The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3) (26 page)

CHAPTER 19

C
onstance pouted prettily when Bart flicked closed the elegant clasp of the silver chain round her slim neck. She reached up and lifted the sapphire hanging in the front, staring at it down her nose.

“It’s lovely,” she said.

Bart sucked on his lower lip and said nothing. The trinket was worth its price; no extra words were needed.

It was amazing how you could find anything you wanted for the right sum of money. Even a city slowly recovering from a siege had its share of goldsmiths and silversmiths, ready to hammer down beautiful jewelry for those who wished to pay. It was alarming to see how many people could afford to step into these shops, shadowed by their bodyguards, while most of the city worried about having enough bread for the day.

What amazed him even more was that he had almost felt obliged to buy that necklace for Constance. That was women for you, he knew. They had a way of insinuating themselves into your mind, taking over your thoughts. Soon, you spoke their mind, and you almost didn’t even know it. Well, after months of sharing her bed, intimacy had sort of budded on its own. Intimacy and the desire to oblige.

The shop master looked pleased now that the clientele was pleased. He was bobbing his head eagerly, staring up through his small rectangular spectacles. “The lady is satisfied,” he intoned.

Bart gently pushed Constance out of the jeweler’s store. Corporal Lanford followed, his escort for the day. Recently, Bart had realized he ought to be seen walking in the company of armed men, for his own sake as much as that of others. He could not afford a simple accident to delay his plan anymore. He was committed to saving Eracia.

This was even truer when he took Constance on a stroll through the city. King Sergei maintained sharp order, and he punished crime with ruthlessness, so all in all, Roalas was a safe place to be. But Bart was not sure how much he could let the girl out of his sight now. She knew things. She might be tempted to tell others if she were persuaded it would be in her best interest. Bodyguards were there to make sure no one got any silly ideas.

A matter of trust, in the end.

“What do we do now?” she asked, all smiles, her warm hand wrapped round his, her chin propped against his shoulder.

Bart flicked his eyes toward the Imperial Manse, looming just above the next row of houses. He had deliberately avoided going to today’s meeting, so he had some spare time left. There was nothing urgent for him now, except the fate of Eracia, but he could not change that, either by arguing with the likes of Vincent, Norris, Thomas, and all the rest, or by enjoying himself a little, so he might as well do the latter.

“Let us buy you something,” Constance suggested.

Bart considered it.
Why not?
After all, it was his money being spent.

“Maybe you want a new sword?” she asked.

He frowned. “I am not much of a swordsman,” he muttered.

Constance was unfazed. “A dashing new suit, then.”

Bart looked down at his rich leather coat, midnight black with silver lapels and cuffs, trimmed with soft brown deerskin on the inside. It was quite impressive as it was, supple, warm, utterly comfortable. “Not today.”

“So what do you want to do?” She moped.

What he really wanted was to lead his battered nation back to glory. If only a year ago he had feared war, tried everything he could to avert one, he felt differently today. He did not relish the killing, he did not think death was the best way to advance prosperity, but he understood now, far more clearly than ever before, that there was a stark, simple necessity in war.

Especially if one was imposed on you.

It was no longer a matter of trading decades of great commerce for pride. It was the simple matter of defending Eracia against total destruction. Somar had been captured, but if the surviving forces did nothing, Ubalar could be next. Or maybe the Barrin county.

But that didn’t make this morning any different from all the others.

He had woken with the same feeling of impotence and chagrin, battled his demons, his indecision, cursed his weaknesses, and slowly built up his courage for what he had to do. There was poison in his soul, a certain blackness, developing, growing, festering, pushing him toward decisions he would have found abhorrent only last summer. Well, no longer.

In fact, he might almost dare admit he was liking it.

He snorted, venting his frustration, turning calm again. No matter. This morning, he could not resolve all his woes. But he could enjoy himself a little. He deserved it. Yes.

I haven’t really enjoyed my life since the day I was married
, he thought.
Maybe not even before
.

“I want to talk,” he said abruptly.

Constance seemed a little disappointed by the lack of spending in his choice. “Talk?”

Bart stopped walking, then drew her after him toward the side of the street. People passing did not pay them much attention; they were just another wealthy pair basking in the sun. “About you.”

She squirmed. “Well, what do you want to know?”

He inclined his head. “Everything.”

The life on the street streamed by, unabated. Bart could hear the iron horseshoes hitting cobbles, the carriage wheels groaning, the shuffle of boot soles, the cries of a grocery boy selling fruit and chestnuts. On his side, there was only silence. Constance watched him with big, almost frightened eyes.

An act
, he thought. Once, it had stirred him profoundly. It still did, but not as much as before.

Corporal Lanford coughed to let them know he was still there, politely out of earshot.

“Let us walk,” he said. She followed him but did not speak. He waited.

The Victory Boulevard had raised sidewalks for the rich people so they could step above the gutters without trailing the hems of their dresses and trousers in the muck. It was a rare sight in a city with overflowing sewers, but then, it was no worse than Somar.

With little left on his hands but despair, Bart had spent some time in the library, studying what he could about Roalas, about Caytor. He would often share the bench with the king’s royal scribe, Genrik, but the two had never spoken. There weren’t many books left unburned by the Feorans, but as
always, brave, nameless scholars would risk their lives by hiding tomes out of sight and then giving them back to the world once the purges had passed.

