The Humbled (The Lost Words: Volume 4) (6 page)

He had to defeat Calemore. That was his real goal. He had to unite these people, to stop them from killing each other in trifling wars, to band their forces and march against the army of Naum. That was all that mattered. If they lost, neither the clergy, nor temples, nor anything else would make much difference.

“We must cooperate,” Tanid said at length.

“Yes, we must,” Evgeny agreed.

Tanid considered extending his hand, but stopped himself. Priests were not merchants, yet the similarity was uncanny. All of this was his fault, his and of his kin. Once he killed the White Witch, he would change everything.

The fat man retreated from the barn without another word, walking as if he had won a battle. Tanid felt a brief moment of relief, but it fluttered away quickly. The future was chaotic, boiling with uncertainty. He had just wed himself to the clergy. He had made himself vulnerable. He had promised some of his wealth and people when he could not afford to give any away. But it was a necessary sacrifice so he could convince the Parusite king of the real danger to the Old Land—the realms. King Sergei had the most powerful army, and his nation were true believers. Without them, the war would surely be lost. Even gods had to compromise sometimes.

CHAPTER 4

A
malia reached to her chipped ear, touching the corded tissue. Her hair had grown quite a bit recently, covering the ugly scar. She was beginning to look more like her old imperial self.

Her new diary sat open in front of her, its pages filled with blood. Written in ink, drenched in the blood of all those she had sent to their deaths in the past month. Her spring-cleaning was continuing well into the early, warm summer. A necessity. She did not wish to be remembered as a butcher, but she had no intention of making the same girlish mistakes of her past ever again. She was going to be her father’s daughter in earnest this time.

She folded the booklet and stood up, stretching, looking around the office. Four men guarded her, trying to look inconspicuous, like ungainly, massive statues chucked into the corners of a room. Two of them were Athesians, the other two Caytoreans, Xavier’s men. She could have objected to having them around, knowing all too well they spied on her for that pig-eyed killer, but she never did. They were a reminder of her delicate situation, of her fragile chances. Their presence kept her sharp.

Since James’s Last Stand, the Parusites had kept to their barracks, and there had been no new attacks. The enemy must have been decimated just as badly. No one knew for certain the exact numbers, but the toll must have been heavy. The city folk had buried more than ten thousand female bodies in the days after the clash, left behind by the enemy. Soldiers told a rumor of Princess Sasha dying in battle, although she disbelieved it. Amalia did not have that much luck.

The war against the invaders had sort of simmered down, but she had another, more brutal one to fight. One for her own survival.

The army belonged to the warlord, really. Xavier may have helped put down rebellions against her, but she had no doubt he had carefully screened the legions, leaving alive those utterly loyal to him, indebted for having their lives spared. Amalia knew he controlled the officers, and their pay, and he could decide the troops were better off marching back to Caytor after all, if he wanted it. She had to be nice and cooperate.

Keep up her promise of marriage.

She had pushed that ugly deal deep into the recesseses of her soul, but she knew one day, he would demand that she live up to it. So far, she did not know how she might deny him. In a moment of weakness and panic, she had blindly agreed to his proposal. Sobered and more confident now, she cursed herself, but still couldn’t think of a wise plan that would leave her army intact and, more importantly, her own head on her shoulders. Would Jarman protect her?

Only if she made peace with King Sergei. Another extortion.

What would Father do?
she wondered. How would he handle these men?

She was an empress holding to the tatters of a realm, without a throne, without a proper court, with an army a third of its original size, and green boys for recruits. She had a murderer for a general, a man she loathed and despised and mistrusted to the bone; she had two Sirtai wizards for fickle allies, as long as she complied with their fabulous agenda. Once, long ago, in another lifetime, she had been surrounded by friends, and she had scorned them. Now she had to beg for alms from scum.

She flicked her fingers. “Summon Mayor Alistair. I wish to consult with him,” she told Bella, her clerk.

“Right away, Your Highness.” The girl put the tax reports on the desk and exited, one of the soldiers staring at her backside. Men just could not help themselves.

Amalia remained standing, thinking. Peace. Peace with the Parusites. Another promise. She had given her word to Jarman. Only she had not done anything yet, except try to solidify her brittle rule. How could she turn this ugly outcome to her advantage?

Ecol was a town recovering from major suffering. There were still hundreds of men in bed, healing slowly. The barracks did not have enough space to keep them all, so citizens had been asked to host them in their own homes in return for some extra flour and a few coppers. Depleted legions needed fresh fodder, and street corners had recruitment stalls side by side with food carts, calling upon Athesians to join the ranks. Amalia had been forced to reduce the allowed conscription age to just fourteen, and that meant most of her new soldiers were sniveling boys with smooth cheeks. True, war had also brought commerce and mercenaries. Word of her victory against the Parusites had made Ecol the bastion of hope, the symbol of resistance, and Athesians were flocking to her side, perhaps because they felt safer around a large army than elsewhere.

Master Guilliam was manufacturing Slicers as fast as he could. Ecol was halfway encircled in a stone palisade, with a row of sharp stakes facing outward. The mines had been reopened, used for ore and masonry, and the builders were hard at work making the abandoned manor house habitable again. Once they refurbished it, it was to become her temporary palace. Not a lot of peaceful gestures, but she did not intend to have to face the Parusite onslaught and their gray monsters without some siege works. Towers, ditches, she would have them all.

Ecol could not fall. If it did, it would be the end of Athesia. It would mean her death. She understood it.

There was a gentle knock on the door. “Enter,” she said. Amalia expected the mayor to show his eager face. Instead, she was confronted with the squint-eyed visage of her warlord.

“Your Highness,” he said, smiling.

