stunned servant moaned loudly, trying to rise. Lucas looked at him. “He has several fractured ribs. Make sure he puts on a poultice with onions and mustard in the morning and evening. And he must walk an hour every day, breathing deeply.”
Sebastian spared the disguised killer a quick glance. “Yes, my lord.”
Jarman reached for a glass of drink and noticed his fingers were trembling from excitement, ever so slightly.
“That is settled then. I must go now, and I apologize for the little incident earlier. My hopes are you will find your short stay at the mansion enjoyable. And worry not, the details of your visit will be kept discreet.” The Caytorean went over to help the injured thug get up on his feet. Wincing, the servant rose and slowly tottered out of the chamber, bent double. “I shall arrange for you to be taken to your rooms,” Sebastian said as he left.
Lucas said nothing, only stared at him. Jarman walked over to a narrow, tall window and looked outside. They were perhaps ten paces above the ground and could see a sizable area of the estate and the fields outside. The perimeter outside the outer walls was littered with tents and houses that Jarman assumed belonged to the army.
If he’s gone west, why not take his people with him? Jarman wondered. But then, he knew the continental politics were never quite so simple as back home. You could never use plain logic and honesty when evaluating the motives of their leaders. They always seemed to be trying to trick someone, their enemies, their friends, their rivals and supporters, the undecided parties, themselves. A life of confusion and compromise, laced with self-justification and excuses. That was how the continental realms conducted themselves. A history of paradoxes, ever since the beginning of this age.
That had to change, he knew, if the realms intended on surviving.
Some time later, the house help came to escort them to another part of the huge villa, where they would spend the rest of the day. One of the maids smiled at him, and he was dismayed by her teeth. Why does everyone have such filthy teeth? he wondered.
Lucas looked at him before they went to their separate rooms. The older wizard gave him a long, meaningful stare, full of warning, wisdom, and expectations. Jarman knew what was expected of him, not just tonight, but tomorrow at dawn and the days ahead. He nodded at his slave, his friend, his teacher. He intended to embrace the culture and customs of the continental people. He would learn to be friendly so they could trust him. Because no magic was going to help if they failed to convince the emperor of the absolute necessity of their mission. It would be a huge leap of faith for a continental ruler, but Jarman was betting on the man’s legacy.
CHAPTER 17
Mali had seen her share of bad armies. But this had to be the worst.
She remembered recruiting criminals for war back in Adam’s time. Her officers had scoured every cesspit from Paroth to Ubalar, then drove them toward the garrisons, where they had stood in ranks side by side with the regular troops. Even then, her sense of despair had been only minimal.
I was younger, bolder, without a son, without the knowledge a lunatic would take over my army one day, she thought.
Her grandfather had told her stories about war. In his day, wars had come as sure as the summer. It would be an unlucky year if the Eracians didn’t clash with the Caytoreans at least three times. Then, the hostility had mellowed, and the famous border skirmishes ensued. Still, they sort of resembled war, in that you had companies and battalions hurl into combat, men dying in earnest or going back home short a limb or two. She had earned her share, and no matter what you called the clashes, they had felt real and bloody to her. Crawling through mud and blood, eating stale bread, rubbing fungus off your wet feet, screaming in pain as your wounds festered and you wondered when you might die, if only so the pain would go away. She remembered ordering men to their deaths, and always fewer and fewer would return, scarred, grim, and that much wiser. She had killed men with her bare hands, with food utensils, choked someone with a scarf, beat them to raw pulp with the edge of a shield. She had pissed on a friend’s injury to keep it clean.
Since Adam had broken the Eracian army and made the realms into his plaything, there had been no more war. Almost twenty years without anyone killing their fellow neighbors. That was a very long time to forget all about the atrocities and horror and how to stab someone without blinking.
The best had deserted to Adam’s side; the worst had remained and were now the elite cadre of the Eracian army. They had had twenty years to rot, to grow older and more stubborn, and now they had no bloody idea how to make their mongrel force into a killing machine.
Mali wondered how much damage one man could do. Not only had he ruined her country, Adam had ruined her career, left her with a bastard, and now, the ripples of his conquest were coming back to haunt her.
She was almost enjoying herself.
Not as an adjutant to some red-haired officer, though.
The Northern Army was coming to life at the Barrin estate. Every day, more and more recruits poured in, coming from all the corners of the north. The stain of tents on the lands allocated so generously by the count’s uncle and his mother was spreading like moss on tree bark. Newcomers would simply form their own garrison at the edge of another and stay there, waiting.
Mali watched the army commanders talking to Lord Karsten, Count Bartholomew’s uncle. The man was a cripple, and he glided about the world at hip height, seated in a chair made of metal and wood with a large pair of cart wheels attached to the sides. He propelled himself by his own arms, despite his age, and refused any assistance from the house help.
