The Humbled (The Lost Words: Volume 4) (7 page)

Bella moved aside to let a rider enter. He was shadowed by two sentries, but a quick wag of a finger from the warlord stopped them at the threshold. Bella pointed at her records. Amalia shook her head. She would need no minutes for this.

The man bowed slightly. “Your Highness. Commander.”

Amalia realized something was wrong. “Speak.”

She could hear the man’s complicated swallow blob down his gullet. “Lady Rheanna has escaped.”

Lady Rheanna has escaped…

Silence. It stretched and stretched. The messenger just waited, sorry and miserable.

“Details.” Amalia remembered to make her lips move.

“As you instructed, she was sent here under heavy patrol. Master Sebastian even had a decoy convoy leave two days prior.
But her column was ambushed not three days away from the mansion. Lots of men were killed, and the others surrendered. Then, these attackers took all their horses so they couldn’t pursue, and when the news finally got back to Pain Daye, it was already too late. Master Sebastian did send hunting parties everywhere, and he sent a few of us on fast horses to Ecol. I don’t know what happened since.” He handed her a rolled note, sealed with Sebastian’s sigil.

Amalia looked at the warlord. He was one of the few men who knew about Rheanna’s captivity. His own men had been responsible for carrying news and instruction back and forth.

Which meant someone in her circle of trust had spoken, or betrayed her.

If Xavier was party to this plot, his face didn’t show it. Instead, it was grim, dark, bubbling with indignation. He was squinting madly. “I will look into this,” he growled.

“Thank you. Ask the inn staff for food and lodging,” she told the messenger. The man excused himself faster than an arrow, glad to be gone.

Inside, Amalia was very, very worried. But she could not let it show. Part of her cherished this mess. Just moments ago, she had been fumbling for an edge, something she could use against the swine. Now, almost religiously, this had happened.

“I am disappointed, Commander,” she chided in her best voice.

Xavier was hardly looking, his squint was so fast and narrow. “I
will
find who did this. I will make myself a new cloak from their skins.”

“A beautiful threat,” she said. “Meaningless. Worthless. You failed.”

He spun toward her. He opened his mouth, then closed it wisely. “She will be found and brought to you, I swear.”

Amalia nodded emptily, turning away from him. She could hear noises outside the chamber. Must be Mayor Alistair getting grumpy and impatient. Such perfect timing. It would leave no time for the warlord to keep making more excuses.

“You certainly will.”

Rheanna’s escape was a serious matter. Amalia was not quite sure she grasped the implications just yet.
Am I mad
, she thought,
that I can still think clearly instead of sinking to the ground and crying hysterically? A woman who would rival me for the Athesian throne is now free, and all I care for is the look of defeat on Xavier’s face?

Perhaps she was in shock, and her mind was numb to pain and truth. Maybe it would hit her when she went to sleep today, and she would fret until dawn, fighting useless, exhausting, repetitive gray thoughts. Then, she was relieved, honestly relieved, that she would not have to face that fat-ass widow and battle her wit. She was certain the woman was very sharp and highly manipulative. After all, she had managed to convince her half brother to marry her. She had succeeded in controlling him when so many other councillors had seen their tame beast turn on its trainers. It was such a consolation that she would face her as a distant enemy. So much easier.

But Rheanna’s flight meant something else, too. It meant someone within her camp was a traitor. Someone who Xavier trusted. Or maybe it was the guild master himself?

That should worry her even more. That meant she was exposed. Xavier might turn irrational if he began suspecting plots, if he felt he was threatened and cornered. He might decide to harm her, out of spite, when he felt his own moment of glory was over. Having the swine worried and indebted to her was a great thing, but she must not push him. Not yet. She was
still too weak, still trying to consolidate her power, still trying to figure out whom she could really trust.

Master Hector? Timothy? The two Sirtai? She longed for Gerald, even for Theo, for her mother. People she had once taken for granted and whose wisdom and care she had ignored.

A knock at the door, soft like a kitten kneading wool with its paws.
I’ll handle Rheanna later
.

“Commander, I am disappointed,” she stabbed, her mind swimming. “If you ever wish to become a nobleman, you cannot let this common thuggery be your legacy. If I cannot trust you, then our deal may never bear fruit.” Maybe a tad too dramatic, she thought. She was giddy, elated. Worried just a little.
I’m mad
.

He took her tirade very seriously. Either that or he was a genius beyond reckoning. He was breathing heavily, she noticed. A dangerous, armed man, and she might have overplayed her hand.

Xavier spat on the carpet. “I will handle this,” he almost threatened and barged out.

The chatter died outside. The mayor seemed a little confused, but his head was preoccupied with town matters. He smiled politely as he entered, a flock of adjutants, scribes, and accountants in his wake. Amalia forced herself to smile, but her mind was thrashing, trying to grasp the enormity of this morning. In between writing her memoirs and discussing Ecol’s future, her life had just become more complicated. Her biggest foe was free, and she had traitors in her midst. Worse, she had committed herself to making that swine a hero and a noble, to say nothing of another promise she had given a pair of wizards: to make peace with Athesia’s enemy these last two generations so they could fight together against imaginary monsters. She
wondered what Father would say of her master plan. He would probably laugh at her.

Only she lived, and that was what mattered for now.

Small steps, humble achievements. That could work for her. The whole empire thing she had tried in Roalas had failed. Perhaps this was the way it should have been done.
Father made his first victory on a hill somewhere. No one thought he would become a legend, then
.

“Mayor Alistair, please,” she said and beckoned.

