“Where to?” a bucktoothed guard asked them, spitting a blob on Ewan’s shirt.
“I’m Councillor Doris of Monard in Caytor. I demand to see the commander of this town,” Doris answered.
Ewan swallowed. He was ready for a fight if need be, but he did not relish killing people. However, the bored man just nodded and sent one of his pals into the building. Some time later, the soldier returned and gestured for them to enter. Constance reached a cold, small hand toward Ewan, seeking reassurance. Her fingers brushed against his skin, but he kept his grip slack.
In the large waiting room, a small army of clerks was busy fending off a horde of townsfolk. People were claiming stolen property and lost trade to the pirate raids. Others were complaining about their suspicious neighbors. A merchant was protesting the rise in the price of wheat. One of the petitioners demanded compensation for a handful of pigs roasted in a banquet last week. Another man ceremoniously called for a brank for his mistress, making most of the men burst into laughter. He was kicked out by a couple of none-too-amused guards.
The three of them were led past the commotion, into a smaller room, then another room, and finally into the office of the Naro provost, an older man with an amputated leg, dismissed from the field of battle but still useful in administrative affairs. He was some lowly Parusite noble, it seemed. He proudly displayed his coat of arms on the wall behind him.
“What do you want? You’re the Caytorean councillor?” he asked, looking at Ewan skeptically.
“I am the councillor,” Doris said. “Doris of Monard. Greetings, sir.”
“A woman?” he exclaimed loudly, surprised. “And who are you?”
“He’s my cousin. Lord Ewan of Monard,” she said smoothly. “And his sister.”
The nobleman tried rising from the chair, but found the effort too difficult. He sat back, grimacing. The sweet smell of musty elderly decay persisted. “You don’t look too noble to me.”
Doris reached into her dress and gently placed her ring on the table in front of the man. He scowled and stared at the little piece of gold as it were an insect, wondering if he should crush it. The provost looked quite annoyed.
“So what do you want?”
The councillor bit her lip and told her story. She kept it impartial, impersonal. Ewan watched her with admiration and slight trepidation. He had no idea how this meeting was going to end.
“Noted,” the man said impatiently when she finished. He did not seem moved.
“I want my babies back,” Doris burst suddenly, losing her composure. Her lips quivered. Ewan laid a hand on her back, supporting her gently. “Find who took them and bring them back.”
“Look here, lady. We’ll do what we can. I assure you we’ll have a word with your High Council. The matter will be settled in due course. Now, excuse me. I’m too busy.”
“What is your name, sir?” Ewan asked, breaking his silence.
The provost frowned. “Baronet Slava, sir.”
Ewan nodded. “Will you risk war with Caytor, Baronet?” he said dramatically.
“No, Ewan, please,” Doris sobbed. Ewan rolled his thoughts for a moment and then deflated.
But the nobleman seemed to have taken his hint seriously. He stared intently at the two of them, then puffed. “All right. So be it, young man. I shall send a formal letter to His Highness King Sergei. You shall also be granted with a military escort and protection on your journey.”
Deep inside, Ewan cursed slightly, mostly his own rashness. This was exactly what he did not want. Another detour, another delay, another complication. He’d had enough trouble pretending he was normal before the two women. Now he would have to convince a bunch of religious Parusites he was not some kind of demon from the Abyss. But there was no going back. He had dared the old man—and won.
The councillor bit her lip. A flash of hope creased her face. Ewan felt a terrible sadness grip his chest. This woman was betting her sanity against the impossible odds the mighty King of Parus could save her stolen children. But Ewan was not going to dash her mad hope.
The gods would have to wait.
CHAPTER 34
“There’s something different about you,” Nigella I said as James entered her small home.
James preened. “I’m no longer a virgin.”
She frowned. “No, that’s obvious. It’s something else. You’ve changed.”