“What do you want, Commander?” she asked, trying not to make herself sound petulant. The soldiers knew nothing of her little arrangement, and they must not know. As far as they were concerned, the warlord was her faithful servant.

Xavier pointed behind his shoulder with his thumb. “Out, lads.” The bodyguards left.

Amalia had to admit a tiny tinge of fear in her spine. “Well, Xavier? Be quick about it. I have a meeting with Mayor Alistair.”

The Caytorean smacked his lips. “It might be prudent if I was present, too.” Then, he inclined his head, looking at her with a funny glint in his eyes. “It’s been a while now. When will we officially announce our union?” His hand came up and cupped the air in front of her breasts, an inch away from touching the fabric of her dress and the flesh underneath.

Amalia sighed deeply. Should she feel offended? Not after spending a good portion of the last year posing as Jerrica, subject to humiliation and terror and the simple rudeness of the small folk. “Commander, you have not taken all the facts into consideration.”

His face darkened. “What facts?”

She forced a grin onto her face. “We are still in the middle of a war. Our
union
must have significance. You are not noble born. An empress cannot just marry a commoner like that.”

He was not impressed. “Your father could.”

Amalia did not allow doubt to shatter her resolve. She was desperately scrabbling through her mind, seeking something, anything that would stave off this man without insulting him. She still needed his troops.
I had Gerald, and now I have this swine
.

“My father was a commoner, too, before he made Athesia. He broke all conventions and traditions. I am not in that position. If I were to marry you now, you’d sign your own death warrant. Think of all the councillors in Eybalen. They surely won’t favor the idea of a paid soldier stealing their opportunity.” There, she had him.

He blinked stupidly. “So what are you telling me?”

You will have to contend with whores until I find a way to dispose of you
. “You must be ennobled first.”

He was shrewd, but he was totally unprepared for what she had suggested. “I’m listening.”

She turned away from him, her breath raw and thin from excitement and fear. She was groping wildly, and ideas were coming together, mad, brutal, unpredictable. “Your loyalty and courage have been noted. With time, you will have won yourself enough sympathy and love that you should be granted a title. My father did not believe in nobility, but we could make an exception.”

Xavier scratched his cheek. “I see.”

She was not sure if he looked disappointed or eager. Like any true-blooded criminal, he was greedy for more, and he wavered on that thin line between profit and death. His instincts were probably telling him someone like him should be grateful for the power he already had, but he felt compelled to push the limit one more time.

“One more thing, Xavier,” she said.

“Yes?”

“If you ever try to grope me,” she spoke in an even tone, “I will have your hand chopped off. My promise stands, but that doesn’t change anything. You are my subject, and you will behave with utmost respect at all times, in public and in private. Do you understand?”

She feared he might laugh in her face, but her bluff paid off. He swallowed hard, looking grim, like a hungry dog switched on its snout. The warlord sniffed noisily, trying to keep his ire down. “Just to inform you on the restructuring of the army, as you requested. The veterans go into five legions, spread even, officers and squad leaders first. Then we make sure the Athesians and Caytoreans get their equal numbers. We have boys enlisting, but they are worth shit.”

Amalia stepped close to the room’s window. Brotherly Unity did not have a great view, just rows of houses with their roofs and chimneys and an odd bird’s nest. There was a lot of activity in the square. City clerks were hard at work rationing food, metal, and payments, admitting new soldiers and mercenaries, registering newcomers for work.

There was another knock on the door, short and polite. “Yes?”

Bella peeked in, frowning at Warlord Xavier’s back; the swine was wearing a cloak made of olifaunt hide, as if he had
personally contributed to the death of one of those animals. “Your Highness, Mayor Alistair is here. Your Sirtai adviser also wishes to see you.”

Amalia groaned. She wasn’t in the mood to talk to Jarman now, to listen to his portent of doom. “I will see the wizard later. Please show the mayor in.” She looked at Xavier. “You may leave, Commander.”

“Your Highness, one more thing.” Bella still hovered with her face in the doorway crack. “There’s a messenger from Pain Daye. He says it’s urgent.”

Of course it is
. Everything was urgent, it seemed. “Take his message, then.”

Bella grimaced, her freckled face scrunched like a fig. “Your Highness, the message comes from Guild Master Sebastian. It’s for you only.”

Amalia arched a brow. She saw Xavier turn toward the clerk. She thought she saw a fresh coat of annoyance cover his face. As a former employee of James’s patrons, he wasn’t well liked by Sebastian, she knew. The fools had tried to kill the guild master, and the man nurtured his grudge like a rare flower. He might be a Caytorean, and he might betray her one day for the interest of his nation, but he would bring Xavier down first. They shared that much in common.

Pain Daye was important. Lady Rheanna had been kept there until recently. She should arrive any day now under heavy escort. Amalia had delayed making any decisions about James’s widow. She knew nothing of her affiliation, her motives. The woman was a mystery, and she intimidated Amalia ever so slightly.

“Bring him in.”

Xavier turned to leave.

“Stay, Commander.” She wanted him present when she read the letter. If she could somehow use Sebastian’s information against him, she wanted to make sure he had no time to scheme.

Amalia wondered about Rheanna. Her claim to the Athesian throne was pure nonsense. In fact, James had had no right to it really, even as a man and an elder child. Bastards were not allowed to inherit, as simple as that. But with Emperor Adam, nothing was simple or easy. What mattered was, he had been well liked, and by consensus, he could have been chosen, just what the councillors did when they brought James to life. Exactly that.

If they wanted, they could retract their support for her. Or they could insist on championing Rheanna’s cause, ignoring her. Amalia knew this was a very painful battle that awaited her, which was why James’s widow still had her pretty head attached to her shoulders. She had to make the woman throw her support behind her. And spare her life in return. A fair deal.