The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3) (36 page)

“There you go, gents. Left, that’s the mayor’s house. Right, that’s his inn. His Highness is there.”

Lucas led the way, and Jarman followed. Some of the soldiers in the square spared them an odd glance.

“Well defended,” the older wizard noted. His eyes flicked toward a crossbowman sitting on the roof of the house across. There was another lounging in front of a tailor’s shop. Yet another stood to some attention not far away. Jarman counted. At least ten bows were in plain sight. Still more soldiers moved about, armed with wicked-looking spears or pikes. Not bad.

They were stopped for the third time before the inn’s entrance. “Where to, chaps?”

Lucas presented the documents again, this time to an older sergeant. He inspected the letter, then nodded at a courier behind him, who slipped through the lead glass–paned door, each panel a different color. The sergeant waited a few moments, then nodded.

The two guards at the entrance moved, uncrossed their weapons, and let them enter.

The place was busy, servants and clerks coming and going, jostling. The common room had every table besieged by men with papers and maps and heavy ledgers, talking rapidly. After several more quick inspections, Jarman and his life slave were led to the back of the inn and into the garden outside, on the other side of the building.

The garden had vegetables and vines growing around its perimeter, clambering up a latticework of wooden sticks, creating an illusion of privacy. The garden was well- hemmed in by nearby houses, but as far as luxury went in Ecol, it was fairly decent and open. There were more soldiers on the rooftops of the surrounding buildings. They could hear horses neighing in a stable beyond somewhere.

Jarman stared at the knot of important people seated behind a long dining table. It was covered in tablecloths of all colors, weighed down with pitchers of ale and wooden platters of half-eaten food. Too many cups. A lone sword rested between the dishes, longer than the table was wide and sticking out.

A fully armored soldier put a firm hand on Lucas’s chest. “You wait here.” One of his comrades walked into the garden.

Almost at once, all of the faces looked up at the newcomers. Jarman studied them. It was hard to single out the emperor.
They all dressed the same, more or less, rich doublets, ever so slightly dirty with use.

“Bring them over,” someone ordered.

Lucas looked at Jarman. “You do the talking.”

“Sirtai delegates. We have been expecting you. This is a rare pleasure,” a young man spoke, standing behind the table, shoulder to shoulder with several others. He looked charming enough, with a confident glint in his eye.

“Jarman Wan’der Markssin, of Tuba Tuba,” he introduced himself. Then, almost casually, he pointed behind him. “My slave, Lucas.” Just as they had practiced.

“To what do we owe this honor?” asked another young man, his lips pressed around a cigarette.

The one from earlier brushed his hair back. “I’m Emperor James. What brings you here?”

Jarman took a deep breath. What would be the easiest way to convince this man? Stark truth seemed like the best option.

“We are here to offer our services. We want to be your advisers in matters of war. We have a keen interest in your campaign, and we would like to provide assistance.”

As they had expected, the statement met with slight shock.

“Well, we did have a word from Guild Master Sebastian informing us of two unusual guests he received at the mansion. Experience tells us the Sirtai should be treated with honor. But I do not see how my war in Athesia affects your politics in any way. You have not concerned yourselves with this realm before. Besides, my campaign is going well.”

“We offer magical assistance,” Jarman said carefully.

There was a long stretch of silence. To their credit, the armed men and the assembled staff did not rush to draw their weapons. There was a certain stiffening of muscles, a breath
of hot tension whispering across the garden, but no one did anything foolish.

“Magic?” the emperor repeated. Jarman saw his face twitch with strange emotion.

“Yes, we are both wizards. Anada wizards,” he explained.

The one with the cigarette pointed meaningfully. “I told you about it.”

Another one, his face burdened with a heavy blink, did not seem convinced. “Want me to get rid of them, sir?”

James made a quick warding gesture with his hand. “No! Everybody stay calm.”

“I don’t fucking believe you,” the man with the blink growled at the two of them.

Lucas coughed. Jarman nodded. His slave extended his hand slowly, so as not to alarm the crossbowmen on the rooftops, and wagged his fingers in the direction of the skeptic. His face contorted, first with surprise, then with shame, then with loathing.

“Do you believe us now?” It was a simpler demonstration than the one in Pain Daye. Less painful.

“What’s happened? What’s that smell?” an officer protested, wrinkling his nose.

The one with the blink detached himself from the lot and walked over, the distinctive odor following him. “I’m gonna fucking kill you,” he whispered at Lucas, but his hands remained at his sides, and he stormed off.

“You did that?” an old man asked.

Jarman shrugged. “Some people find it hard to accept our claim.”

The old man pursed his lips knowingly. “So you plan on making the Parusites all shit themselves?”

“Can we make this meeting a little more private?”

Emperor James was wearing a somber face now. “No. Speak your mind. You may have magic. And you know all too well the people of the realms do not like magic. What do you want exactly?”

Too many people were going to hear this, and he did not like that. Jarman wished he could talk to the emperor privately and explain things to him. “Your quarrel is not with the Parusites. You must focus on making peace.”

James snorted lightly. “I am making peace.”

“The nations of the realms must all unite. Against a bigger, common threat.”

“Which one would that be?”

Jarman did not want to sound dramatic, and he hated himself when he said, “The White Witch of Naum.”

No one reacted. The name, the title just passed over them. Jarman looked hard at the emperor. He was trying the best of the ten years of diplomacy and history he had studied, bolstered with the seasoning of real-life experience he had gained in the past few months.

“Within months or maybe days, a huge army, the likes of which the realms have never seen, will descend on this land from the north, led by the most ruthless leader you can possibly imagine. He comes to destroy everything and kill everyone. He must be stopped.”