He nodded once. Yes, he had changed. Every day, the terrible burden of leadership was growing lighter. He was slowly becoming accustomed to the bitter taste of responsibility and power. Lies and deceit were his daily currency. But he had learned how to smile with his mouth only, and he plotted his countermoves carefully. With ample financial help, it was easy buying off your enemies. And those who refused to be bribed simply vanished.
Guild Master Sebastian was his most ardent ally. The man was reformed. Or at least he never showed any hint of being anything less than honest and sincere and devoted to James. His private soldiers patrolled Pain Daye side by side with the local troops, making sure there were no insurrections against the future Athesian emperor. Back home, Sebastian’s ring of spies and assassins was slowly, persistently replacing the fashion of false claims with the political and physical death of his rivals. The number of pretenders had dropped to just three lonely madmen, and with them, a whole class of lackeys and sponsors had vanished, bankrupted, disgraced, outcast, robbed of pride and wealth and any future chance of winning back the trust of the High Council ever again. They had bet their good fortune and luck on the wrong contenders, and lost.
To keep Otis and Melville pacified, James continued lavishing them with favors and lucrative business deals. They were as confused as they were greedy. Their emotional struggle simply delighted him. Each morning dawned as a new challenge to their authority, and yet they kept coming back, contemplating their rebellious protégé, wondering what he really planned. Against their doubts, he flashed the grand promise of incredible wealth and power—they just had to make sure he became the ruler of Athesia. After all, that was what they had wanted all along. He made sure to remind them, just in case they forgot.
Whenever friendly advice failed to achieve its effect, Xavier worked his magic. Denied his former hobbies, he vented all his anger and frustration in being the best, most loyal lapdog any ruler could have. James made sure he knew nothing of what his butcher did.
There was one loose end in his equation, though. Adelbert. He had not spoken to the man since their secret encounter. The half Sirtai had not yet declared his payment. Sometimes, James worried a little what the price might be, but he would sort that out later.
Nigella was watching him intently through her spectacles. “How was your first lovemaking?”
James recalled the wild experience. “Not bad, I guess,” he said, sitting down.
“Do you like this woman?” Nigella pressed.
“Well, I don’t know,” he murmured, thinking. He was not sure how he felt about Rheanna.
They had made love several times since. Whenever he felt angry or depressed after a long day of meetings with machinating bastards, he would seek her out. She was always there, ready, waiting for him, panting softly as he raged on top of her, venting out his frustration and mad lust. He wasn’t quite sure if this was what his friends had teased him about in Windpoint, but his body took over his mind. Yet, there was no intimacy. Or trust. The sex felt like an unspoken duel. And she always won. She always took charge, teaching him new things, even as his muscles responded to ancient instincts grafted in his soul.
Even so, he could not deny the swirling cravings that filled his bones every time he saw Rheanna. Her mature smell lingered on his clothes and sheets, and he refused to let the help change them for days afterward. It incensed him, made him painfully aware of his libido. It made him edgy and yet more focused. Lust led to a quiet wrath, and he found solace in that emotion.
“Is she a lady?” she asked.
“No,” he mumbled, trying to hide the truth. Nige
lla had warned him about highborn women.
“All right, spit.” Nigella broke his chain of thoughts. He spat into her outstretched palm. She rubbed her hands, then licked her palms, thinking. James stared at her partially open mouth, at the big front teeth peeking below her lips. “Too vague. I need your seed,” she said after a while.
There it was. He felt strangely bashful about exposing himself before this woman, and he could not explain why. But the last month of his life had dulled his sense of innocence. After a moment of indecision, he stood up and undid the lacing of his pants.
“Please turn away,” he said.
Nigella chortled, but she obeyed. James stood there stupidly, thinking, wondering. Slowly, his thoughts unraveled, becoming a stream of flickering images. He recalled the first time with Rheanna, how he choked her, how she promised her life to him. Then, he remembered her supple flesh quivering beneath him. He was aroused in an instant.
