The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3) (16 page)

There was one thing, and that was draw attention to himself, but he did not want that. He did not understand this civilization; he knew nothing of their customs. He wanted to be sure he didn’t have to kill anyone for information.

People jostled into him, elbowed him, even tried to push him intentionally, because he was small and innocent looking, and he stood in the middle of a busy unloading area,
interfering. Ewan hardly paid any attention. He scanned the docks. They were tiny compared to Eybalen, but twice as busy and ten times as crowded.

Where should he look for Toraan? Inspect every ship? Perhaps the scout had not yet returned from the realms. Perhaps the man was on a ship sailing back home. Or dead?

A babble of cries erupted to the left of him. Aboard one of the ships, he turned and saw a man crack his whip in the air. He was growling and shouting. Then, with tiny heads just peeking above the handrail, he saw children totter out of the belly of the ship, frightened, starved, filthy. On the docks, near the gangplanks, several men waited, with small carts and open cages loaded in the back.

The children could have come from anywhere, Ewan realized. Maybe even Caytor. His anger flared up as he remembered Doris’s babies, his promise. He started moving toward the ship.

What could he do? Free those children? And then what? Who would feed them and clothe them and protect them? He did not have time to take care of them personally. He could not afford it. He must have his answers. And after meddling in the affairs of the gods for so long now, he did not believe his future would be any brighter or less dangerous.

The men on the docks looked like foreigners. One had the features and dress of a Borei. Another could have belonged in Eybalen. Merchants, waiting to buy their stock.

Ewan took a spot nearby. They frowned at him.

The first of the slaves stepped off the gangplank, terrified, dazed. The Borei shouted something. A price? The man with the whip nodded. The first child went over into a cage. Ewan felt cold black fury rising, threatening to smother his senses. If he lost control, he did not know what he might do. He could
not watch this without interfering. But he must not draw attention to himself either.
What would Ayrton do?

He made a choice.

There was a metallic screech, sharp, painful, as his hand closed on the bars of a cart cage and warped them as one might mangle grass stalks. Rivets popped; the wooden boards tore. Everyone within hearing distance turned. The human buzz stopped. The man with the whip, the slave buyers, all the other tough, evil-looking sailors were staring at the unassuming boy from the realms, holding a knot of twisted iron in his slim hand.

“I do not know where those children came from, but they will be going back,” he said.

More silence. It stretched for a while. Then, someone decided to be brave. With a heroic roar, one of the sailors swung his bent sword and rammed it in Ewan’s shoulder. The blade should have cut cleanly through flesh and bone. Instead, it snapped. Wailing with pain from the rebound, the sailor collapsed, gripping his hand. A ripple of curses exploded across the docks.

Well, he had their attention now, exactly what he had tried to avoid. “Anyone knows Underlord Calad? Toraan?”

No one answered. The crowd watched, transfixed, terrified.

“Who are you?” someone asked.

“I am the landman who defeated Underlord Calad’s champion in a game of Sleeper. Let it be known.” He didn’t want this. He did not want this. But the children, he could not let them be sold to slavery. He had to stop it.

A few people detached from the crowd. Good. He waited. They waited. There was nothing else they could do. The only sounds were the sloshing of the sea against the wooden hulls, and the thin whimpering of a sailor nursing his wrist.

Soon, there was some pushing, a space opening in the thick, sweaty crowd. Noise. Curses. You didn’t have to speak the language to pick them out. An older man forced his way into Ewan’s view. He was decidedly fat, with gray hair knotted in a long braid that hung to his knees. His skin shone as if oiled. Not a sailor, it seemed, but his meaty arms were lined with white scars.

“Where do you want to take these children?” he asked abruptly.

Ewan had expected some kind of an introduction. “Home. To their mothers and fathers.”

The fat man smiled. “But what if they do not have parents anymore? Where do they go?”

With the shock wearing off, one of the children started to cry. Other children started to fidget. The sailor with the whip looked toward the fat man uncertainly, his eyes pleading. There was a definite murmur in the crowd now. He could hear the Oth Danesh stirring. Matters were slipping out of control.

The fat man raised his arms and waved them in a quick motion. The crowd silenced in one breath, all of them instantly, sailors and grubby slave children, the disgruntled merchants, even the wounded attacker. Ewan felt the fine hairs on his nape tingle. He immediately understood what had just happened.

Magic.

Ewan felt hot panic begin to distract him. This reprieve was temporary. He could not afford to lose the initiative.

“So they are orphaned? Their parents were killed?” he insisted.

The fat man shrugged. “Sailors don’t ask. They have been doing this for generations. It’s their way. It’s their life. You want to change their lives? You will decide the fate of thousands on a whim?”

“This is wrong,” Ewan growled.

“What is, landman?”

“You cannot make children into slaves!”

That smile again. “Look around you. See that sailor with hair like Parusite wheat? See that one with eyes blue like the sea? There, red hair. A man dredging on a ship with that freckled, pasty skin, he gets sunburned all the time. But he is a son of the Oth Danesh. He was born somewhere else, but his life, his family are here.”

Ewan did not like this fat man. Most of all, Ewan did not like the cruel truth of his words.

And there was magic, too.

The Oth Danesh gestured and started walking. The crowd parted. Ewan followed, reluctantly leaving the docks behind him. There was a crushing weight in his chest, the knowledge he was leaving those children to their awful fate, but he knew he must follow this fat man. He knew that there was more at stake than a ship hold of orphans.

I have come to seek answers. No one promised that I would love them
.

The fat man edged lazily, yet with surprising grace, around stacked goods, food stalls, clusters of men standing and arguing. The crowd of onlookers trailed a short while after Ewan, glaring, wondering, but then stopped. Soon, the racket returned, and life resumed.

