“Apparently, you were telling the truth,” he began. “I did my inquiries. One Commander Mali was killed in battle twenty years ago. So if it’s you, you have a way of coming back from the dead. Or that means you deserted. You know the penalty for desertion.”
Mali had more or less expected this. “It is customary to pardon all criminals for their past sins in time of war, and let them prove their worth in battle. Once the war is over, their record is erased.”
Royce took a deep breath. “It was a brave thing you did. You could have remained hidden; no one would have known better. To risk your own life like that for the sake of realm? Well…”
Mali knew she must not lose this initiative. “We are both patriots, Royce. We want to defend our realm from the nomads. It really makes no difference what happened two decades ago. That was a bloody mess. So many bad things, so much confusion. You need my skills. You need my experience.”
“That is true,” he agreed, and she could see conflict raging on his face.
“So what do you think happens now?”
He grimaced. “Say people believe what you claim. Say they believe Barclay. What then? You are going to take command just like that? Jostle Commander Velten from his post, after seventeen years he’s been fighting for that promotion? Now that Commander Raymond has finally died and got him that rank? He will see both you and me hanged before he lets the rumor spread.”
Mali had known the risks all along. She had known she was putting her life in grave danger. The only thing she might not have considered thoroughly enough was that her comrades would not take kindly to her resurrection, Eracia’s future be damned.
Nothing is more sacred than a man’s ego, she thought. What the fuck am I doing?
“We need a story.” She heard herself speak. “We need a story that will make my reappearance plausible, acceptable.”
“You must not be seen as a threat,” he added.
Mali agreed. “Yes. I could say I was injured for a very long time, forgotten.”
“What did you do these past twenty years?” he asked.
She grimaced. “I cannot say.” My son is the emperor of Athesia. I once bedded Adam the Butcher.
He shook his head. “People will be asking questions. And you must have answers.”
Mali took a quick swig from the waterskin. “I will have to think of something.”
“You cannot be a commander of the army,” he stated fatally. “But I have a better idea.”
She waited for him to say it, feeling trepidation flutter in her belly.
“The Third Battalion. You could have it reestablished. We don’t have many women in the army. Just a handful. Not as a fighting force, anyway. And we desperately need more people, more recruits.”
Mali had not considered that, leading women into battle. It would surely be a dire task. Men were so easy to manipulate. That would work. No one would question her background, because the women of the Third came with a dark past and a darker agenda. No one would meddle. And with the chaos of war, it might be all too easy to forge the documents, make her into a colonel. The commanders would not see her as a threat, and they might welcome the reinforcements.
“That’s a good idea,” she whispered, her mind rolling through the possibilities.
“It’s the only way for you to avoid the noose,” he said.
“So what now?” she asked.
He bit his lip, thinking. “Give me a few days to sort it out. Stay low for now.” He rose. “I will assign Barclay to your unit, so you keep him around and make sure he doesn’t go around spreading dangerous rumors.” The captain started back toward the estate.
“Royce,” she called after him. “Thank you.”
He tried to hide the fact he was pleased with her compliment. “If an old woman can find courage to brace death for the sake of her realm, then who am I if I refuse her?”
“I’m not that old, you freckled brat!” she teased, hoping he would not take it the wrong way.
He grunted. A grim man, but with some small sense of humor. “Indeed.”
Barclay left with Royce. Alexa joined her side, face lit with curiosity. “What did he want? To fuck?”
Mali imagined that for a moment. No. No matter how long it had been for her since she had enjoyed male company, Royce just didn’t cut it, even though she might be flattered by someone his age taking interest in her. And now that she was in a camp so full of virile, gullible men…
“No. He wanted to help me.”
“Why?” Alexa was suspicious.
Mali smiled sadly. “I guess his ego. Why do men do anything?”
Alexa snorted. “There’s that.”
“But he’s a good man. He knows. And he wants to help.”
“You’re going back into the commander’s uniform?” Alexa was wiping sweat from her forehead.
“In a manner of speaking. We’re going to rebuild the Third Battalion, you and I.”
Alexa’s face paled, her ghost stirring to life. “Are you serious?”
Mali sighed. “Do you have a better idea? Without getting us killed all too soon?”
Her friend did not speak for a while. “I guess not.”
“And so it begins,” Mali declared. “I am a colonel, and you are my second-in-command, Major Alexa.”
CHAPTER 18
Sonya had not realized how much she would be scared of leaving her chamber. After being locked in it for months, the sight of the palace corridors terrified her. She was afraid of the sudden vastness of space, afraid of the dark, unfamiliar corners. And she was weak, too.
Her legs felt soft and spongy as she trod on the cold stone, trying to keep pace with Pacmad. He was watching her like a predator might ogle a wounded animal, waiting for her to give up before pouncing and tearing her to shreds.
A small victory, she thought as she hobbled like a child learning her first steps. Every day is a small victory. And today, she might even have won a big one. She was out of her jail, walking through the palace, free almost. If she were a lesser woman, she would have wept with joy. But she knew she must not show weakness before the Kataji.
