The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3) (20 page)

Thomas was still a bachelor, so all his cares came to his looks and reputation. The drunkard Daryl’s assets were also out of harm’s way, to the north and west of Barrin, and he was the one man who wanted to see the Kataji and the other tribes sent back beyond Vergil’s Conquest, if only he could bring himself to be sober enough to think about it. Straightforward and useless, he was Bart’s best ally in this sorry assembly.

He could not even sway them with the notion of love. Or pride.

There was only greed left. The fear of losing all their lands, all their money. But few of them had any real money. Most of them had squandered their assets supporting Leopold’s failing ideas over the years. Margrave Philip would still have had some gold, but the man was most likely dead. The sad truth was, Bart was probably the richest man in Eracia. He did not mind investing his wealth in the defense of his realm. All that money had been earned by Sonya anyway. It meant so very little to him.

How do you sway selfish, cowardly, loveless men and women, without scruples, to dedicate their lives to a cause that gains them nothing? How do you convince them to put aside their rivalry, their ambitions, to see the good of the realm before greed? How do you fuel that greed to your own advantage?

What could he tell them that might change their minds? Rally them behind him? Make them see their own fights were unimportant? Make them forget about class and titles?

He did not have an answer.

An Athesian servant wearing Eracian livery poured drinks into goblets. Another farce. The Parusite king had loaned a scattering of commoners to attend to these fools and maybe listen to what they had to say. Which was why Bart kept his mouth shut most of the time.

“You are right,” Vincent spoke, as he did every time. “We cannot afford that.”

“Who will go?” Silvia intoned, touching a long finger to her teeth.

Daryl stirred from his sleep. “What?”

“Are we agreed then?” Norris probed, trying to sound authoritative.

“A delegate, who shall return and inform us what the situation in southern Eracia is,” Derrick piped in, outlining how much voluntary risk he was willing to really take for his country.

Margrave Sydney fixed his eyes on Bart. “What about you, Bartholomew? You haven’t said a thing the whole morning.”

Bart propped himself up in the chair. “I have nothing to add.”

“Will you go to Eracia?” the margrave pressed.

Bart rubbed his beard.
Will I go?
“Only if I get the full authority to mobilize troops and use them as I see fit. In the
defense of the realm.” The same boring ritual every morning, perhaps phrased a little differently.

The margrave cracked a practiced smile, as insincere as possible. “Now, that would be unwise.”

“We do not know how the fall of Somar came about. It is possible that local troops assisted the nomads in the assault. We cannot trust the army just yet. We need more information,” Count Derrick lectured, a man who was almost too fat to ride a horse.

Bart could not stand the drivel anymore. He rose and bowed lightly. “If you will excuse me.” And without waiting for them to excuse him, he left the chamber.

Captain Paul was waiting for him outside, sitting in a chair, staring at nothing. As the count came out, he rose, straightening the crinkles in his uniform. It was well aged now and with wine stains.

“Any luck, sir?” the man asked with real sympathy.

Bart grimaced. “Not quite. Let’s go.” They headed for the manse gates. Bart did not enjoy the glares the Parusite guards, stationed everywhere, gave him. The women, the Red Caps, glowered the most.

“Tell me one thing, Paul. Do you have a family?”

“Yes, sir, a wife and a young boy. Thank you for asking.”

Bart stopped, looking at the officer. “Where are they now?”

Paul bunched one of his fists. “With me ma, living at our ranch now that I’m gone here.”

Bart nodded and resumed walking. Strange, how he had never bothered asking the little questions, never considered the lives of the people on whose goodwill and loyalty his own existence depended. Well, you learned from your mistakes, and you did your best to amend them. There was no point scratching the scabs of old bitterness.

“Do you worry about them?”

Paul sighed. “Yes, sir. Haven’t heard from them in more than a year now. But that’s military life.”

“What would you do in my stead?” Bart pressed.

The captain looked only slightly uncomfortable; they had shared a lot together since leaving Eracia, and the barrier between them was growing thinner every day. “I’d go back home and fuck those nomads bloody, sir. But I know you’re doing your best, sir.”

Bart felt his despair being replaced by fury, impotent fury. “How can people not care about their families, Paul? It’s not right.”

Paul made a poker face. “Can’t say how you—I mean rich people—think, sir. But the way we common people look at it, looks like children squabbling over honey, sir. No disrespect meant.”

“They only see themselves rising to the top of society, becoming the next duke or duchess. They don’t really worry about the thousands slaving under the yoke of the nomads. They don’t care about the damage. They think things will sort themselves out around them.”

“Well, sir, that’s how it’s been always. Can’t expect them to change their minds just so.”

Bart huffed. He had been one of them until a year ago.
I did change, though
.

They left the manse. Half a dozen sentries, armed with long spears, watched them go. The square in front of the palace was busy, merchants, petitioners, officers arguing with their soldiers, men and women alike, gawkers who had nothing better to do.

A man with shoulders as wide as a door was chiseling the features of King Sergei into a slab of granite, a new monument
that would remind the citizens of Roalas who their ruler was. Several apprentices and journeymen were running about with tools and large brushes, cleaning up after their master. Any remnants of Emperor Adam’s legacy had been torn down, hidden away. Every building in sight had long streamers hanging from rooftops, displaying Parusite colors. One of the houses was being renovated, its front covered in scaffolding. There was going to be a temple there, Bart knew. A small price to pay, given the peace and order the king had brought with him. Commerce continued, the roads were safe, and the social structure of Roalas remained virtually unchanged; a token service of faith seemed only appropriate.

Bart headed for the Street of Lights, ignoring the bustle, when he saw a thick procession arriving from the nearby Victory Boulevard. Men riding olifaunts. Bart recognized the golden smile of the front mahout. It was Captain Speinbate.

