A year ago, in this very hall, Monarch Leopold had given up his realm and his life to General Pacmad. Foolish man.
Now, she stood here, dressed like a queen, bejeweled like a queen, and she held the fate of Eracia in her hands. Past wrongs did not matter. Oh, they fueled her with a deep sense of satisfaction, the fact she had survived her cruel predicament and come out on top, stronger and more powerful than ever. Most women took rape hard, crying themselves to insensibility. As far as she was concerned, it was another tool she could use to advance her position.
Sonya could not deny a single flutter of trepidation today.
An Eracian delegate was coming to see her.
She did not really fear the message he was carrying from his superiors. What she feared was that he might actually know her and that he might choose to talk about her and divulge critical information she had kept hidden from Pacmad all this time. Now that she held him in her grasp, now that he almost trusted her, such an incident might ruin everything for her.
Pacmad’s conquest was not going according to plan.
The chieftain had expected the Eracians to negotiate with him. Instead, they had chosen war. North and south, large armies of her countrymen were fighting the nomad tribes through blizzard and fog. The idea of surrender and compromise was a dead, silly notion.
Sonya was mostly interested in the southern front, where her husband the viceroy was. After much begging, wheedling, and manipulation, Pacmad had relented and told her some rumors about the state of her bisected realm. It seemed the defenders had rallied around Bart and were waging a deadly campaign against the tribesmen. There was a rumor her husband was ordering all captives mutilated, sent back home with arms and legs cut off. Bart, a coward, a man who abhorred violence, committing such vivid atrocities. It was unthinkable. Had he really changed that much? Was that man really her husband?
The divisions had left their barracks in Penes, Yovarc, and other garrisons and were slowly marching toward Somar, tightening their grip. Pacmad had responded by sending raiding parties deep behind enemy lines, but the noose was closing ever so slowly. Now that spring was nearing, the roads would become passable again, and the fighting would quicken its pace.
She wondered what would happen then. Would Pacmad stay in the city and endure a siege? Would he retreat back to his lands, disillusioned with his conquest? Would he take her with him? Or worse, choose to slaughter everyone in the capital as a last act of bitter defiance?
One thing was certain; the killing was far from over. The certainty of victory remained undecided. For all their effort, the Eracians suffered from poor training and weak morale. They floundered in the slush and icy storms. They froze to death during long, exhausting marches, leaving men to die in the dirty snow at the sides of the road. Disease, desertion, and treason, the black coin of the gangrenous army scarred by a generation of ineptitude.
Today, some Eracian nobleman was coming to parley. She had no prior information who he might be or who he represented. But it was monumental enough, and the Father of the Bear had chosen to attend the meeting. She would not be meeting this fellow Eracian on her own, probably because Pacmad did not trust her yet. Sonya would have to exercise caution.
The letter stamped with her husband’s new seal burned before her eyes.
Her captor had not arrived yet, so she was forced to wait, with only a handful of terrified maids and clerks in attendance. A dozen Kataji warriors guarded the scarred throne hall, but they kept to the filthy shadows. Now and then, you could hear the mongrels scratch their ugly, whiskered cheeks, a sound like a file rasping against a piece of wood. Or they would jangle their harnesses and weapon straps, checking their axes and swords.
Sonya scanned her gang of clerks, looking for signs of weakness and annoyance in their stupid faces. She had a strong urge to vent her frustration, and she needed an excuse to shout at one of the girls. But they all held quietly, trying to look busy or humble, avoiding eye contact with her.
Like her, she suspected, but on a much lower intellectual level, these wenches were brewing weak hopes the arrival of the Eracian dignitary might actually change their miserable lives for the better, but they also knew that things would probably, almost certainly, get worse. And they all dreaded Pacmad’s response.
Sonya wondered if any of them had been violated by a Kataji. If so, they bore their shame rather well. Then again, she knew her captor was a very smart man. He had orchestrated the destruction of Somar with deliberate precision, knowing when and where to leave his bastard mark. So, maybe he had refrained from hurting the female work force and only focused on humiliating the noblewomen.