At his side, Lady Elizabeth, the count’s mother, stood and smiled, listening. She was a frail, aged woman, maybe even senile, but no one dared anger her, because it was her son’s vast gold financing this whole affair. The count himself was away, probably in Athesia, trying to convince the Parusite king to make peace.
It was rumored his wife had died in Somar.
And there was no one else. The entire wealth of the estate was in the hands of these few people, the family reduced to rubble by disease and accidents. Mali found it all the more similar to the sorry state of Eracia. For years now, things had been getting worse. Bloody Abyss, even Queen Diana had given birth to a dim-witted child, an unlikely heir to the throne. Well, now, the royal line was eradicated.
Mali wanted to be in the heat of that discussion, but so far, she had found no one who could vouch for her identity. Royce’s patience was drawing thin. She might have to contend with some flogging soon.
Well, there was nothing to do. She would just have to keep searching. Someone ought to know her and help her prove her claim.
And the next question was, even if the
y did believe her, would they let her lead?
She did not think those stubborn fools would so easily give up their position to an aging woman.
Mali walked away from the little gathering, going toward the training grounds. They were marked off in spears with little flags attached to the blades, whispering in the late summer breeze. Hundreds of men were going about their drills, learning how to use the short bow, how to keep a line when marching, how to lower spears all at the same time, how to count their steps, how to tell one’s own left from another’s, for fuck’s sake. It was sad.
The Barrin countryside was such a lovely place, endless rolling fields of crops, wheat and corn. Then, you had long stretches of excellent pasture, with lucerne and clover, where men could swing their weapons in earnest and practice large-scale charges. A dozen brooks shimmied through the grassland, where the soldiers could learn how to cross water quickly and efficiently while archers provided cover. There was even a derelict castle for exercising a siege situation, which they would no doubt encounter in Somar.
She saw a body of infantry lumber past her, barely keeping in line. The Cornfield Syndrome, she thought sourly, watching them march. Not far away, several other men were lazing on the ground, roasting cobs and laughing.
Mali swept past children taking bow-and-arrow aim with wobbly hands, past a dozen fletchers fitting goose feathers to fresh shafts, past a grizzled carpenter sawing logs for targets.
There was a knot of men gathered, watching something of interest, and she converged on them, not as a clerk, but as an officer, keen to inspect and assess the situation.
She was not surprised to see Alexa being the center of their attention.
Her longtime friend. A second mother to James. A woman who had once been a simple soldier in the Third Battalion.
Back in Windpoint, Alexa had been forced to practice indoors, away from prying eyes, away from James so he would not know. And she had done it, day after day, for twenty bloody years. Here, she was free to swing the sword in the open, and Mali could see the pent-up frustration bursting through her skin as she moved through stances. Despite her age, despite the pain in her limbs, she never relented, never slowed down, and the slashes and parries came perfect, elegant, simple, and efficient. Mali could sense the lethality oozing from her pores. She was a large, bulky woman, with a solid mass and a killer’s grip.
Men watched enthralled. Since Adam’s revolution, there had not really been any women troops in the army, not even as auxiliaries. Seeing one was a rare phenomenon. All Mali could feel was a flurry of nostalgia and desperation.
Mali stepped into the circle of spectators and gently pushed her way to the first line. She was tall, but not tall enough to tower over every single man. As she appraised the crowd, she began to realize the opportunity here. Some of the men were young officers, clearly enamored by the deadly woman in front of them. Men who had never seen death, men who craved leadership. Alexa’s silent display of force was just as good as hours of arguing and deliberation with the top echelon. Mali felt she might be able to exploit this, even if she were still only an officer’s secretary. For now.
Alexa finished her forms and put the blade away. She gestured for a skin of water, and one of the soldiers handed it to her. She drank, then poured some on her head. Next, she picked up a wooden staff about the same length as a sword.
“All right. Any volunteers?”
The men squirmed, embarrassed, challenged, but not quite brave enough as to lose all their dignity in front of a hundred witnesses.
Alexa snorted. “C’mon, girls. Not half a solid cock among you?”
Finally, a sergeant stepped forth. His friends cheered him weakly, but you could hear sniggers in the crowd. Whatever the outcome, the mock battle was more interesting than anything else going on in the camp, they knew.
The man lasted seven seconds. Alexa disarmed him of his staff in about three, laid down two quick raps on his knees, cracked a quick blow to his shoulder, jabbed him in the kidneys, and then tripped him. The crowd hooted.
“All right. Two volunteers,” Alexa goaded.
It took a fair share of arguing, but then two men entered the practice circle. The battle lasted almost twenty seconds this time. The crowd cheered some more.
“Anyone else?”
Mali decided she might as well enjoy some sport. She carefully put her bag on the ground and approached her friend. Alexa arched a brow, then nodded, inclining her head. Mali returned a gesture.
