The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3) (25 page)

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 derision, 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.

When she thought about her predicament, it did not seem so grim anymore. Pacmad was good-looking and ruthless, he was smart, he was rich, and he was the leader of his tribe, the most powerful of all tribes. A fitting husband. If only Bart had one ounce of his strength and courage, her marriage might have been worth investing in.

Pacmad seemed to be on the verge of a decision, she saw, his face twisted with emotion. If he chose not to trust her today, it would be her fault only for not having worked hard enough to make him believe in her. Maybe she needed to be even more willing in bed, offer him new tricks. The one problem with the savage was that he valued sex as a necessity. He didn’t know anything about subtlety.

His hand reached up and squeezed her neck, forefinger and thumb digging just below her ears, on the verge of pain. She did not try to swallow. “If you try to trick me, I will roast you alive.” He pressed a little harder, her ears started buzzing, and she felt a small need to vomit.

“I will not, Master.”

He released. “What do you need in order to talk to these Eracians?”

She took a deep breath. “I will need beautiful dresses, at least two dozen, made from silk and velvet and gold cloth. And I will need lacquer.” She wagged her foot; her toes disgusted her, overgrown with half an inch of nail. “Best if you can provide me with two servant ladies, for my hair and my—”

“I don’t care,” he growled. “You will have those.”

Sonya suppressed a shiver of pure joy.
Another victory
. “Yes, Master.”

“Now you will come with me,” he told her and led her away. She followed, making soft sounds on the flagstones, every once in a while stepping badly on the damaged toe. But that, too, was getting better, like everything else. The pain was lessening.

She had expected him to lead her back to her chamber and fuck her, and was almost disappointed when he took a different turn down the corridors. Sonya followed, intrigued. Well, there would be another time for what she had planned for today. She had this trick with the back of her knee…

Pacmad paused in front of a guest chamber. The whole corridor was lined with them, almost at equal intervals, door paint scratched off in acts of random vandalism by the nomads, the wallpaper rolling off in tiny curls. There were no other tribesmen around now, just her master and she.

The Kataji unlocked the door and entered. Sonya followed, curiosity mixed with fear.

Inside, she found a woman curled on the bed, sobbing. This room looked much like hers, filthy, overused, smelly, sheets yellow with body oils and sweat. And there were bloodstains on the carved bedstead.

The woman raised her face, and it was swollen from beating. Her eyes saw Sonya and flared wide open. “Countess Sonya!” she wailed, trying to disentangle herself from her filthy linen. She rose, came over, hugged her fiercely, almost painfully in a frantic embrace.

Sonya tried to free herself. Pacmad stepped to help her, dragging the woman off by her hair, then pushing her back toward the bed.

“You’ve come to help me, my lady?” the woman wailed.

Sonya was not sure who the captive was, but obviously, she knew her. The countess racked her brain, trying to connect
that face to a memory, but it was hard with livid lumps on her cheeks and around her eyes.

“Who are you?”

“My men brought her from a farm about five days west from here. Thought she might be a nice addition to my collection,” Pacmad spoke in a tone of one burdened with an undesirable task.

Sonya ogled the woman, looking for flaws, imperfections. She was quite a pretty thing, except for the welts on her face.
A possible rival
, her mind whispered.

“She’s a maid still,” the nomad added. “Tried to bed her twice, she screams like a falcon. Can’t stand those shrieks.”

Five days west…the Armain estate? The Colebroms? Duke Norris’s daughter?
Sonya desperately wanted to know. “Who are you, girl?”

The captive whimpered on the bed. “Don’t you remember, my lady? Aileen. We met at the Autumn Festival last year. My father is Margrave Sydney,” she wailed, her cries grating on Sonya’s nerves. “Please help me. Please, please!”

Ah
, Sonya thought. Definitely a rival. A maid, probably ripe, half her age, better looking. She did not like this. Then, she wondered,
Why has Pacmad brought me here? To threaten me?

“What now?” Sonya asked, her question addressed to her master.

Pacmad pointed with his chin. “Make her like me.”

Later, Sonya did not quite remember why she did it, or how she did it, but she approached the girl, sat by her side on the bed, and stroked her hair until her sobbing subsided. Then, she whispered in her ear, and cooed encouragingly, and held her hand when she struggled, and watched Pacmad grunting
on top of her, his pupils dilated with lust. She was a bit jealous, but it couldn’t be helped. She felt strange afterward, empty, worn-out, but she knew she had done a good thing.

Pacmad trusted her a little more because of that, and that was worth it.