The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3) (27 page)

Well, the generations of Barrins had made fortunes through their evil little schemers. Looking at his dear mother, one would assume she was the most gentle woman in the world, but the kind of poison and black vehemence she had spat in his father’s face…and yet she was so loving and caring for her children. No wonder his father had gone to the grave so early, just to be rid of her.

So what would he do if Sonya showed up? Trade her for a younger version of her?

Bloody Abyss, he did not have an answer for Constance. He was such a coward.

He was saved by the sight of Junner walking toward him. The man did not seem to care about Corporal Lanford or the woman at his side, although he spared her a toothy grin.

“How did you know where I am?” Bart wondered.

“Lord Count, we keep an eye on you,” the mercenary said, tapping the underside of his eye.

Bart frowned, not sure he was comfortable with the notion of unseen Borei following him everywhere, but then, it was better than having Parusites or Eracians doing things behind his back.

“I have information for you, Lord Count,” the Borei said, “about those weasel pelts.”

Bart stepped away from Constance. “This will be just a moment,” he told her.

Junner crab walked a few paces away and sat down on a barrel of pickled cabbages, the one next to it open and reeking. The woman behind the stall gave him a hard stare, but he ignored her. “We have a weasel pelt for you.”

Bart swallowed. There was no going back. “You skinned—”

“No, no, no,” Junner protested. “No. It’s…”—he waved his hand—“a shape of speech!”

“A figure of speech,” Bart corrected him.

Junner arched his brows. “That too. No, we didn’t skin. You didn’t ask for that. You said accidents. Weasels die in accidents. There was an accident. A weasel is dead.”

The count could feel his heart hammering his chest. “Who?”

Junner spat to the side. “The bastard with fingers like a woman.”

Thomas
. Bart flicked a quick look at the cabbage lady, but she was busy selling her wares on the far end of the stall, deftly placing lead weights onto the scales, then removing them quickly before they settled so the customer could not really see the tiny differences in her favor. Maybe half a copper’s worth of stealing for every ten cabbage heads, Bart thought with profound sadness, but everyone dealt in their own league. With him, it would be high treason.

Bart panicked suddenly. “Someone might hear us.”

Junner shrugged dismissively. “No one can hear us, Lord Count. Trust Junner. And if they hear, then Junner takes them back to the riverside and sells them weasel pelts, nice and fresh, with just tiny scars where the spears bit, you see.”

Bart realized he had missed the morning meeting with the war council. It would appear suspicious, but he could not go back now; it would be even worse. No. He had spent the morning buying jewelry for his mistress. He was safe.

For a moment, he considered asking for details, but he knew he was better off not knowing. He wanted to be genuinely curious, and maybe even shocked, when he learned of the demise of one of his rivals.

“Thank you,” he blurted.

Junner shrugged again. “It’s a pleasure working with you, Lord Count.” And with that, the mahout walked away, his eyes darting left and right, searching for any opportunity to buy, sell, or trick.

Bart came back to Constance. She was staring at her new sapphire, admiring the way sunlight reflected off its many facets.

“What’s wrong? You are pale,” she told him.

“Nothing. Just one of Junner’s disgusting little tales.”

“I do not understand why you consort with their kind,” she said, almost reproachfully.

Bart felt his earlier panic subside, and he realized he was shaking with brittle excitement. His mind was scattered now. There was only one thing he could think of. Well, at least Constance would not refuse him that, especially not after he had bought her the necklace.

“Let’s go back to the inn,” he suggested.

CHAPTER 20

“T
here,” Warlord Xavier said, pointing.

James moved the looking-glass tube due north. Yes, he could see them now.

Nothing marked the border where Caytor ended and Athesia began, but the village on the other side of the valley paid taxes to Roalas. Only now, it probably paid to no one. The north of the realm was a lawless country, without emperors and kings, ruled by rebels, brigands, and deserters.

His realm.

“We will attack then,” James concluded simply.

“All of us?” Xavier asked, blinking.

James recalled what his wife had told him. “No. You will lead the charge.”

Commander Nicholas stepped in. “With due honor, sir, we ought to be the first. This is our land.”

The emperor sighed. The last thing he needed was a division among his troops. But it was inevitable. The tension had simmered low at Pain Daye, like banked coals, but now, the gusts of war had flamed it high again.

“Not a good idea,” James disagreed. “We do not know who’s out there. There might be some confusion, and I don’t
want accidents. Athesians stay back for now. You’ll have plenty of chance to fight later.”

“We want to get back at King Sergei,” the legion commander growled.

“Sure, but those are not his troops.” James was weary of arguing. If only he could resolve problems as easily as Rheanna. Perhaps this was all part of it, his political growth. But he also knew he should not be arbitrating the order of battle as if he had to choose which of the children would get the last slice of the cake.

One of Colonel Perry’s scouts trotted over, throwing big clots of earth up. “Sir, we count seven hundreds or so, give or take. Looks like some bandits mixed up with what used to be Athesian forces. They got their uniforms still, but they don’t fly no banners. Can’t tell who they fight for.”

“Themselves,” Master Hector added, eating an egg.

Things had been easier when he had led his green army against the pirates. A simple, unified goal. He had defended Caytor against an invasion. Now, he was going to invade the realm that belonged to him, and he did not quite know what to do.

The one thing he knew about the army camped around the village was that it did not serve King Sergei. Other than that, he could only guess their allegiance. Rebels? But did that mean they fought for their own cause or still followed Empress Amalia? If so, how would they react to the news of her death? How would they react to a stranger, claiming to be her half brother and a legitimate ruler, leading a huge force of Caytoreans? Their land had already been occupied by foreigners; they would not like a fresh host of strangers coming up, taking over.

