The Humbled (The Lost Words: Volume 4) (2 page)

His men were still marveling at the rain, holding their hands like supplicants, watching the drops shine and dry on their skin. Others were peering up close at the wet grass or slicked armor, staring like a cruel child might ogle an insect, wondering which of the many legs to pull out first.

Calemore let the moment stretch a while longer. “I am heading south now. You will begin the march first thing come the dawn. Kill everyone.”

“We will,” the senior agreed.

The White Witch did not wait. He retraced his steps and left the camp. He walked for almost a mile, thinking about the war, about Nigella, about what he must do to become a god. He was so close to achieving his dream it was maddening.

What then?
he wondered. What would he do once he won?

He really should not be fretting and worrying. It did not become him. He was beyond human doubt. His moment of
weakness annoyed him. At that instant, he wished he were with Nigella, so he could tell
her
what he felt, share his thoughts with her. He wanted to see the expression on her ugly face when she tried to figure out a truth that was beyond her, to understand the enormity of his being. He wanted to know what she had read in the book, and he wanted to feel her body squirm under him.

Most peasants and town clerks had similar passions, he figured. That was a disturbing notion.

Gripping the bloodstaff hard for reassurance, he walked some more, until he got bored. Then he magicked himself to Marlheim, where he knew a hot apple pie and a willing female body would be waiting for him.

CHAPTER 1

S
tephan had always considered himself a man with a hunch for bets. Most of the time, he knew a good deal when he saw it. Now, though, he was completely out of his depth.

The High Council meeting was taking place in the office of the shipwrights guild rather than the official headquarters on Gunter’s Road. The main reason was the dispute between the dockworkers and the spice traders. It had all started when one of the laborers dropped a cask of saffron into the filthy water of the bay, to much dismay of everyone involved. The shipmaster had been furious, and had the worker whipped, but he had turned livid when the traders demanded he compensate their loss. It had soon bubbled into an insurance blister, and a fight broke out, fists flying, noses bleeding. The dockworkers were demanding protection and higher wages, shipowners refused to be accountable for lost profits when at anchor in large city ports, and the merchants wanted everyone to pay through their noses.

But that discourse was long over.

With the grumbling parties gone, the remaining councillors sat to discuss an even more delicate matter, one that involved pretty much everything.

The fragile political situation in Caytor.

Stephan was holding a letter in his hand, written by Master Sebastian. It informed the High Council of several worrying developments. There was open war between the Parusites and Athesians once again. Emperor James was dead. Lady Rheanna had been detained. It smelled like a disaster.

Stephan had missed most of the intrigue while locked up in Roalas, but he had quickly caught up on all the little plots and schemes and secret deals hammered out during his captivity. He still marveled at the audacity and stupidity of some of his colleagues and wondered what they had intended—and still probably did intend—to achieve.

He looked at the faces round the table, pale, calculating. They didn’t like this any better than he did. Most of them had seen at least one of their friends die championing the wrong side. Others had sponsored pretenders for the Athesian throne and were still licking their wounds. Stephan’s friend Robin had paid with his life for going over to James. For all practical purposes, the family estates of Councillors Otis and Melville now belonged to the miraculously resurrected Empress Amalia.

Stephan was almost glad to have her at the helm of the crumbling rebel force. Almost. He clearly remembered her conduct during the siege, her obstinate reasoning, and he wondered if she still remained as hard and unyielding as before. One thing was certain: she would have no reason to be friendly toward Caytor, not after supporting her half brother and so many imposters.

It was delicate. It was complicated. It didn’t smell of roses.

“What do we do?” He asked the obvious, breaking the silence.

The silence simply flowed back, like mud. No one spoke. They were thinking, more than they had ever done in their
lives as politicians, investors, or moneylenders. They were gambling their realm and the best of their fortunes. The past two years had not been favorable to them in any way. Virtually every little deal regarding Athesia had gone sour. Stephan was starting to believe it was a cursed land.

“We do nothing,” Councillor Lamprecht said, biting on his pipe.

“Very easy for you to say that,” Vareck objected. The man had traveled from Shurbalen for this assembly. He had been one of the strong supporters of Emperor James and was still trying to figure out what he should do with the troops and money he had sent west.

“A wise businessman knows when to cut his losses,” Lamprecht countered, unfazed.

“Everything we do risks the peace with the Parusites,” Uwe of the cartographers guild said, his fingers busy turning a gilt goblet, the foot making a raspy noise on the hardwood tabletop.

Councillor Doris sniffed, her face contorted with what looked like rage. Stephan did not blame her. She had lost her children to Parusite mercenaries. Ever since coming back, she had championed war against King Sergei. She simply would not relent, and she refused to go back to Monard.

Stephan knew he was among equals, but he felt he had a slight advantage in his favor. None of his hostage comrades had tried to negotiate their freedom or secure the peace. He had been the only one to engage the Athesian hosts in some kind of talks. This gave him a better understanding of what the empress was all about, and so he thought he should lead. Well, a man must not complain if a dire situation led him to fortune.

Only he did not express himself in so many words. His fellow councillors were difficult men and women, highly
opinionated, arrogant, and very much displeased for having to count losses in their ledgers. “We should probably ask ourselves, what is it that we want?”

“Trade going back to what it was.”

“Athesian land becoming Caytor once again.”

“The Parusites must retreat to their own kingdom and stay there.”

Stephan grimaced. “Unfortunately, I do not think it’s that simple. We should probably contend with the fact King Sergei will not relinquish Athesia. That territory was lost to us twenty years ago.” He snorted. “We haven’t really ruled Roalas for the past forty.”

“Lord Orson tells me the king hasn’t accepted his claim for compensation,” Vareck said, waving his hand. “It does not bode well for any future negotiation. We should expect no leeway from the Parusites.”