She called the senior secretary, requisitioned from the guild of merchants. “Bibi, what is the name of this delegate?”
The woman squirmed. She repeated the same answer for the fifth time that morning. “General Pacmad would not say, my lady.”
Sonya waved her hand in dismissal. “You are useless.”
Time stretched. There was nothing to do but wait. Sonya sat herself behind the wide table set in the center of the hall and pretended to inspect the guild production figures, the coal consumption, the food stores, the tonnage of iron smelted in the furnaces. Strange how the entire economy depended on the women of the city now.
The doors opened, and Pacmad walked in. He looked smug. Sonya wondered if he had just bedded Aileen or that whore Richelle. Despite her best efforts, she had not yet managed to get rid of the baroness and her bastardly growth. The child was expected in about two months, and Sonya was not sure what to do if the woman whelped it alive and healthy. But then, with Bart as the viceroy, she really did not have much to fear.
The chieftain rounded the table and sat next to her. He picked up one of the documents, glanced at it briefly, then tossed it aside. He nodded at one of his soldiers.
“Bring the Eracian.”
The armed escort ushered a stranger into the hall. Sonya had never seen him, or if she had, she had quickly dismissed him as someone of low birth and scant wealth. He was dressed decently enough and radiated an air of familiarity with court procedures.
“Introduce yourself,” Pacmad barked unceremoniously and tossed up one of his boots on the table. Sonya knew he was trying to appear every bit the vulgar, stupid nomad the Eracians expected him to be.
“Thank you, General Pacmad,” the delegate said. “I am Lord Rotger of Ubalar.”
Sonya suppressed a smile. A lord, without any fancy aristocratic title. So, he must be an upstart commoner who thought he could be a gentleman by paying for class. No wonder she had never paid this rat any attention in the past.
“I am here on behalf of the Eracian Crown—”
“Are you now?” Pacmad cut him off, playing with a knife in his hands. “I was under the impression that you Eracians refused to parley with me. Didn’t like my letters, I heard.” He looked at Sonya.
Rotger smoothed his doublet nervously. “My lord, the Eracian viceroy did receive your letter, but only after he had already committed his troops to the campaign. He sends a counteroffer.”
Sonya was alert all of a sudden. Why would Bart send this man? He had sent the letter with his terms; there was no need for him to dispatch a lowly emissary to repeat the same. She stared at the lord with suspicion.
Pacmad pursed his lips. “I do not see the Eracian troops retreating to their warm barracks, so I do not think your ruler has changed his mind. What does he offer me?”
The dignitary tried to keep his hands still. “If you retreat to your lands now, you will be spared any further grief. You must go back to the Vergil’s Conquest lines, and this incident shall be forgotten. Otherwise, the Eracian forces will be forced to…” He trailed off under the withering glance from the chieftain.
“Coming here to parley gives you some protection, true. But only to an extent. If you insult me, I will gut you like a fish. Do you understand me, Lord Rotger?” Pacmad twirled the blade deftly, making sure he sounded and looked bloodthirsty and irrati
onal. Sonya could see his amusement, though. He was not afraid or concerned for the sake of his newly acquired territories. Yet.
Suddenly, he turned toward her, leaning sideways over the armrest. His lips almost touched her ear. She thought she could smell another woman’s musk on his skin.
“What is viceroy?”
Sonya swallowed. She was treading very close to self-destruction. One wrong step, and she would be finished.
“A regal official status. Like steward of the Crown, or regent.” She hoped she was confusing him with extra titles.
The general leaned back. His face was blank. “I do not like that counteroffer,” he said simply.
“Then I have another proposal, my lord,” Rotger said at some length.
“Speak.” Pacmad spat at the floor beside him. A flash of disgust crossed the Eracian’s face.
“I do not believe the Eracian forces can prevail against your mighty warriors. If there’s any resolution to this war, it lies with you, my lord. I would like to offer my personal assistance in your conquest.”
“Do I look like I need assistance?” Pacmad gestured around him.