The stranger introduced himself. “I am Naman. We will not be staying here.”

Ewan stopped walking. “You know Toraan?”

Naman nodded. “Yes. Yes. We have been waiting for you.”

“Where are we going?” Ewan asked. He looked up at the cliff, staring at him with its thousand little black eyes. The dirt lane leading from the docks became a flight of rough steps
carved into the rock, bleached white by the sea. The small dock city ended there, and Cliff City began.

“We will go where you seek answers. And we seek your return.” Naman stood under a short balcony that looked like a blister, masonry draped in bright-colored clothing.

Ewan frowned. “Return? I have never been here.”

“We will talk,” Naman teased.

“Under one condition. I promised to have a pair of stolen children returned to their mother. She is alive, and they are not orphans. This must be done, or I will not come with you.”

Naman put a finger to his lips. “How old?”

“Babies,” Ewan offered.

The fat man moved away, placed a bare foot on a step. “That will be done.”

Ewan had no idea what he was getting into. He could barely understand how this strange place worked, how these Oth Danesh minds worked. He had not expected to see a fat man use magic in public. He had not expected to have to push down his conscience into a dark place. Ayrton would never have given up on those children. And neither would he. But fighting the pirates at the docks would have gained him nothing. Perhaps, if he allowed this magic-wielding Naman to take him somewhere, he might learn about himself, learn about his dreadful powers. There would be time for making good later.

He hoped.

A gull swept above the bulbous rooftops of the chaotic dock area, screeching. Ewan looked up at the hill and its accusing eyes, back to the eroded snarl of sunbaked houses and their strange, colorful occupants, to the docks and the swaying ships. The dynamics of this place unnerved him. After the realms, he could not find peace, could not find the order he expected. Something had changed after he passed those blocks of stone,
lying about deserted in the dusty prairie, and he did not know what.

He hated having that gut feeling again.

The gods must all be dead, he suspected, but it seemed as if the world paid no notice.

I must know who I am
. If the gods had cursed him, he wanted to know why. And why he still lived. What purpose was still left for his monstrous being? He had stopped Damian twice, locked him away in the Abyss for good. But that did not seem to be enough. There was more.

“Lead the way,” he told Naman.

The fat man clapped. “The climb is long. But you do not tire easily, I suspect.”

Ewan said nothing. He felt a flake of urgency stir in his stomach. It was a grain. A tiny, tiny grain.

CHAPTER 12

J
ames soaked in the pool, enjoying the water. The day was exceptionally hot, and he was willing to forgive the little nips the resident fish gave him in return for such a splendid cooling experience.

He was relaxed, totally at ease. He could almost ignore the four statue-like guards standing by the slender columns, and the stone-faced manservant holding towels and waiting for James’s mark to approach. Not a woman in sight. Rheanna would not let him have women servants when he bathed.

He held his breath, tightened his belly muscles, and let out a gentle fart. A solemn bubble floated to the surface. He raked the water, pushing the smell away.

Footsteps. The emperor turned his neck and saw it was his wife approaching, swaying dangerously. She was alone.

James waited until she was a step away. “Hello, dear,” he said lazily.

Elegantly, she touched her knees together and knelt primly, not an inch of her skin showing below and around the hem of her hugging silk dress. It only teased him more.

“Are you comfortable?” she asked.

“Couldn’t be any better,” he said.

“You’ve been in the water for almost three hours,” she reprimanded.

James lifted a foot out of the water and stared at his toes. Wrinkled some, but not much. He still had several more hours of fun left.

“Should I be out of the water?”

Rheanna smirked. “Yes. I want to discuss a few things with you.”

James did not relish the afternoon heat. “Now?”

“Now.” She rose and walked a few paces away. She motioned with her hand, and the bodyguards and the towel bearer moved out of earshot.

The emperor rose, and he almost fell. His head swam; his legs felt rubbery. Gingerly, he stepped out of the pool, dripping water on the marble flagstones.

“Anything serious?” he asked, worried.

Rheanna reached for his robe and handed it to him. “Always, darling. You’re an emperor of a realm. Things are always serious.”

James used the robe to dry himself, then donned it casually. A quick look from his lady wife, and he robed himself fully, tying it in the front so only the bottom half of his legs showed.

“What is it?”

“You should not be strutting barefoot through the mansion,” she said. “The floors are dirty, and there might be bits of glass or metal lying about. And if your enemies learn this, they might start spilling poison in your path.”

James realized she had a point. Every time he felt he was making some progress in becoming that much more of a statesman and a lord of the court, she would gently point out to him a dozen new flaws and omissions he could sort out. Perhaps that was the best way to learn, he mused, in small doses.

“Not your fault entirely,” she added. “I will make sure the help know their ways.” He felt sheepish, and she noticed. “I know you want to be your father’s son, and he was a man of the people. You do win their hearts by your casual manner, but this also means your servants will sometimes forget their station and duty. Could be dangerous for you and them.”

James sighed. “I will think about it. There’s more?”

Rheanna touched his shoulder. “Let us go to our chambers, darling.”

He padded after her, barefoot, soft as a mouse and wet, while she made the sharp clicking noises with the heels of her shoes. His retinue filed behind him silently, following at a safe distance. Various people bobbed their curtsies as he strolled past. If they were amused by his attire, they never showed it.

Inside their fortress of privacy, Rheanna softened her mien a little. “Use the baths next time.”

James let the robe slide off his body. His wife shook her head. He began dressing. Alone. Emperor James did not need anyone to tuck his shirt in.