The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3) (29 page)

Oh, his head was beginning to hurt fiercely. A coronet of slow rolling thuds, getting hotter, crept up behind his ears and toward the crown of his head, like errant vines.

The throne room was too hot, too stifling.

Sasha and her fires.

Two throne seats had been brought forward, one for the princess and one for him. They sat side by side, mostly trying to agree through a silent brotherly bond that required few words. At his side, Genrik and Theo posed. Sasha had her priestess in attendance. A host of other clerks hovered nearby, plus two servants ready to offer refreshments.

After long months of waiting, a load of lizard tails had finally arrived in Roalas, and Sergei could once again enjoy Timur’s delights. The palace cook was not happy with a strange man taking over the kitchen, but as much as Sergei allowed the city business to continue untouched, this was one area he would not relent.

His three squires were also present, along with Lieutenant Borya and a dozen royal guards, all dressed for the occasion. A small crowd had gathered to listen, mostly the rich people of Roalas. Sergei noticed several merchants, too, including Caytoreans. He did not doubt there were spies in the audience, so he made sure to present his best act for their sake.

“The violence is simply intolerable. This constitutes an attack against Eracia,” the duke droned.

Sergei wanted to argue, but the man was probably right. As his honored guests, inside the palace no less, they were his
responsibility. If any one of them came to harm, it would be his fault.

Well, two of them did.

Everyone had dismissed the first death as a mere accident. Count Thomas, found dead at the bottom of a stairwell, his neck broken, his skull smashed in by unyielding masonry. It had come as a shock, but the man was known to drink, and, well, people fell off stairs. Nobles were not exempt.

However, the second incident, only days apart, was suspicious. Margrave Sydney had drowned in his bathtub. He had been found by a towel maid, his head submerged, only the top visible, like some upturned bowl. Chief Healer Radburne had proclaimed the death cause to be seizure of the heart, which could happen when middle-aged men lounged in hot water for too long. Not a mystery on its own, just an awful lot of bad luck.

It was uncanny. All of these nobles had survived the entire siege unscathed, and now two had died within a week. Unsettling.

Still, there were no signs of struggle, no signs of foul play. Which made Sergei pretty much helpless. What could he do now? Start rounding up his citizens, questioning them? He was trying to build on what little trust he had with the Athesians; blaming them for the death of two prominent Eracians was not going to help his cause. And if he had to point fingers, the Eracians seemed the most likely culprits. After all, they alone had to gain from the death of their comrades.

Why not start with the duke?
he wondered.
Maybe that would be too obvious?

Bloody heat. Bloody headache.

“I can provide you with an armed guard at all times,” Sergei said. “Meanwhile, my men will begin an investigation.”

Duke Vincent made a gruff sound, something like agreement.

Sergei felt it was settled then. “Thank you for your time.”

The Eracian retreated to the cluster of his followers, the so-called war council. Sergei called it the “woe council.” He had never seen such a sorry lot. Well, he had. His own nobles, after his son had been kidnapped.

Surrounded by fools
, he thought glumly. But it didn’t matter now.

“Who’s next?” Sasha asked, turning toward her priestess.

Theo coughed, holding a ledger with a list almost triumphantly. “Your Highness, my princess, we have Lord Orson of Shurbalen.”

Sergei frowned, then remembered the old man droning about today’s petition earlier.

The High Council had kept rather quiet of late, probably trying to assess the situation before reacting to last year’s fiasco. On one hand, the king had freed their men, a solid gesture of goodwill, and he had sent his soldiers to fight the pirates, another gesture. But they had the young Emperor James on their side, so they could afford to be silent.

The king raised his hand and bade the petitioner approach. A tall man detached himself from the colorful crowd and stepped forward, bowing formally.

“Your Highness,” he said. “I am Lord Orson, a member of the High Council.”

Sergei rubbed his temples. “What brings you here, Councillor?”

Lord Orson bowed again. “I am here to demand the release of eighteen hundred Caytoreans still held by the Parusite authorities. Mostly women and children, taken from their homes by the Oth Danesh.”

Sergei exhaled deeply through his nostrils, the air hissing loudly. The pirate curse was going to haunt him forever. “We do not have any Caytoreans in our custody. All those returned have been safely escorted across the border.”

The councillor cleared his throat. “We demand a monetary compensation then.”

Sergei stared at the man. His lordship title was nothing more than custom, he thought, like so many other things with the Caytoreans. One of his forebears must have been a nobleman in earnest, but now the only connection to that family line was through vast amounts of money.