With some disbelief, Sonya watched Lord Rotger slowly spinning his tale of treason, stealing the stage from her. She had not really expected any of the Eracian nobles and merchants to ally with the nomads, not after so many of their comrades had been put to the sword. Now there was this emissary, supposedly sent by her husband, turning his back on him.
“I can provide valuable information on the disposition of the Southern Army, on their numbers and readiness, on their plans. I am also aware of the logistic difficulties in supplying the army, as well as the levels of food and arms in the repositories.”
Pacmad put the knife on the table. “I can get all that by having you tortured.”
Rotger swallowed. “I believe that will not be necessary.”
“In our land, traitors are the lowliest sort. When one is caught, we let the old women piss on them before they are stoned. Why would I want a worm like you in my service? If you’re willing to sell your own nation, what will you do if the fighting turns sour for my side? What is it in for you?”
The lord made a quick step forward, as if trying to make what he was about to say more confidential. “It is hard for me to confess this, but I have a huge gambling debt. My assets are all bonded as collateral. Three different women in Ubalar claim they are carrying my children in their wombs and threaten they will tell my wife if I do not pay them. I am penniless and desperate. No one will lend me any money, and no one trusts me anymore.”
“That is surely a touching story,” Pacmad said in a serious tone. “Perhaps, instead of lullabies, my wives should tell it to my sons when they go to bed? Sons, keep your cocks to yourself and do not let the vice of cards ruin you? Is that it, Lord Rotger?”
The Eracian seemed on the verge of tears. “I do not expect and do not deserve any mercy from you. But you can benefit from my knowledge. I can help you win this war. Please.”
Sonya tried to appear slightly bored, but she was watching for reactions from her captor, from the clerks. The women tried to keep any emotion from their faces.
“You can start by giving me something useful, a token of good faith,” the chieftain goaded.
Rotger pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his neck and cheeks. He was sweating, Sonya noticed.
“Following the death of Monarch Leopold, a new monarch of the realm was elected by the consent of the Privy Council. No suitable kin of the monarchical lineage were found, so the most senior member was chosen instead. Duke Vincent was chosen, but the man is dead. The duke has passed away several weeks ago, while still in Athesia.”
Pacmad lowered his boot down. Sonya thought she saw a change wash over him. The feigned disinterest had become mild curiosity. But above all, she was trying to maintain a calm mask of casual indifference on her own face, to suppress the rash of white surprise boiling on her skin. Duke Vincent was dead?
Bart was the viceroy. A representative of a monarch who was dead.
What did it mean?
Her heart was hammering. She could see the silk of her blouse beating faster.
“So who rules Eracia now? This viceroy?” Pacmad emphasized.
“Viceroy Bartholomew is the official ruler of the realm, my lord,” Rotger replied.
Sonya froze.
And waited. Waited. Waited for the knife to plunge into her chest, ending her life in a gush of hot red blood. She waited for Pacmad to turn toward her, leer, and slap her senseless. She waited for him to drag her to a chamber, beat her and rape her, and then use her as an instrument of victory against her noble husband.
But nothing happened. Nothing at all. Pacmad just frowned, digesting the new name, but he did not seem to relate it in any way to Sonya. Then, she noticed one of the clerks staring at her, the lower lip trembling. Sonya swallowed a lump of cold dread. If that girl spoke…
She had to make sure the clerk vanished that very day. She had to die and disappear.
Right then, right there, Sonya was powerless. The guild woman could open her ugly mouth any moment and betray her. In a moment of breathless panic, Sonya tried to remember if she had ever insulted her somehow. If she had ever derided her or called her names.
The clerk remained silent.
Pacmad flicked a glance at her. She tried to smile. She hoped she had managed it.
“A useful bit of information, Rotger. I will consider your offer. Meanwhile, get something to eat.” Pacmad flicked his fingers, and his warriors dragged the lord out of the hall. The Eracian looked confused, frightened, and he tried to speak again, but the door closed in his face, turning his feeble words into a muffle.