The Eracian rich and posh scurried away from the big gray animals. The throng of buyers and ladies enjoying the sun rushed into small alleys and into shops, away from the monstrous beasts. When you spotted one at a distance, you could not really guess the sheer size of them. But when they lumbered through the streets, passed trees or horses, you got the right idea and felt the need to step aside. Their bulk amazed you every time.

The mercenary was back from scouring the countryside, where he hunted for irregularities, Bart knew, in the form of dodged taxes, fickle loyalties, and treason. King Sergei had even kept his promise to the Borei and granted him a meaningless title, but should he ever decide to settle in Parus, he would be one of the king’s lords. Even the Borei captain was better off than him.

Which reminded him…

“Come with me, Paul.” And he headed away from the White Swan, toward the lower parts of the city.

He found Junner at the West Gate, as he had hoped. The mercenary beamed as if he had seen his long-lost brother return home.

“Lord Count! What a surprise!”

Bart saw the mahout was trying to convince a girl too young for anything other than innocent childhood to come with him. She did not seem to understand much of what he was implying, but she was staring at the silver in his open palm.

“Let the girl be,” the count said. Junner straightened up. The child scampered away.

“Lord Count, you are hurting my business,” the Borei said playfully.

Bart saw a Red Cap woman saunter their way. Not walking directly toward them, no. She was probably in the City Watch, doing her routine patrol of the gates.

“Let’s go out there.” Bart pointed toward the muddy riverbank and fishing wharves. “How would you like to improve your business?”

Junner sat himself on a piece of rock, a siege leftover, and stared at the barefoot women hauling baskets of crabs around.

A barge loaded with timber was gliding lazily from the north, coming round the corner, tiny waves rippling off to the sides. People started yelling at the boat’s pilot, as he was steering too wide. The vessel started drifting into the rushes on the far side. Screeching birds exploded in flight, protesting their treatment.

“What do you have in mind, Lord Count?” Junner asked, his face turning serious.

Bart licked the inside of his lips. He let his mind rethink its decision, looking for any alternative, any other option that might stop him from making a business deal with the mercenary. He did not like the idea, but there was nothing else he could think of.

“You are awfully silent, Lord Count. Junner might think this is dangerous,” the mercenary teased.

Bart looked at Paul. The captain nodded. There was no need saying it. Loyalty, earned through simple respect.

“First of all, Junner, I need your promise you will keep quiet,” Bart began, his heart hammering. What he was doing might be considered treason. But how could it be treason if he did it in the name of his country?

“Lord Count, you insult me. I can keep secrets so dark I wouldn’t tell them to myself.”

“This is no joke, friend,” Bart insisted.

Junner sobered completely. “I swear it. On my dead mother’s soul.”

Bart knelt by the Borei, staring at him. “I need some people removed.”

The mercenary tapped his chest. “Dead?”

Bart hesitated for a moment. Then he nodded. “Dead.”

CHAPTER 15

A
malia was going home.

Well, not really home, but back to her realm. She had only been to the north a few times in her life, accompanying Father on his tours, when he wanted and needed to show the locals that he really preferred peaceful solutions to their quarrels.

The column was slowly rumbling away from Pain Daye, following the turns and bumps of the Northern Road. They should turn west soon and strike for Athesia, she knew.

It was midday, warm but not too hot, with the sky deep blue and dappled in clouds. There was a fine cover of dust billowing from the thousands of hooves and feet smacking the hard-packed earth and the odd cobble still remaining. Three legions moved to the front; the fourth trailed far behind, after the straggling bulk of refugees. Moving them was a cruel business, but it had to be done. Even she would have done the same.

Both Agatha and she were privileged to travel with the soldiers. They could rely on good food and protection, day and night. Amalia could only imagine what happened half a mile down the road.

Their cart plodded on stubbornly, its one ox moving the cargo inexorably closer to the border, the hunched driver too busy watching the land around him to pester the two girls in the back. Behind them followed his son, his wagon carrying a fletcher, a bowyer, and a boy with a pretty voice who sang all kinds of army songs. Wire cages stuffed with geese banged against the wagon side with the uneven roll of the rear right wheel, and each time, the birds complained, honking mournfully. To their left, a robed, barefoot man walked, seemingly unconcerned by the thorny bushes and cracked stones. Whoever he was, he kept a decent pace with the animals.

One of Pete’s soldiers cantered by, riding in the opposite direction, his crossbow resting against the pommel. He nodded at the two of them, then vanished from sight, obscured by dust and the hulking wooden bones of carts.

“He likes you,” Agatha chirped.

“Another one?” Amalia said, feeling exasperated. Trying to stay invisible was becoming more difficult.

Just a month ago, she had wondered why her half brother was lingering at the mansion, why he did not move. Now, she was regretting her silent wish. The travel conditions were far from gentle, and she was hardly used to the harshness of the road. With this new strange experience came all the fresh dangers of blundering and exposing herself.

Well, she was going back to Athesia, and that meant something. She could perhaps start formulating her plan to get control back in her hands. But it also meant more familiar faces and a much higher chance of being spotted, recognized, betrayed. Even by accident.

They were coming upon a village, one of dozens they had passed in the last weeks, a dot on some rich councillor’s map, a
dot that produced milk or cotton, or provided herbs and turnips or maybe tools.

People, a sorry lot of them, stood at the entrance to their tiny world and waved. Everyone was there, men, women, children, the elderly, dogs, sheep, a lone mule. One of the soldiers detached from the convoy and handed over two baskets to the village head. Whatever was inside struck a chord, because the villagers blessed the soldier as he rode back into the main body.