The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3) (37 page)

CHAPTER 27

B
art tried not to look smug. But he was feeling very content, at ease.

The death of four members, with Count Derrick and Duke Norris the latest additions to the mysterious bout of accidents afflicting the Eracian nobility in Roalas, had reduced the war council to just a few people.

The room burst with soldiers. No one was taking any chances. Food and drinks were tasted by a hireling, and all of them went about escorted by at least four guards at all times. Even Bart played his part, having his own men in attendance. They did not know much about his plot with Junner, so they bore seriously.
Nothing like honesty to hide a lie
, he thought.

Bart could see deep, stark fear etched in their faces. Countess Silvia was paler than usual, and no amount of makeup could cover the fact she was terrified. Duke Vincent was the stubborn old fool as ever, with a trace of his suicidal character plain to the eye. But even he seemed distressed by the deaths. Bart’s unspoken ally, Daryl the drunkard, managed to look afraid when he was sober enough to figure out the situation. Bart managed to keep a calm face, for everyone’s sake.

However, the room full of soldiers did make him want to laugh. Never mind the fact that all four deaths had happened
far from the council meetings. Perhaps the meeting was the safest place to be right now. Bart never asked Junner how he did his job. He did not want to know.

Farther away from the political scene, a dozen other Eracian dignitaries and merchants had met their deaths, with a little less finesse than the foremost nobles of the realm. Someone had been stabbed in the gut in the street, a case of a mistaken identity. Another was beaten to death over a fictitious gambling debt. And so it went, the list getting longer and Bart’s chances of success getting higher.

He almost had what he dared called a majority in Vincent’s stupid assembly.

If he were supposed to feel remorse for killing these men, he felt none. He felt almost too good. The acts of death actually liberated his soul of the filthy weight that had been dragging after him for the past several months. The sensation of utter helplessness was being replaced with one of hope. Knowing all too well he would be risking his own life trying to rescue Eracia, he felt his sacrifice and emotional burden were fitting.

“We will soon all be killed,” Bart purred in a somber tone.

“This is outrageous. We are being decimated while the Parusite king does nothing!” Vincent hollered, ignoring the fact the men protecting his life in this very room were Sergei’s men. A few somewhat braver dignitaries had taken up arms, but they hardly qualified as bodyguards.

“Then we must do
something
,” the count insisted, all the initiative on his side. “The longer we dally, the more exposed we remain. We are a sitting target here in Roalas, and obviously, someone has an agenda to see the Eracian elite destroyed.”

“Go to back to Eracia?” Silvia said, her voice brittle.

Bart nodded reluctantly. “Perhaps yes. Whoever is organizing these murders, it is obvious they want us to remain here,
indecisive, so they can pick us off one by one. We’re far from home; we have no one we can trust here. We will be much better off in our own country.” But home meant war against the nomads. Bart counted on their cowardice.

Daryl sipped his wine, already quite inebriated, but like all veteran drunks, he seemed to perform slightly better in between sobriety and total drunkenness. It just took him a while before he got there.

Silvia swallowed. “Perhaps.” She turned her eyes toward him, hopeful.

Bart made a face as if he were trying to agree to an idea he disliked. “Duke Vincent, I will head back to Eracia and muster our forces. But you must give me the full authority to lead them. That’s the only way we can counter the threat of these assassinations.”

Trying to convince them to give their power over to the lowliest member of the war council was a lost cause. But trying to convince them to agree that he sacrifice himself for their sake, they seemed more open to that idea. The only problem was, they had to work around their fear.

He leaned back. His eyes scanned the crowd of soldiers hulking in the corners. They all wore serious expressions, but he could glimpse contempt here and there. He did not blame them.

King Sergei had taken the deaths quite seriously. The first pair had seemed like accidents, but after Derrick was found with his neck carved open, any doubt about the unfortunate nature of their demise had evaporated. Roalas had transformed almost instantly. There were more patrols in the streets, and the watchmen often stopped people, asking questions. The gates were clogged with long queues of small folk waiting to get in and out at the checkpoints.