And what about this so-called free regiment? No, they were nothing but mercenaries, all but in pay. Bandits? Former
criminals? Deserters? He had heard about the Fifth and the Ninth Legions. Twice turned coat, he wasn’t sure he would pardon them, let alone trust them. And yet, he needed as many local troops, as many Athesians, on his side as he could recruit. Otherwise, he would be greeted and cursed as another conqueror.

Sending Commander Nicholas into the fray meant sending comrades against former comrades, and he did not wish to experience any more treason or questionable loyalty than he already faced. What if Nicholas decided to side with the others? He would find himself pitted against a well-equipped legion.
Two legions, in fact
, he realized, now that the troops were split up. He trusted Nicholas somewhat, but the man had lain in wait inside Caytor for months and only moved after Amalia was killed. That spoke of either deep loyalty or deep indecision.

Ah, the burden of leadership.

He could never really be certain. But he could keep everyone busy, too busy to plot or guess his intentions, too busy having to prove their loyalty over and over again. Which made Xavier best suited for this attack. The man was useful, but James wanted to make sure the warlord never got bored until he could dispose of him.

“Do they suspect anything?” James asked.

The scout was sorting out a knot in his reins. “Doubt it, sir. They are not deployed for battle. Just lazing in the camp. Looks like they took the village for their own. It’s a good spot too.”

James agreed. Good vantage point, close to Caytor so they could slip into another realm if pressed, well aware that the Parusite king would probably not dare risk open war by transgressing into foreign territory.

He wished he could send an envoy to meet the other side, but that would spoil his surprise, put the lives of his men at
risk. He did not intend anyone to know he was coming until after he captured Ecol.

“What’s your final decision, sir?” Nicholas insisted.

James nudged his horse off the wooded ridge, toward where his army waited. “Commander Xavier will lead the attack, and that’s my final decision. See to it.”

The legion officers rode away, the short council over. Timothy remained in the saddle by James’s side, along with no less than nineteen armed men, swords drawn and crossbows loaded. James sighed. He wanted to be back at Pain Daye. Things seemed to have worked so much better with his wife around. He ached for her wisdom, for her soft flesh.

The late summer had chosen that day to rain, making the sky bruised, with patches of soft yellow streaming through the tatters in the low, oppressive cloud cover. The land was wet just enough to make footing tricky; the crushed grass stank so much you could feel pain budding above the bridge of your nose. There was a surreal glow in the air, neither dark nor light, something in between.

James surveyed his force. With Councillor Vareck’s troops, he had five legions formed, one made of light troops and skirmishers. And then, there was the massive tail of logistics trailing behind the armed force, wagging, slopping in the mud. The camp stretched for three-quarters of a mile, in three prongs, arranged so that no one side could be attacked without the enemy wedging itself between two flanks of defending forces. The support units had positioned themselves higher up on the slope of the hill, with the trees at their back.

The Athesian refugees shared their place with the smiths and bakers and whores. He had taken along half of them to mollify his wife. But he wasn’t pleased by the burden they imposed. They slowed him down and made his convoys more
vulnerable. Then again, he could not be seen coming back to Athesia without its people. The rest had remained at Pain Daye for now, doubling the local garrison.

Out here, his mind strayed, wondering what his wife was planning next. He believed she was concocting wise, clever decisions, but with her so far away, his belief turned to slight paranoia, and he could not quite disregard the itch of distrust that crept up his back. They had known each other for more than a year now, and he still knew so little of how her mind worked. Women loved mystery, he knew, but it drove him mad.

Xavier took almost an hour readying the attack, and it was early afternoon by then. Lightning flashed in a distant boil of clouds, but no sound drifted over, and soon, they vanished, carried away south. The warlord dispatched a regiment to flank the village camp so no one could escape.

A messenger raised a flag. It was a signal to move out.

James led the horse back up the slope. The fight would take a while, he decided, so he dismounted. Timothy slid off his horse and reached for a folding chair stuffed in his saddlebag. The emperor waved him off. No, not an emperor now. He was an army commander today. Almost.

“I am trying to remember what Master Angus taught me about squires,” he said.

Master Hector was massaging his neck, trying to work out a crinkle. “That they serve?”

James grimaced. “No, it was in one of the books.”

“Blackwood?” the sergeant joked.

“Can’t remember the author. But it says squires used to be shield bearers for knights and lords. The Parusites still practice that honor, I think. They got squires even for their dukes and the king. But that’s not right here.”

The old man wrinkled his mouth. “I don’t give a shit about tradition.”

James nodded. If he were going to change things, he should start doing it the right way. The notion of noble retainers in Caytor no longer signified class; it signified wealth and status. If you had enough money, you could have any number of squires. But that would not work in Athesia. He could not afford to look like a pompous councillor to his people.

“Timothy, you’re no longer my squire,” he told the boy. The stunned expression almost made him laugh. “You are now officially my imperial aide. That means you’re a lieutenant, too.”

The boy was silent for a moment. Then, he grinned widely, a rare expression. “Thank you, sir!”

James turned. There was a clerk there; there always was one. “Make note of that.” Timothy’s duties would not change much, but his status would. And that was what mattered.

Half an hour later, the outer sides of James’s soles hurt, but he refused to sit down. He watched the army take position for the attack. Warlord Xavier lowered his visor, saluted with his sword, and cantered to the first line, ready for the charge.

A horn sounded, and their peaceful valley exploded in cries and shouts. The cavalry formed into a huge wedge, cantering toward the enemy. The infantry followed in a relentless march, walking to the beat of drums.