“They should be thankful we didn’t declare war after the Oth Danesh invasion!” Helmut shouted.

“Well, most of Empress Amalia’s soldiers are Caytoreans, so as far as King Sergei is concerned, we probably did declare war.” This was Uwe again. Next to him, the head of the glaziers guild was writing something, not really interested.

“What if the Parusites declare war against
us
?” Lamprecht suggested, knowing he was annoying his colleagues. But then, that was his style: cool, dismissive arrogance.

“They cannot,” Desmond explained, almost sounding like a teacher. “The nobles have all returned home, and it will be months before the king may summon them again. King Sergei is heavily engaged with the Athesians, and he must not expose his western flank either. I heard he declined a peace offer by the Kataji, so
they
might decide to invade the Safe Territories, or worse.”

“I would not worry about Eracians and the nomads right now,” Vareck said.

“And I heard,” Desmond plowed on, “the king’s got rebellion in Pain Mave.”

Councillor Evert snorted. “That place was ever a hotbed.”

Stephan raised a hand. Too many people were talking, not listening to the others. A typical meeting, except they were discussing the fate of the realm.

“If we go to war,” he spoke bluntly, grabbing their attention, “we need armies.”

“More losses,” Lamprecht teased, clamping his teeth round the bitten end of his pipe.

“If we do not go to war,” Doris hissed, “we remain the laughingstock of this nation, of the whole of the realms. There isn’t a single brave thing this council has done in the last forty years, ever since the Feoran uprising. We let them take over the countryside. Then Emperor Adam came, and we let him steal our land and people. We let his
son
do the same. No, we invited him! King Sergei unleashed his barbarians into our cities, and we still did nothing. Now, Empress Amalia has detained one of our own,
again
, and we fear displeasing her.”

“I am worried about the fate of Lady Rheanna,” Stephan agreed.

“She made her choice,” Lamprecht said. At that moment, Stephan so much wanted to plow a fist into those yellowing teeth.

“Technically, she is entitled to Athesian lands. Once she married the emperor, the ownership of Athesian lands became hers, too. Now, rightfully, the throne belongs to her, not Amalia.” Evert poured himself sherry from a crystal carafe.

Stephan rolled his eyes. This could become a dangerous discussion. He did not want anyone trying to champion
Rheanna’s claim for the Athesian throne. That would be political suicide. The very fact the High Council had tried to use Adam’s bastard against his legitimate daughter as leverage over future negotiations and demands was justification enough for Amalia to decide she was better off just sending Rheanna’s pickled head to Eybalen.

“So we are in agreement then,” Lamprecht said, annoying fucker, spanking the table with his hand.

“Please,” Stephan said, trying to sound polite. “You’re not helping.”

Evert pointed at the few ladies in the crowd. “Any businessman must ask himself, or herself, how they can make the best from a situation.
Any
situation. Like during a ball or a large party, toward the end of the evening, when you see a beautiful woman puking excess food and drink quietly in a corner, do you help her, or do you cup a teat when she’s defenseless?”

There was a sigh of indignation among the ladies. Doris narrowed her eyes. If looks could kill, she would be skinning the pig now.

“Thank you for that lovely metaphor,” Stephan said dryly. “Ever a charmer.”

Evert nodded, ignoring the women around him. Some people simply refused to consider the problem seriously. But then, their assets were safe, and they had not spent a year as hostages, wondering if they might die the next morning.

“Things are just happening too rapidly,” Uwe said. “Our old allies and enemies are dying like flies. I hear Duke Vincent was assassinated. A rather tricky predicament. Whoever we try to negotiate with might end up dead the next morning. This presents us with a problem. We need to be sure we have a reliable partner who will live on to see their end of the bargain upheld.”

Yes, and Commander Gerald is dead, too
, Stephan thought. Just a few more months of siege, he could have hammered out a peace, a solid, lasting, favorable peace.

From what reports and rumors Stephan had, King Sergei refused to talk to the Caytoreans. His sister, Sasha was a lunatic. Amalia…no one really knew what she might do now.

But he had not told the assembled council the most worrying part yet.

“If Lady Rheanna meets an untimely end…” Evert’s tone was pragmatic. “What do we do with her assets? Do we proclaim her a traitor and seize them?”

“That would be prudent,” Lamprecht agreed.

Stephan raked his hair. He was feeling desperate. “Our concern should be seeing Lady Rheanna released safely.” He knew he sounded like a hypocrite, but what else could he say?

“The key to this conundrum is King Sergei,” Uwe pointed out.

“He does seem inclined toward peace, it’s fair to say. After all, he released all of you when he could have easily kept you hostage, or worse.” Councillor Baldric stabbed a very pointed stare at Stephan, as if this was all somehow his doing.

“We need to decide what we want,” Stephan insisted. “Does the council favor the restoration of Athesian land to Caytor? Or do we agree that we seek peace and trade only? We can then sort all the other details more easily.”

“As long as we remain undecided, we won’t win any favor with either the Parusites or Athesians.” Doris rallied. “Our inaction suits them both. While we may argue about Amalia or James and what they did, they have a much better claim than King Sergei. One thing is certain, Roalas was never Parusite territory.”

Stephan breathed into his palm, thinking. If it were that simple for his colleagues to agree on a common cause, there would be no point in having the council, now would it? He tried to imagine what would happen if the High Council threw its support behind Amalia. Or maybe the king. What would happen then?

In a deep corner of his soul, he felt he should be grateful for being alive today, and that gratitude belonged to the Parusite ruler. But there was another corner, soaked in bitterness and national pride, bemoaning decades of humiliation. It went back to Adam, the man who had affirmed the reality of defeat with the Eracians and Caytoreans. The only question was, were they willing to accept it and move on toward a brighter future?