The Parusite leader had to exercise his power, had to be seen to be doing his best to save his guests. Their deaths were a direct affront to his authority, an insult to his rule, to his capability. It had far wider repercussions than just the death of several nobles. Bart did not enjoy that part of his scheme, but it was unavoidable. Besides, Sergei had avoided him for a while; perhaps now he would listen.

Count Bartholomew wondered how he might assist in bridging the gap of mistrust between Eracia and Parus. He already had a few interesting ideas. But first, he had to convince his comrades to let him assume control of southern Eracia.

Duke Vincent grunted, some inner battle raging in his head coming to an end. “What do you plan on doing, Bartholomew? Attack Somar?”

Bart placed his hands on the table. They did not twitch. Utterly calm. “Not outright, no. I want to mobilize our divisions. Unite them under a single banner, a singe command. Mine, with your blessing, of course. After that, I believe we ought to drive a wedge, west, and cut the nomad forces in two, much like they did with Eracia.”
Look at me, a diplomat, preaching on the matters of war
. “Then, once Somar is encircled, we will either lay siege or try to break into the city. For all we know, the nomads might retreat by then. They are not used to living in big cities.”

The old man rolled his eyes, thinking.

Countess Silvia thrust her head forward. “Can we trust the army?”

Bart almost winced. The same rotten argument. “It’s our best chance.”

“We should do as Bart says,” Daryl piped in, his voice slurred.

“You will make those tribesmen pay,” Vincent said, half stating, half asking.

Bart made his most patriotic face, hoping the beard did not hide the honest line of his tightly pursed lips. “I will make them bleed.” That was what the old man wanted to hear.

Duke Vincent waved his spotted hand. “All right. So be it. I will draw a letter granting you the full authority over southern Eracia as my second.”

“We need to formalize your status, Your Grace,” Bart said smoothly. “With the monarch’s line eradicated, you are the most suitable candidate for the crown. We do not know the situation in the north of the realm, and we must assume we are the only nobles left. Therefore, we must declare you monarch in exile.” There, he said it. He took a deep breath and waited.

“Right, right,” the duke murmured, looking somewhat confused.

“I will assume the provisional role of a viceroy,” Bart went on, recalling some of the books he had read about his realm’s past. There had been only one other recorded case of the monarch’s nobles electing one of their fold in his stead. Liam the Bright had gone missing during a hunt and had remained missing for almost four months. It turned out he had gotten separated from his party, rode off by himself to some remote village, and stayed with the locals, posing as some nameless knight. A certain Duke Otto had been chosen to lead the realm as the viceroy. So there was the precedent, if anyone in Eracia bothered to question his appointment.

Bart did not really care for the title, though. He was doing all this for the sake of the realm. He wanted to save Eracia. That was all.

Any other time, the whore Silvia would have instantly objected, but she was just staring at him dumbly, petrified with terror over her own fate, willing to take any chance that might help her keep her slim neck intact.

Bart pushed aside his thoughts, trying to focus on staying serene and dedicated to his cause. He did not want to think about his father, mother, Sonya, Constance, or any other distraction. He had come to Athesia on a mission of peace and failed once. He would go back to Somar and bring the promised peace. It made no difference the monarch was dead. The realm was more important than one man.

“It shall be done,” the duke agreed at some length.

Bart kept his emotions at bay, but they gurgled in his stomach, like a bad meal, trying to erupt. Finally, some progress, after months of gangrenous indecision and stalling, he would be allowed to do something useful.

Oh yes, his stay with the Borei had changed him. Once, he had tried to preserve his cowardice, to avoid war at all costs. Now, he was looking ahead, and all he could see was war. But he did not feel afraid.

He was tired of being pushed around, of being used, of being ignored and slighted. He was tired of compromising. He was tired of being nobody.

Calm, he had to stay calm.

He had just won a victory. He should be happy.

But there was only grim expectation. Perhaps happiness belonged to someone else, or he had yet to discover it. Still, there was no reason to lament. One day, he might even change the way he chose women in his life.