The palace had changed since the nomads had taken over. The floors were dirty with rubbish and discarded food, old leather tack, strips of hide and cloth, rivets, chains, broken pieces of armor. There were old stains of blood on the wall, brown now. Every hanging picture had been ruined, slashed, hacked. Marble statues had been defaced, faces and limbs hammered off.
Tribesmen of all types used the halls and passageways as living space, their hide tents lining the walls or covering exits and junctions. Pigs and sheep and dogs with short, stunted paws moved around, pissing and shitting everywhere. Somar had become a blotch of disgrace and filth.
To Sonya, it didn’t matter one bit.
She had a task, a mission. She was devoted to gaining Pacmad’s trust and appreciation, and it was the most daring, most ambitious project of her whole life. And it wasn’t about the pain, abuse, bad food, the constant threat of violence and rape, or the fear of dying in a pile of dirt, thrown away like last year’s dresses. It was about the intellectual hardship.
Honesty seemed to be working, she noticed. Each day, Pacmad beat her less. Each day, he let her talk a little more. Sometimes he listened; sometimes he ignored her. Often, he would deride her, gloat over her sorry condition, try to make her doubt herself. She endured.
When he failed to come to visit her, she would feel panic in her throat. She would wonder what he had to do that was so important. What made him choose another pastime over her?
But he came most of the time, usually in the late afternoon. She did not know why he chose to spend those hours with her, but she was glad for the opportunity to work her charm. Her enemy was a shrewd and ruthless man, and she needed a lot of time and practice to adjust her strategy to perfection. Still, he eluded her. He was far from being her puppet.
It fascinated her.
Most men needed little more convincing than some cuddling and a fe
w quick words of praise. If they were stubborn, bedding them usually did the trick. She had not expected so much resistance, so much resilience, so much free will from a nomad.
Pacmad’s topics were as cryptic as his soul. He often asked oblique questions that seemed to lead nowhere, and she was often left wondering what he truly wanted. Sonya tried her best to be truthful and humble, tried to make him believe—no, make herself believe—that he owned her and there was nothing she could do to change that. It was risky, immersing yourself in the character you played, because sooner or later, the boundaries blurred. She feared losing herself, but she knew there was no other way to defeat this man.
His stance remained unchanged, except for some small perks he indulged her, like better food, more baths, and now this little walk. Sonya did not think he trusted her yet, but he was probably convinced she just wanted to make her own life better, for her entirely selfish reasons. If she could make him believe she was harmless, her work would be that much easier.
He still grumbled about her not becoming with child, although she was lucky to have a whole month before his suspicions and anger rose again.
Pacmad led her to the throne hall. She felt the muscles in her belly stiffen as she recalled the day the nomads had taken over the city. She recalled the killing, the heap of sweating, snarling men on top of her, Leopold’s glazed eyes staring at her accusingly.
The great statue of Vergil was gone, hacked down to pieces. The room seemed empty, except for the dark bloodstains and gouges in the walls and floor, left by swords and axes. The Kataji did not seem to have any use for the hall.
“How do I rule this place?” he asked her.
Sonya did not ask him to clarify; she knew he hated that. “Somar itself is a trade city,” she began. “Most of its wealth comes from the guilds and shops. We used to trade a lot with Caytor before—”
“No.” He cut her off. “Not Somar. Eracia. How do I rule the land?”
The countess tried to understand what he meant. “May I ask how much land you hold?” She winced, but he did not cuff her.
Pacmad bent down and picked up something from the floor. It looked like a tooth. He sniffed at it, then threw it away. “We hold all land from the border to this city. A front three weeks wide and two weeks deep.”
Sonya rubbed a scratch on her forearm. “Trade seems the best option,” she hazarded vaguely.
The chieftain turned toward her, and she knotted her muscles, expecting a cold punch in her gut. He looked at her askance, his blue eyes shimmering in the hall’s light.
“Trade? I know it’s trade, woman. But what trade? What do I get from my land?” He gestured broadly.
Sonya believed she understood what he wanted. “I can prepare a list of all the known holdings and industries in western Eracia. Maybe that will help you decide what you need, Master.”
Pacmad harrumphed. “I don’t need lists. I need to know what Eracians want and what I can offer.”
Sonya made a small step, and the ghost of her broken toe stirred, sending a brief spasm of agony up her ankle. The Kataji wants to trade with Eracia? It sounded crazy.
He seemed to read much from her confused expression. “I have avenged my people. Now, it is time to put the weapons aside. Your country is now cut in two. The Eracian army is in no position to fight me. So they must make peace with me. And you will speak for me.”
She felt cold dread creep up her spine. Be this monster’s negotiator against her own people? It would ruin her! No matter which way the treaties went, she would be held accountable. The Eracians would label her as a traitor. And if she failed Pacmad, she would lose his trust, or worse.
But she could not refuse him. Not yet. “Yes, Master.”
“You will tell them that I want to trade with them, just like King Adam did,” he went on.
Emperor Adam, Sonya thought, but she did not dare interfere.