“North? North where?” The man with the cigarette again, his face locked with a curious expression, but Jarman was too focused on the emperor to give it any great thought.

“There isn’t anything north of the realms. Everyone knows that,” one of the officers grumbled.

A lukewarm wind of frustration slapped him in the face. Jarman knew he should not have expected more from a people that tried their best to forget their past. An age of ignorance,
and now they had to take his word for it, believe in monsters they had not even heard of in their bedtime stories.

But Jarman saw a seed of doubt in the emperor’s face.

Just what he had hoped for.

If there were anyone who might believe his farfetched story, it was the son of Adam, the son of a man who had fought against the Feorans, against Damian’s forces. He would understand.

At least, that was what he had seen in his dreams.

There had been the girl, too, but she had died in the war.

How much does he know?
Jarman wondered.
How much does he suspect, does he guess? Has he ever seen magic? Does he know anything about his father’s wars? Does he know anything about the gods?

A terrible risk, but Jarman had to take it.

Few people in the realms had taken the wondrous tale of Emperor Adam’s quick victory against the Parusites with any credibility. They had all dismissed the horrendous death tally as a glorified story, a bard’s embellishment, a silly tale retold by drunken soldiers. No one had believed the account, even from those who had sworn to have watched from Roalas’s battlements as their ruler fired a magical weapon into the rows of enemy cavalry, decimating them in seconds.

Most of the Sirtai had dismissed the story, too; they did not care about the continental people.

But Armin Wan’der Markssin never had. Nor had his son.

“What do you want in return?” the emperor asked, ignoring geography.

“Nothing,” Jarman said, trying not to feel exasperation. “Saving the world is enough.”

“And you wish to be my assistants?” James emphasized.

Jarman looked at the soldiers around him, all eyes boring into him. “We want to help you make the right decisions for
the sake of your nation. We want you to prepare for the war against the White Witch and lay aside your other feuds and ambitions.”

The emperor picked up a cup and drained it in one go. “That’s a very bold claim. You are surely asking for a lot. You are strangers. I have never seen you in my life. I do not know what you really seek. And now, all of a sudden, I should follow you blindly?” But if he were arguing against Jarman’s request, he did not sound too convinced. A sort of inner conflict was raging inside him.

“You should accept their offer,” the man with the cigarette said.

“With all due respect, sir, this is a mistake. They could be spies,” an officer interjected.

“Our first objective is to free Athesia,” another man in uniform insisted.

“You think a spy would go around with a head like that?” The man with the cigarette pointed at Lucas.

“Enough,” James snapped. “I do not know what you really are. But sometimes, brave decisions are needed, even if they may seem unwise or unpopular. I would be a fool to reject a Sirtai offer.” He flicked his fingers. “Get these men refreshments. You want drinks?”

Jarman raised a hand in polite refusal. “Perhaps later.”

“You are welcome to stay,” the emperor conceded, trying to sound graceful, trying to keep that worried, excited edge from his tone. “However, the objectives of my campaign remain. I will gladly hear you out and weigh all your proposals. However, unauthorized use of magic will not be tolerated.”

He knows something
, the wizard thought.
And that is good
.

“That sounds reasonable,” Jarman agreed. Most of the audience was not pleased, he noticed. The superstitious aversion
the continental people had for magic was only expected. He had never believed he would convince them all, let alone make them trust him in the first meeting.

But Lucas did not need to kill anyone for them to start listening. A good start
.

A partition of a wooden wall behind James slid sideways. A short man stepped over a bank of small red tomatoes and said something to one of the officers in the emperor’s retinue. Jarman stared beyond the garden enclosure. An entire squad of soldiers was standing there, weapons drawn, lurking, waiting.

They must have cleared a section of the nearby stall that leads to the street so the emperor can escape if necessary
, Jarman mused. Perhaps these people were not that dumb after all.

There was more to discuss, but the moment had passed, and Jarman did not want to press. “We thank you for your hospitality. It would be prudent if we met again tomorrow, in a more
private
manner.”

Emperor James gave a quick, curt nod. “That could be arranged.”

Jarman flexed his fingers. No handshakes at this point, he realized. “We will retreat now. Thank you, Your Highness.”

And they stepped out of the inn, leaving the stunned audience to discuss the sudden arrival of two Sirtai magic wielders in hushed voices.

“Well done,” Lucas said. “You bore well.”

Jarman felt a touch of pride. “Thank you, Lucas.”

Although the meeting was over, his friend still wore a grim expression on his face. “This is only the first step. We must be ready for anything. They will try to lie, delay, evade answers, manipulate every situation to their benefit. It is imperative that we make them understand the enormity of the situation.”

Jarman sighed. “All right.”

“And I noticed that man with the cigarette is—” Lucas began, but then stopped.

Armin’s son frowned. It wasn’t customary for Lucas to be easily distracted by anything. But now he was. His blue-tattooed head inclined to the left side, he was staring across the square at a seemingly nondescript clerk in a gray robe. But there was no mistaking those features.

A half Sirtai. One of them.

Lucas did not look away. “He has magic. Not much, but enough.”

Jarman replayed the entire meeting with the emperor in his head. Suddenly, the furtive glances, the confused frowns, the ripples of doubt across the emperor’s face made so much more sense. His easygoing manner when magic was mentioned. Not indecision or lack of knowledge. On the contrary.

“We made a wise decision,” Jarman growled.

Lucas was still staring. “Yes, we did. Emperor James might need no convincing after all.”

Jarman wanted to approach the clerk, but he refrained from doing so. He wanted to know more first. Still, one thing was certain. Adam’s son had been exposed to magic before and used it to his needs and advantage. And that meant the war against the White Witch may already have begun.