King Sergei did not ignore him this time. The four deaths were more than enough to warrant an immediate meeting with any of the still-breathing dignitaries, should they ask for one.

Wisely, the Parusite ruler had chosen a small, secluded study to talk to him. After their short acquaintance during the siege, the king seemed to have learned this Eracian count
spelled trouble, so he was best dealt with away from prying eyes and ears. Bart was glad for the intimacy of their reunion, because he did not want the news of his success to spread just yet.

“What do you want?” Sergei barked. If the king feared an escalation in relations between Eracia and Parus, he showed none of them in private.

Bart gently placed the declaration on the table in front of the king. It bore only four signatures and matching seals, but it declared one new monarch and one new viceroy for Eracia. “I will be leaving Roalas soon. I was selected to lead the Eracian armies against the nomads.”

Sergei made a face as if he did not believe the count would undertake such a hazardous task upon himself.

Another man who despises me
, Bart thought sourly. However, among all of them, Sergei had the most reason. Bart was the reminder of his failure to secure peace with Amalia, to save his son. They both knew that.

“You have my leave,” Sergei announced unceremoniously.

“I will need your support,” Bart countered.

Sergei straightened in his chair a little. “Yes?”

Bart laid down another paper. “Eracia hereby officially requests your help in defeating the nomad invasion. I must ask for a small contingent of troops to be assigned to my command permanently. These troops will assist me in carrying out my duties as well as serve as protection again possible threats, here in Roalas or back home.”

The king rubbed his nose, staring at the document. “My sister will not be keen to part with some of her Red Caps. Besides, I do not think that will be a good idea, moving Parusite forces into Eracia, even under the banner of the Eracian…viceroy.”

Bart agreed. “No. I would ask for the Borei.”

Sergei picked up the paper and looked at it up close, examining the shades of pressed fiber on the thick paper. “I presume they will be financed by me.”

The count shrugged. “A token of goodwill and future cooperation.”

The king tossed the demand list down. “Have I not shown good faith already? Your entire contingent has remained with me for months now, well fed and clothed. Your men have had horses and women for their entertainment. They are free to go around as they please; they have my soldiers risking their lives for their security. I am harming the prosperity of Roalas and the wellbeing of Athesia by slowing down the flow of traffic through the city gates so that my guards can inspect the comings and goings of possible spies and killers who might want to do you harm.”

Bart made a vague gesture, but it sort of encompassed the last year he had spent with the Parusites—frustration, empty promises, veiled threats, a complete diplomatic failure. There was no need reminding the man about how badly his siege had gone.

“We start fresh. We ignore all that’s happened in the past several months. Most of that wasn’t either your doing or mine. So many events have spun out of control, but they were never ours to dictate or run. Whatever happened under Monarch Leopold is irrelevant now. Eracia is treading into a new era. Once the invasion is repelled, there will be a new king from a new bloodline. Most of the Privy Council is dead or presumed dead. This is a great opportunity to solidify our relations.”

“And what about Caytor?” the king asked. “Should I lend my troops to Caytoreans as well, if one of them decides they need help protecting their realm against some foreign army? Should I sponsor this Emperor James’s enemies? Or maybe pay him so he goes back to Caytor and remains there?”

Bart did not like the king’s train of thought. “Caytor is a separate matter.”

Sergei smiled dryly. “Perhaps to you. There’s a strong political statement in aiding Eracians with my military forces. That would be a declaration of war against the Kataji. And the rest of the tribes.”

“The Borei are ideal,” Bart pressed, keeping urgency from his voice. “They are not the people of the realms. They are mercenaries. Their loyalty is measured in gold. There’s no need for a formal transfer of forces”—Bart pulled the letter closer to him—“but you might want to endorse a silent defection without any fuss.”

The silence stretched while the king watched him without blinking. Bart did his best not to swallow a nugget of tenuous expectation just then.

“You know,
Viceroy
Bartholomew,” Sergei spoke, “my sister always thought you were a spineless shit. An insult for an emissary of peace. I guess she was sorely mistaken. And so was I. We all seem to have misjudged you.”