“You will use him?” Sonya asked. Oh, her voice was too brittle.
Pacmad beamed at her, a wide, evil grin. “Maybe.”
Threats, threats everywhere, Sonya knew. Her victory was far from certain. That clerk whore could betray her, or maybe try to blackmail her. Rotger could seriously undermine her position. He would feed Pacmad with news and opinions that could conflict with her carefully crafted plans. After almost a year in isolation, she would struggle against his fresh knowledge of the world. Rotger was a man, too, and the nomad might actually like his views better. Suddenly, she had a bitter rival for her position of trust at Pacmad’s side. Worst of all, the gambler knew all about her husband. His very presence could expose her secret before the Kataji. She seethed.
“What do you think of that scum?” He laid a hand on her thigh. She almost jumped. He traced a finger up and down.
“I do not think he can be trusted,” she hissed.
“Can any Eracian?” His finger touched her belly. “I was thinking of making Richelle my new wife.”
She almost screamed with rage and indignation. That filthy, poor whore? “That is nice.”
“Aren’t you jealous?” he teased. His finger tapped against her abdomen. “If that womb of yours produced me a son, you could be made into a wife too. But you deny me that, woman.”
Sonya swallowed. He knew. Somehow he knew she was barren. And now this. And that clerk. And Rotger. Sonya wanted to collapse and cry. But no. She was not just some silly woman who broke under stress. That was not who she was. Three new enemies? No problem. She would commission three new deaths, but she had to act soon.
The one thing that remained uncertain was her future. No matter how many foes she eliminated, her belly would never grow fat with a child, and Pacmad seemed hung on the idea of offspring. After a year of careful work, she still did not own him. Just an hour ago, she had marveled at her great progress, feeling her mission accomplished. Now, all of a sudden, she was not so sure. The Kataji was being resilient, and she had to admit some deep, dark respect for his intelligence and cunning.
How could she gain trust with him? Maybe it was impossible. Just as she could never be a mother, maybe breaking this blue-eyed nomad was just impossible. But Countess Sonya, soon to be the queen of Eracia, would
never admit defeat. Besides, turning away from a lost cause was not defeat. That was simple wisdom. She might invest her whole life trying to win this man over, and what would that give her? She could become his bed plaything? Make his meals in a stinking tent in a foreign land? No. She was destined to rule Eracia, alongside Bart.
That reminded her she was due for another visit to the guilds to inspect their preparations. Yes, that was what she had to do. That was where she should focus her efforts. All she had to do was survive at the court and wait for her husband to liberate Somar. She almost had complete freedom of the palace, she had servants, and she did not mind the time she had to spend with the Kataji. There were worse ways to number her days in captivity.
Pacmad’s trust would have been a nice achievement, but being a queen topped that. Screw him and his clan.
She offered him her most sincere face. “Just a little.” No coyness, no whorishness there. She was being honest, really.
The chieftain retrieved his hand and picked up the blade. “I have some news for you.”
The sudden change of topic startled her. “Oh?”
Pacmad sheathed the blade in his belt. “I received several reports from the north. The Namsue are being engaged heavily just days away from Somar. There’s this northern force fighting them. You will read the reports and tell me if there’s anyone in that lot who might be persuaded to watch the killing from the sidelines or even join my side. Like that Rotger fellow.”
“Yes, I will do that,” she agreed.
He slid the chair back and rose. “Your letters did not seem to have made any difference,” he chided in a calm voice. “On the contrary, the Eracians all seem united in their effort to crush me. So, either they ignored you or you made the wrong impression.”
She did not need him to be explicit about his threat. She swallowed. On top of everything, now this, fresh mistrust from Pacmad.
“They did not ignore or misinterpret my letters.” She hated sounding defensive. It only made her sound more guilty.
The Kataji tapped the side of his neck. “I am going to see Aileen now,” he told her, and he never told her where he went. “In the evening, you will show me your fresh batch of letters, and they will be convincing and sincere. Your countrymen had better listen this time.”
The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3) Page 48