His panting and the low, throaty moan at the end was the only noise in the cabin. He held the cup before him and filled it with seed. Nigella sat with her back to him, reading a book. It was a surreal moment. His fire exhausted, James felt like an idiot. What was he doing?
“There you go,” he whispered, handing her the cup.
Nigella put the book down, turned, and took the crock. Her cold fingers brushed against his. He shivered. She squinted down at the white fluid, and then in one go, she swallowed it. James gagged involuntarily.
She grimaced. “What’s wrong with you?”
James was wearing a sour expression on his face. “That looks disgusting.”
Nigella snorted. “Don’t be a baby. It’s like warm custard. Now, shut up. Let me focus.”
He sat down and waited. Nigella stared behind him, her eyes glazed.
“Beware the smiling man,” she said at last.
The future emperor was disappointed. That was all? But he said nothing.
They talked a little more about politics. He told her about his latest plans. She was pleased with his progress, but she chided him about not having sex with other women, common women, only common women. She warned him against falling in love. He nodded stupidly, even as he knew his body would not quite heed the warning.
When he told her about having found his partner, a friend, and a butcher, to his dismay, she did not seem quite convinced.
“Have you considered they might be one and the same person?”
He groaned in frustration. “But you told me they should be three different people!”
She shrugged. “Maybe. Who’s your friend?”
Rheanna, he thought, but said nothing. Maybe he was just feeling lonely, too tired from all the manipulations and lies.
“Well, now I’m confused. I don’t know yet,” he lied again.
Nigella snorted, unconvinced. “Right. Don’t be a fool. You must avoid the ladies. They will be the bane of you yet. Stick to whores, rich whores if you want, and wear the frogskins like an armor in battle. Here.” She gave him a handful of thin sheaths.
And that ended their session. He left, wondering about her true powers.
The very next day, he saw the smiling man. It was the smile that saved his life.
The smile itself was nothing special, a thin line, quirked at the ends, simple, affectionate, trusting. Even the man’s eyes were bright and vivid and honest. On any other day, he would have dismissed the nobleman for another sycophant. But he did not know the man, and the smile was the giveaway.
His instincts kicked in, years of fighting and surviving as the deputy bailiff, enhanced by rigorous training by Master Hector and Xavier and his men. He was already turning as the man lunged, drawing a poisoned knife, aiming for his belly. The curved blade dropped from a hidden fold in the sleeve and zipped an inch from his shirt. James sucked in air, flattened his belly, and arched back.
The assassin was surprised by the lightning-quick reaction, and the momentum of his strike upset his balance. He mis-stepped and carried forward, awkwardly exposed to a counterattack. James lashed. There was no time to draw the sword. He punched, his knuckles connecting with the man’s nose. Cartilage crunched like a snail’s shell.
Within seconds, a horde of bodyguards swarmed close. They pushed him away to safety, even as they rained kicks at the intruder. James screamed for them to stop. He wanted the man alive for interrogation.
Xavier arrived half an hour later, back from one of his special missions. He was furious for not having been there to defend his lord, and perhaps even slightly apprehensive of how James might react. But the emperor was too busy thinking about Nigella’s warning. Then he noticed Timothy, watching with a face the color of curdled milk, frozen. James felt no anger toward his squire. He was just a silly, gangly boy, pressed into his service.
The rest of the day flowed away in a rush of colors. James paid little attention to what was happening around him, giddy on adrenaline. It wasn’t the actual encounter that unnerved him. He had seen death many times before. It had to be the foretelling, the simple truth hidden in his seed.
That evening, he made such wild, aggressive love to Rheanna that she yelped in pain and begged him to stop. But he was oblivious to her pleas, ramming into her savagely, groaning like a beast. He bit her neck and shoulders, leaving teeth marks on her soft skin.
The day after, he saw her walking down a corridor, wearing a turtleneck dress that covered the bruises. She smiled weakly at him, but he saw through her mask of adoration and loyalty. He saw the fear below. A small part of him wanted to comfort her, but he knew he must not do that.