“He came and made Eracia weak. He stole your pride, and you did nothing. He beat the Caytoreans, and they groveled before him. You all made trade with the king after he defeated you. Only the people of the south seem to have some honor. Well, now I have defeated you, so they will make trade with me.” He walked away from her, but she did not dare follow, imagining all those scattered teeth digging into her naked soles. “I am like King Adam. They will bow to me.”
Sonya swallowed, trying to think fast. “What do you want to offer them?”
Pacmad was walking back toward her. “Kataji goods, Namsue goods, all the other tribes, they will all get their share. Eracian goods. Whatever grows on your farms in the west, whatever the people of the city can make.”
The countess did not want to remind him he had murdered most of the men—those who had actually practiced various crafts and sustained the city—and enslaved the women. Somar had become a huge torture camp. It did not produce bolts of cloth, metalwork, furniture, or pottery, or export wines and weapons anymore. A dead city.
She had no idea what the situation was in the countryside, but she expected it was the same.
And now he wanted her to make it all work again?
The most ambitious, most dangerous endeavor she had ever undertaken.
“You will make them understand,” he added, “or I will attack Paroth.”
Sonya sensed something there for a moment. A weakness? A bluff? Perhaps the tribesmen did not have the strength necessary to attack another large city. Or they did not know how. After all, they had been invited to Somar. She had helped convince Leopold to invite them.
An omission on her behalf, but also a business opportunity.
Sometimes, even through the best intentions, deals went bad. At such times, the real character of the persons involved showed. Those who broke, and those who rallied, persisted, adapted, and won. It was a test of her resolve, of her ingenuity, nothing more.
Sonya felt she could press her case. “If I’m going to be meeting with Eracians, I will need to look most presentable. Our society places great value on appearances. I will need rich clothes and jewelry.”
Pacmad’s face flashed with anger, but he did not strike out. “You will not be going anywhere. You will stay here.”
“What if the Eracians send their negotiators to Somar?” she tried, her heart fluttering with dread.
He was silent for a moment. “Good point,” he ceded, and she almost gasped in surprise. Delight for hearing his praise or delight at winning another small victory?
The Father of the Bear sauntered over to one of the slender columns and rested his meaty hand against it. His callused fingers picked at a scar chipped in the stone, probably caused by a sword swing. “I have a city full of crying women. But they don’t make any bread or cheese. My men are busy raiding the farmland. It won’t do. This city needs to start producing again.”
“It will take time,” Sonya said, trying to sound cautious and hide her eagerness.
“You will make sure Somar goes back to normal. And quickly.”
Sonya came after him and laid her hands on his shoulders. A risky gesture, but she had to try. His muscles drew taut, but then he relaxed. “I will do everything you ask and more. I just want to be a queen.”
Pacmad looked sideways at her. “We don’t have queens. Our women breed children.” His face twitched in disgust at her apparent inability to do so.
“You have many wives?” she asked, trying to sound casual.
“Several. I have concubines too. Not counting you Eracian whores.”
Sonya licked her lips. “Can I be your first wife then?”
The Kataji snarled and shook her arms off. “You fancy a beating, woman?”
She withdrew a step and hated herself for it. “Sorry, Master.”
“Only a woman born in the tribes can be married to a chieftain. You can be my concubine,” he offered generously.
“I want to be the best one,” she said shamelessly.
He stared at her for a long time, and she began to feel panic bud in her throat. Then, he snorted, part deri
sion, part laughter. “You are a remarkable whore, aren’t you? Persistent. You have no honor. I’m starting to wonder if you have a soul.”
Sonya wasn’t sure if he was complimenting her, so she said nothing.
The nomad turned to face her. She was wearing a simple white gown. His hand reached down toward the simple belt that held it fast. “You are brave, I’ll give you that.” He fumbled with the knot, but did not release it. “My instincts tell me I should kill you, but you are more useful alive.”
Sonya gingerly touched a finger to his arm. It was corded with sinewy muscle, dappled in curly black hair. She traced the ridge of a ropy scar up his forearm. She tapped the worn leather band around his bicep.
“I want to help you. This is my life now.”
His blue eyes were unblinking. “And help me you will.”
“Anything,” she promised. There was nothing he could do to her body that would matter. She had done worse herself. And in return, if she could guarantee her freedom around the city, fresh food, nail polish, golden necklaces and pearl earrings, a maid to wash her hair and pamper her, she could put up with his savagery. It would make her captivity bearable.
Every day, she would work her charm deeper into his skin, into his mind, making him more trusting, more generous. Then, she would move against his concubines and wives, make herself his favorite, make him depend on her. Perhaps Eracia was finished as a monarchy, and if she could not gain her title as a margravine or duchess, she might as well be the chieftain’s wife. It was almost the same thing.
These negotiations with the surviving Eracian nobles were going to be tricky. She would have to make them believe she was their woman on the inside. She would have to work out her network of allies and friends so that if Eracians won, she would be hailed as a hero and given her rightful place in society. On the other hand, if Pacmad prevailed, she would have to make sure he understood it was because of her cunning and sacrifice.
That meant planning carefully. And removing her opposition inside Somar. There were many other ladies held captive, and some might have better claims than her. That would not do.
The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3) Page 18