CHAPTER 5

W
hat is the worst kind of enemy one can have?
Bart had often wondered.
Who do you fear the most?
Was it a friendly, smiling face shadowing you all the time, leeching your trust? Was it the grumpy rival staring at you from the other side of the battlefield? A jealous woman? A scornful parent? Someone you had never seen but who worshipped your demise like a second religion?

No. For Bart, it was a human baby.

His baby.

That squealing little thing terrified him, haunted him. He was not sure what he was supposed to do. What were men really good for? Fighting, whoring, maybe politicking, he thought. But this whole offspring business was a dark, dreadful affair.

If not for a somewhat knobbly sight of that egg-shaped head, and its shock of fluffy, woolly brown hair, he might have felt content. It was a beautiful summer day, warm, clear, pleasant. The war preparations were going well; there was little sickness in the camp, even less discord. His noble friends and foes were keeping a rather low profile, almost resigned with his status. Not that they would ever stop scheming, but that day, they were quiet, reserved, elsewhere.

Junner was playing backgammon against Edgar. The mercenary was shouting at the old servant, trying to tell him something, but Bart’s man was stubbornly holding a hand to his ear. For a change, Bart thought Edgar was about to win that round. Being half deaf had its perks sometimes.

His eyes strayed toward the baby and its mother. His mood soured again. Constance was looking happy, if a little exhausted. Alke was there too, beaming like only a woman could when there was a nipper present. Constance handed Bart’s bastard to the maid. Alke hoisted the boy like a war hammer, gushing, making stupid noises.

Bart wanted to escape all this. But he really, really had nothing to do. A dull morning meant he was forced to wrestle with the thoughts of his fatherhood. Well, the fate of all of Eracia really, when it came to that.

The siege camp was almost ready for an attack on the city. Four monstrous trebuchets marred the skyline, poised, waiting to hurl rocks at the walls. The encirclement was complete, and the army had camps and ditches and towers all around Somar. Every day, soldiers kept drilling under the watchful eyes of Commanders Faas and Velten, getting that less likely to die when the moment to liberate the capital came.

Basically, everyone was waiting for him.

What happens when I give the order?
he wondered.
Do I get to see my wife’s head on a spike above the gatehouse? Does the city burn?

He knew he would never relent to the nomads. Time for negotiations and mercy was long over. The enemy leader had had his chance to gracefully retreat. The resolution to this ugly business would have to be bloody. Very much so.

What he feared was the time between the assault and the moment they freed the city. It could take hours, days, maybe
even weeks. In that time, the Kataji could systematically kill every woman and child and set fires to all the houses and shops, leaving Somar a black, dead ruin. Bart doubted this General Pacmad would resort to something like that, but desperate men often made foolish decisions.

The enemy’s stubborn refusal to surrender intrigued him. Why had they not fled when it was obvious they faced an overwhelming force? Had they believed the Eracians would never muster an army to retake the capital? Did they delude themselves in their chances to win this war? Or to bloody Bart’s nose just red enough to force him to negotiate concessions or reparations for the three-century-stale evils?

He feared having a madman for a foe. He didn’t want Sacred repeated all over again.

What would I have done in Pacmad’s place?
He clawed at his conscience, begging for shreds of intuition and guidance.

“Your Majesty!” someone called.

Bart turned. It was one of Faas’s captains. He couldn’t remember the man’s name. “Yes?”

“Commander Velten begs your presence, Your Majesty.”

“I will be there shortly,” Bart said. The officer saluted and retreated.

He waited for a while, let his mind clear of silly thoughts. Once again, his eyes locked on the tiny thing called his son. A son he could not publicly acknowledge.

Ever since Constance had given birth, they had been forced to lodge in separate shacks, she surrounded by those pesky, rancid midwives and a score of other women who partook in the baby-raising mission, he alone and frustrated, with his right hand as his night companion. Bart wanted to create the proper impression, even thought he knew no one was fooled by his sudden act of chastity. Still, it was a must, if only because there
was no need to taunt his nobles and constantly remind them of the gigantic political fiasco he had brewed. His mistress was not helping by being preoccupied with the little thing, always weary, her skin sagging, her eyes like big black coins. She had always been a small thing, and now she seemed even smaller, drained by the pregnancy and child-rearing. Well, except her breasts. He liked them better now.

She saw him. She crinkled a shy, manipulative smile at him. Or maybe it was her “mother’s madness.” He had heard stories about women going crazy after giving birth. He had never paid that rumor much attention, but he was starting to believe the stories might be true.

I should go there
, he thought.
Show that I care
. Pride and worry clashed in a bitter stalemate.

Well, it could not hurt. Could it? He would just talk to her for a moment, then step into the adjacent house, where his officers waited. Damn it. He could not keep being terrified of one little baby.

Marching like a footman stepping into a crossbow range, he approached his mistress. All of a sudden, the other women vanished, just like that. The space cleared, and he felt he should fill it with his presence.

“Isn’t he gorgeous?” Constance said, her tone silly.

Bart stared at the creature called his son. It looked like something soaked in brine for too long. They said toddlers looked like their fathers. Well, this child must have had a flat-nosed potato for his sire, because it sure didn’t look anything like him.

“Yes.” He had to be wary, extra wary. Constance was surely trying to swindle him somehow. Her goals had not changed. Only her tactics.

“I want to name him—”

“No.” He cut her off. Junner had told him it was bad luck naming a child in its first year. As an irreligious Caytorean, Constance did not really believe in southern superstition. Neither did Bart. But he did not want his son to have a name. It would make it too personal. Besides, he thought the boy ought to be called after his long-dead younger brother.

Constance was staring at him, he noticed. He pretended he did not really care. He could only guess what she was thinking right now. “The boy needs a father,” she whispered.