“What’s this, ano’er gramma!” someone brave in the back of the crowd shouted anonymously.
“We might have fucked his father, too,” Mali observed.
Alexa sucked her teeth and spat the workout phlegm to the side. A man had to sidestep to dodge. “Yup, we might have. So what do we do?”
“Let’s just show them a nice set of forms. Sword, please!”
Someone handed her a simple short sword. Mali examined the edge; it was too blunt for real combat, and that made her angry.
“Make sure you sharpen this blade before dinner, lad, or I’m gonna come back and beat you with it. Understand?”
He made a stupid face. “Sure thing, ma’am.”
Mali turned toward her friend, twisting her neck left and right. “Begin.”
It all came to her naturally, as if she had never stopped using the sword. She wasn’t sure how long they fought, but her muscles started to ache, her legs, her back most of all. It was the kind of burning pain that would manifest itself fully the day after, but she did not care. After a lifetime of being someone else, it felt so good to return to who she was, what she was.
She had left her family’s decent business to follow in her grandfather’s steps, a bold, almost rash decision for a young and well-off girl. Good birth and money had seen her skip through the low ranks rather quickly, but then she had been bogged down in some real competition against men. And they had not been pleased with a woman meddling in their affairs, which had made the struggle all the more challenging. She had risen to command by being strong, smart, cruel sometimes, and most of all, insensitive to the constant jeers and humiliation attempts by her peers. Until the point when they realized she was twice as good as they and finally accepted her as their equal.
Then, at the peak of her career, she had been tossed into obscurity by a madman and his child.
She was panting hard, her breath coming ragged and short. It was time to stop. She stepped away, Alexa did the same, and the crowd applauded, a genuine expression of wonder and appreciation. She stood there, swaying, sweat dripping off the tip of her nose, blood pounding in her ears, her neck, her stomach. For a moment there, she considered heaving.
“Damn impressive,” someone said.
“How old are you, ma’am?” a lad asked her, grinning.
“You…never…ask…a…woman…that,” she told him in between mouthfuls of air.
“Was you in the Third?”
Mali turned. A middle-age man with a full beard was standing, watching her. He looked old enough to have been a young conscript just before the Great Desertion. Perhaps he would remember her.
“Sort of,” she mumbled. “You know anyone from the Third?”
He shook his head. “I heard there was a women battalion once, that’s all.”
The soldier handed her a skin of lukewarm water, but it tasted delicious. Groaning, Alexa and she sat on some empty crates, resting for a moment, happy and spent. Her whole body hurt, and there was a nick on her forearm, previously unnoticed, glistening with half-congealed blood, traces of it smeared left and right, probably by her arm motion.
The onlookers waited for a while longer, then slowly started to disperse. Some remained, because they had nothing better to do. Mali ignored them.
She knew she was long past her prime. She was not as strong and limber as she used to be. Luckily, she had retained her looks, apart from some gray hair and an extra net of wrinkles on her face. On a good day, she could lie about her age and shave off maybe a wh
ole decade. Alexa was even luckier, she knew.
She had given birth to a son when most women expected a grandchild. Risky that. But still, she had survived, and the boy had grown to be healthy and all. She really could not complain. There was only this matter of convincing everyone she was the former commander of the Southern Army that nagged at her.
Mali noticed a familiar face in the crowd. Captain Royce. He was holding his gloves in one hand and beating them gently against the palm of the other. Abruptly, he raised his head toward the bored soldiers.
“Back to your duties,” he barked. “Unless you want crap-pit digging.”
That did the magic, and the perimeter cleared almost instantly. A single soldier remained at his side, an aged man with a bald head.
“You were not joking,” he said when they were left alone, a deep frown on his freckled face.
“I did not,” she said, still somewhat short of breath, wondering what he had on his mind.
He ran his tongue against his gums in a circle. “I see that. Seems this man knows you.” He pointed at the other soldier. “Lieutenant Barclay.”
Mali racked her brains, trying to figure out who this strange man might be. But she remembered her staff well, and he surely had never been on it.
“I am not sure we’ve met, sir,” she offered.
Barclay cleared his throat. “I was a signals officer in Colonel Meinrad’s Second Regiment.”
Meinrad, she remembered that name. That was maybe a year before Adam. The officer had died of lung fever, she recalled.
“You stayed a lieutenant all these years?” she asked.
He shrugged. “I stayed a lieutenant. But I remember you.”
Royce touched the man’s shoulder. “Are you certain?”
“Yes, sir.”
The red-haired officer stepped closer to Mali. He looked at Alexa. Mali nodded. The other woman shuffled out of hearing range, limping with after-practice stiffness. Once there, she assumed her stance as a bodyguard. The old man Barclay joined her, but they did not speak. Royce sat down on the vacated crate.
The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3) Page 17