The Humbled (The Lost Words: Volume 4) (35 page)

CHAPTER 24

T
here were fourteen women and two babies in the room, thirteen women and two babies too many. Sonya hated the fact she was forced to share her lavish chambers with all those whores.

But Pacmad was doing everything he could to spite her. To foil her plans.

Small-dicked mongrel.

Since the Eracian attack, Somar had become a battlefield. No one was allowed out of their houses or their workplaces. Women were laboring round the clock, baking bread, hammering new swords and shields for the Kataji warriors, sewing wounds. Those who did not have a valuable profession had been forced into their homes and locked in, forced to endure the fighting in silent waiting.

If she looked through the window, she could see the deserted streets of the inner city, with only an odd soldier moving, patrolling, making sure the citizens did not try to plot anything against them. Stray dogs loped between buildings, scavenging the refuse. Dried leaves fluttered across cobbles, joining old piles of trash and neglect. The savages cared nothing for beauty, and the city had become one giant heap of midden and discarded rubbish.

Some distance away, the situation was very much different. Rooftops were on fire, old tiles cracking and bursting from the heat, shooting shrapnel high into the air like roasted corn. A thick press of Kataji veterans was hulking behind their barricades, keeping the Eracians at bay. For weeks now, the stalemate had reigned supreme, the only thing changing being the mass of dead bodies on both sides, although the carnage on the Eracian side looked much worse.

She had a great view of some of the battles, unimpeded by oaks and villas and tall buildings. She had seen the deadly engagements, raging in every little side lane, in parks, anywhere. She had seen the Eracians worm through shattered doors and windows into houses, fighting against the nomads hiding inside. She had seen the brave sons of her nation descend into dark cellars, where sharpened blades waited for them. Men had run through whipping flames, skittered down streets slick with blood and spilled sewage, crawled across steep roofs and fallen to their deaths on the hard stone below. The Kataji would throw fire bombs at the attackers, then retreat. Sometimes, the Eracians would burn their opponents inside houses, and sometimes, they found themselves trapped within an oven.

Pacmad had his warriors raze rows of buildings to prevent the fires from spreading. His device had more or less worked, because the destruction was limited to just where he wanted it to be. Those passageways running through neighborhoods also let his troops move with impunity, whereas the Eracians had to fight around every deadly obstacle. Even now, she could see a horde of Kataji goat-hopping through a lane of fresh rubble, trying to sneak up on an Eracian pocket. Sonya wished she could shout and warn them, but they were just too far away. And it would be dangerous for her.

She had no solid information, but she had heard of a few women putting up spontaneous resistance in a few districts, without much success. The organized insurrection had never happened, stifled before it had even started. Pacmad had simply severed her strings, quartered the city into small combat zones, made it impossible for her women to get together and act against the invader. Maybe he had planned it all along, and he had known nothing of her scheme. Or maybe he had discovered her treachery and let it be, tormenting her and leading her to a magnificent failure.

Sonya had no idea how long the fighting would continue and how it would end. The way it was going, the entire city would be destroyed, and pretty much everyone would die. If the Kataji began losing, they would probably kill all the citizens out of pure spite.

Shortage of food and growing disease would become threats all too soon. With so much death and filth lying about in the streets, rats and pigeons would soon start spreading the poison. There was no regular supply between districts, and Sonya feared most women had to do with what little provisions they had stored away. The only thing that gladdened her was that the nomads were also suffering from their imposed curfew.

Her nose was almost touching the thick glass, and her breath misted the pane, making the details blurry. It was stifling hot inside the monarchical chamber, but she did not want to crack open the window, because the stench outside was horrendous.

Outside the city, she could see the outline of siege machines and tall towers, and tiny people standing on those platforms, watching the battle unravel, a mirror image of her own impotent fury. She wondered if her brave husband was there, if he might not be watching the carnage unfold before his eyes
just like she did. Did he ever think about her? Did he base his decisions on her fate, her safety? How far was he going with this siege and this killing?

She turned back toward the room, waiting until her eyes adjusted, a purple glare fading away. The women really had nothing to do, so they just sat around, talked, dozed. That slut Richelle was breastfeeding her little shite. How much milk could one little toddler slurp? It should be suckling and shitting at the same time, Sonya reasoned. Verina was talking to Lady Zoya, and Sonya did not like that. The viscountess was worrying her. Zoya was rather meaningless, and still…

Once, she had thought Richelle would be her greatest rival, but now, she was beginning to suspect Verina might be the chief one. Difficult situations really brought out the best and worst in people. This war was a perfect rite of passage for all of them, a test of personality, courage, and perseverance. Of all the women sharing her chamber, Verina stood out as an elegant, brave lady. Bitch.

Aileen was not there, of course. Not her.

Pacmad was keeping that whore to himself. He had locked up all the rest of them like animals and no longer bothered visiting. Maybe he was too busy. Fighting or rutting.

Sonya’s privileges were gone now, her illusion of mastering the general fast eroding. She could no longer indulge in food and expensive clothing, and she no longer had her own maid. Her hair was a ruin, and her toenails were beginning to snag the carpet when she walked barefoot. She had begged the lone servant lady that brought them food and drinks every day for a soft file, but the peasant had just stuttered a silly apology and left.

They could not walk outside. They could not bathe. At least after Leopold’s death, she had been imprisoned all alone,
without all these sows and harlots to pollute her breathing space. Not getting raped and beaten had its perks, but in a way, this was worse. She was being robbed of her manipulative power, of her intellect, of her ability to withstand danger and pain. It was being mellowed by this fat, ugly assembly of Eracia’s surviving ladies.