Roalas had started as a border fort, then slowly grown into a trade town as the Caytorean borders pushed west and south, then became a city on its own. With its feet dangling in the Telore, Roalas was a convenient station for merchants traveling from the north. Through chance of geography and military fortune, it had gained shape and character. Still, it had always remained in the shadow of the coastal cities, always a decade behind in fashion and technology, and so its founders had tried their best to make the place shine.

One would think that the Victory Boulevard had been named in Adam’s honor. But the title dated all the way back to the Widows’ Winter. Large, wide, lined with the best masonry and finest shops, it was a speck of pride in a frontier city, with elevated curbs to keep the shit off people’s feet. Strange, how small things made so much difference that they wormed their way into books, survived through time, when the people and ideas that had spawned them in the first place had long been forgotten. No one really knew where it had all started, but in the nearby few streets, Roalas’s finest could enjoy a mire-free walk.

They reached the palace square. Bart grimaced. Not what he wanted. So he led on, into the Street of Lights, past the inn, into the Street of Fortune, a long, winding alley that curved through half the city, almost all the way to the South Gate.

Bart gazed at the buildings. He could see signs of old fires, especially closer to the walls. No more sidewalks here. They shared the same ground with horses and dogs.

Farther away from the wealthy district, there were more troops about and more of the clergy. After forty years, they
had returned to this place. Bart wasn’t quite sure what to think of the matriarchs and patriarchs. Overall, he was indifferent toward religion, like most of his peers. It could be a useful tool sometimes, when needed. The Parusites were taking faith seriously, though. Almost every lane had one of its buildings renovated to serve as a new temple. Old, ruined shells of derelict houses of prayer neglected for several decades were already being repainted and reroofed, the rats and the poor being cleaned out.

Every master brings his own whims
, Bart thought.
And the common folk have to bear it
.

Constance still did not speak.

Bart wasn’t quite sure where he wanted to go, but the girl at his side seemed a little uncomfortable in the common district. She eyed the tanners and bakers with suspicion, watched the children searching for loose coppers in the gutters with outright disgust.

A girl with proper upbringing, hiding half the world away from home
, he mused.
And she won’t tell me why
.

He wondered if he could use her somehow. She was a Caytorean, and most likely from a respectable family. And that meant she might be his channel to the High Council. With all of the Caytorean dignitaries gone, his plan for bringing the two realms closer had evaporated. Worse, during their captivity, the nobles had been busy befriending and plotting with and against their neighbors, and he dreaded the consequences of their time together. Still, it wasn’t anything he could change now.

He had heard of several notable names, Councillor Stephan among them. He wondered if he should try to initiate contact with the man, send a letter to Eybalen. Only he wasn’t sure what he would be offering or demanding in return.

There was that woman Doris, too. But she had returned to Monard after Emperor James had liberated southern Caytor. Another potential ally, another missed chance.

Bart glanced sideways at his mistress. She was a Sonya in the making, he could sense that. She was manipulative to the bone. Anything she did had an immediate ulterior motive. He ought to send her away. He ought to leave her to all the scheming and lies she reveled in. But when he actually tried to bring himself to do that, he couldn’t. The sweet lure of familiarity blunted his anger. You could not hate someone you fucked every day.

He deserved her. And that annoyed him.

I need allies, and I have none. The Parusites shun me. The Eracians despise me. The Caytoreans are back to their banks and insurance businesses. All I have is a girl who wants my gold
.

So what did that make him?

He did not press his questions, and that annoyed him, too. Why was he being so lenient, so forgiving toward Constance? She did not deserve his compassion. Yes, she was a convenient companion, a soft girl with a nice smell and a fiery streak, and he liked feeling young and important, even for a few short moments, but deep, deep down, he knew he was being a yellow-bellied little aristocrat, with too much time and money on his hands. All the while his realm burned.

“Damn,” he growled.

Constance seemed to wince at his side. “I am sorry,” she whispered.

Bart tsked. “For what?”

“I cannot speak of my past,” she said. “It is too painful.”

“Sharing can sometimes help with the pain,” he tried.

The girl shook her head, a tiny, quick motion. “I’m sorry.”

Bart sighed. “There must be trust between us.”

Constance eyed him from under her brows. “I want to trust you. But…I’m not sure I can.”

He was surprised. After all their time together, she could not trust
him
. “Why?”

“Why are you with me?” she countered.

“I like you a lot. I find your company pleasant.”

“But you are married,” she said, and it felt like a sword slicing into his stomach.

Bart was speechless for a moment.
I am married
, he thought. Maybe. His wife was in Somar, perhaps dead, perhaps alive, captive, no one really knew. And he did not really care. But as far as the world was concerned, Count Bartholomew had had Countess Sonya for a wife these past eleven years. For him to have another spouse, he ought to dissolve his marriage or become a widower first.

There it is
. He looked at his mistress. Her ultimate bargaining chip, he realized.

“Yes, I am.”

Constance made a sour face. “Men are always nice and smiling while they can get between your legs, but when it comes to commitment, they snake away. How can I trust you with my life if I can’t be sure you won’t go back to your wife?”

He rolled that sentence through his head.
Can…Can’t…won’t…

And what would he do? What would he do if he learned Sonya was still alive and she needed his help? What would he do if she suddenly showed up in Roalas? Would he have the guts to refuse her, to demand a divorce?

I would probably be better off with an illiterate peasant girl
, he thought.
Or one so mighty she couldn’t possibly care about my gold or status
. The image of Princess Sasha sprung to his mind, her cruel eyes, her disdain, his morbid fascination with her, a
woman who clearly did not lust for him or need him or care about him in any way.
My curse. I fall for evil women
.