He wanted to go visit Nigella again, but business and studies kept him from leaving the estate. Otis pestered him again with the idea of marriage proposals. Melville wanted to talk to him about the brewing war in the south of Caytor. And his tutors wanted him to be the knight of forks and poetry. Whenever he could, he took off into the woods, tracking wild animals, hunting with his bow, setting traps, and teaching his seven hundred protégés about nature and the forest and life’s dangers. But reality kept coming back, a festering little bunion that wouldn’t heal.
At least the boy Timothy had grown accustomed to his odd ways and was no longer embarrassed about his erratic schedule or weird requests. Things were slowly clicking into place, like well-oiled pieces of a giant, whirring machine.
When life gave him no alternative, discussing the war was a healthy distraction from the predictable daily repertoire. On one hand, the pirate invasion was a dangerous threat to the Caytorean rule. But it was also an opportunity to unify the council against the enemy. So far, the official response to the attack was sending letters of protest to the Parusite king while the local nobles and rich men gathered their armies. Master Hector called that “wanking a pumpkin.”
However, wanking or no, the Oth Danesh also threatened to divert the spotlight from his objective. If the merchants were too busy spending money on recruiting mercenaries to fight the pirates, they might not have time to invest in furthering his goal. It could be a major setback to his plans.
After receiving the last conflicting report that placed the Parusite forces in a war of their own against the pirates, he convened a short session with Melville, Sebastian, and Xavier. Councillor Otis was away on some private affair, probably conspiring against him. He kept the rest of the lords and ladies away.
“You can use the invasion as a pretext to consolidate additional allies,” Melville said, a man who saw a business opportunity in everything. “Shurbalen could be their next target. If you lose the city, you’ll lose Curtis and Dwayne. And many other undeclared councillors.”
“I don’t think the High Council will take lightly to a foreigner leading armies of salvation through the realm, even if it’s for a noble cause,” Sebastian disagreed. “I wouldn’t want to see an Eracian youth with thirty thousand soldiers bossing his way around. Especially not when he’s the future Athesian ruler. Do you just want to give him another slice of Caytor?”
James nodded, pleased. Sebasti
an spoke bluntly, freely. Everyone thought the same, but few dared utter the truth. James was grateful for the admission. Yes, he was a foreigner, nursed into a deadly weapon that could swing back and cut the hand that wielded it. It was a precarious relationship, and he had to do his best to maintain the facade of trust. He was still not powerful enough to do whatever he pleased. And he had no intentions of starting a civil war in Caytor.
His Eracian upbringing reverberated in his bones. Yet, strangely, he felt no deep affiliation with his mother’s realm. But he did not feel Athesian, either. If anything, he was a man of the law, a citizen of Windpoint. And yet, every morning, he reminded himself of the truth. He was an outsider, after all. He was a stranger in Caytor, a beast they’d bred for their own goals.
No, he could not march. Not yet. The High Council would have to figure out what it wanted to do on its own. He would not push them into war. They might even decide he was the bigger threat of the two.
He had no ill feelings toward Caytor. In fact, he felt nothing at all. Pain Daye felt like a surreal island of insanity, far away from the real world. But many people who lived at the mansion and the area around remembered the border skirmishes between the two neighboring realms, even before Athesia had existed. Bad blood pumped in the veins of Caytoreans and Eracians. Very little was required to precipitate a national war. What he needed to do is convince everyone that all he cared for was his half sister’s realm, and that he meant to repay their generosity many times over. He still had to convince himself that this was what he really wanted.
Xavier shook his head in disapproval. “You can’t let those pirates roam free.” As the newly appointed army commander, he itched for battle. It would legitimize his status and give him a chance to baptize his troops in real warfare.
“I want to know what’s happening,” James said at last. “Xavier, see to it.” The butcher grunted his approval. “But I don’t want any trouble. Keep it quiet, and no bloodshed, you hear me?”
The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) Page 40