Whatever Pacmad had planned, he had done it well. The guild mistresses were locked up elsewhere. Merchant ladies, in yet another room. The Father of the Bear had separated them so they could not plot, could not discuss the war effort. Those with knowledge did not sleep in the same room as those with power and initiative.

Sonya considered trying to rally these sluts to her cause. But she could not really trust them. They would always be scheming, trying to best her, so when the war ended, they would be ahead of her. Besides, she was beginning to panic. It was a slow, silent scream building up at the back of her throat, a grain of dust that chafed. She did not really know how she might react if the Kataji won the battle for Somar. What if Bart failed to liberate the city? What if the Eracians were defeated and no salvation came to her?

Now that she could finally feel hope, the fear of losing it was maddening. She wasn’t certain she could endure another month or year being locked in here with all these women, wrapped in uncertainty and constant danger, denied pleasure and power, and bereft of any real influence and wealth. What if Pacmad decided to give her to his soldiers? Or just keep her hostage forever?

No, she must never lose hope. She was the queen. It was her duty.

In a way, these women looked up to her. She was their leader. She gave them strength. They expected her to be
confident and self-assured, to soothe their minds, to wash away their fears. She had to look after her subjects. It would be easier if they weren’t all such conniving bitches.

Sonya noticed Richelle was looking at her, a faint smile on her lips. Then, the baroness plucked her girl from her teat and handed the child to Lady Charissa, a blobby, ungraceful woman. Sonya just hated how her thin black hair curled and how she had pale sideburns down the sides of her thick jowls.

That smile still on her lips, Richelle rose from the floor, dusting herself, smoothing the wrinkles in her skirt, and walked over toward Sonya. The other women glanced about, then continued their idle, worried chatter.

“May I have a word with you?” the slut said. Well, she had finally pried her daughter off the teat. It was as if she were there all the time, almost like a leech.

The intimacy of their time together had made most women drop titles when talking to other hostages, Sonya noted. At the moment, she did not mind too much. She pointed toward the corner of the chamber, the closest thing to privacy they would get in this prison.

“Please.” Ever since Sonya had stepped in to keep Pacmad from beating her, Richelle was being nice to her, very timid, very respectful.

“I need to ask you something,” the baroness said, her voice brittle.

Immediately, Sonya did not like this. “Yes?” Her voice was too sharp, too loud. One of the hens raised her head, looked behind. Sonya frowned at her, and she snapped her stupid head back toward the crowd.

“I know…Bart is leading the nation now,” the whore whispered.

Easy, easy, do not panic
. Sonya realized she was holding her breath. Carefully, she expelled it, took another one, expanded her chest, let herself think. This must be some kind of a plot. Maybe Pacmad was trying to fuddle her mind, make her confess things. Maybe the baroness was acting alone. Either way, Sonya must not let show her fear, must not looked worried or even concerned.

But how did Richelle know? Who had betrayed her? Was it Janice? Bibi? Some other clerk?

“Bart is the viceroy,” the whore insisted.

Sonya was still thinking, knowing her silence was not helping. What should she do now? Feign ignorance? Shock? Surprise? Play along? This bitch certainly wanted something. Otherwise she would not have broached the subject.

“Bartholomew of Barrin?” Sonya said at length.

Richelle nodded, that smile so annoying. “Yes,
the count
.”

Sonya imagined pulling out her hairpin and stabbing the girl in her jugular. That should do it. But then, she would have a hard time explaining the woman’s death to Pacmad, and her situation was perilous as it was.

Now, if Richelle knew, who else might?

All of a sudden, all those ugly faces around her looked even more suspicious.

She realized her heart was thumping hard. She could almost see the tight fabric of her dress fluttering with the bursts of her blood. “That is fortunate.”

“I am really grateful for what you did that night,” Richelle spoke, “which is why I have not told the general about the identity of the Eracian leader. I think it would be prudent of you, once the war is over, to favor those who helped and supported you during your captivity. Reward those who showed
loyalty
to Your Majesty.”

Sonya liked the ring of it. If only she could bask in it. Alas, she was choking with terror, a black veil pressing on her nose and lips, making it impossible to gulp air, like that thing she had once done with Lord Elton. That smug, soft smile on Richelle’s lips was making her livid.
Am I being threatened? Blackmailed!
She was furious, furious. Mostly because she had never expected Richelle to turn against her.
I should have let Pacmad beat her bloody. I should have never interfered. This is my payment for being merciful
.

“Most certainly,” Sonya said. Lying was easy. Promises were just words, empty words, ethereal, meaningless. They meant nothing. In fact, Richelle was just being a stupid whore, presuming she could coerce her into obedience. How silly of her. Did she not understand all her threats would become insignificant the moment Bart retook Somar? Did she not realize that?

“I will be honored if certain lands and titles could pass on to my family. Nothing much. Just the repossessed assets of the traitors and the deceased, my lady. A small, humble share.”

“Most certainly,” Sonya repeated, trying to mimic that smile. This sow was beyond stupid. She was being suicidal. Did she not realize how fragile her position was? She should be trying her best to make Sonya like her. Instead, she was openly telling her plan.

There had to be something else. So what else did the slut know?

“You will not mind writing and signing a document affirming our little…agreement?”

Documents were just paper. They could burn. Water would wash off the ink. They got lost, torn away. New documents could easily be written, forged, stamped with any manner of seals and names.

“Richelle, darling, is all this necessary?”

“I just want a happy future for my baby,” the baroness admitted, her composure cracking a little.