“Let’s hear it.”

The lord flicked his fingers. A clerk stepped forward and handed over a leather-bound case. Theo accepted it, glanced briefly at the documents inside, then gave it over to the king. Sergei opened the binder and scanned the pages. Names, relations, social status, price. A hundred silvers for a common girl or boy under ten summers, three times that for those just under the age of consent. Heaps of gold for the rich. Small mountains for councillors’ families. He did not like that.

There was money in the city coffers, but he needed it to rebuild Roalas. He could not spare anything for reparations—if he decided to pay. An admission of guilt might mellow the relations with the Caytoreans, but it might also make him an all too easy target for future bribery and blackmail.
Was this how Amalia felt when her father died? Felt a strong need to save face, no matter the consequences?

He looked at the thick layer of red and yellow wax on the last page, imprinted with at least a dozen seals. One or two names looked familiar, but he had mostly ignored everyone in the last few months of the siege and afterward, so he could not be quite sure. Too late to regret that.

Stolen children, this is going to be my legacy. They will call me Sergei the Baby Snatcher
.

“Your petition has been noted,” he informed the councillor.

Lord Orson did not move. “What is your decision, Your Highness?”

Sergei maintained a blank face despite tiny hot claws of headache pulling on the inside of his eyes. “I haven’t decided anything yet, Councillor. You are welcome to stay in the city. I will duly inform you of my decision.” He felt Sasha’s eyes boring into him.

He spared her a glance. She seemed to be disagreeing with him, but
he
was the king.

“Who is next on your list, Theo?” Sergei asked, returning the gaze. Sasha’s lips twitched into a sneer; then she looked forward, at the audience. He flicked his fingers, and a servant brought him a platter of sugared lizard.

The adviser blinked his old eyes. “Your Highness, there’s a Kataji emissary who—”

Sergei leaned forward in his seat. “A nomad envoy? Here?”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

He rose and clapped once. “This session is adjourned.”

Borya moved to clear the crowd. There were small murmurs and protests from the petitioners and spectators, curiosity mixed with indignation.

“I expect you to tell me such things in advance, Theo,” Sergei chided once the throne room was empty. The absence of people did little to reduce the stifling heat from the two fireplaces.

“I was informed only a moment before the session, Your Highness. I felt it was important enough to notify you at once. The Kataji insisted on seeing you immediately. He even refused to wash up from the road.”

My head hurts, and now I must suffer a stinking tribesman
.

Sergei looked at Sasha. “What do you think, Sister?”

She sniffed. “Now you care for my opinion?” she snapped.

Theo shuffled nervously, uncomfortable to be so near a family quarrel.

Sergei flashed an angry look at Sasha. They should never fight in public, but she did not seem to care.

“The mongrels probably want to know if they can count on us for assistance. Or noninterference.”

“Why would we want to aid these heathens?” he demanded.

Sasha rose. Her robed friend followed, tailing after her like a second shadow. “Because they might offer you the south of Eracia. Think of that, Brother. This means removing the Eracian threat from the Territories once and for all. Securing the west border permanently.”

Sergei imagined the layout of the realms. The Safe Territories bordered with the nomad lands, but that area was sparsely populated. Mostly some Eracians, a few stray Parusites, a handful of tribesmen more content to trade in fur and rare metals than fight.

Still, it was a tempting notion. Once he completed the conquest of northern Athesia, with the whole of the Safe Territories in his hands, and maybe a part of Eracia, he would have increased the realm by half as much as it was today. In less than two years of fighting. Even Pyotr would have been proud of such a campaign.

However, it all depended on what the nomads wanted.

And his success in the north, which wasn’t quite so successful.

Sergei opened his mouth to speak, then stopped. He had to be very careful now. Perhaps the arrival of this emissary and the death of Eracian nobles was not a coincidence. In fact, the
nomads had the most to gain from the removal of their enemy’s elite. And yet, it was too obvious.

His head hurt too much. He could not decide just yet. He wanted to resolve the deaths first. If they turned out to be murders, he wanted to know who and why.

“You will inform the Kataji envoy that I will not be seeing him today. Nor will my sister. He will be our honored guest.” The king turned toward Lieutenant Borya. “Make sure he is watched and followed at all times and that he does not leave Roalas.”

Theo cleared his throat. “That might be interpreted as an insult, Your Highness.”

Sergei nodded and wished he had not. His brain reeled. “So be it.” The affair with Adam’s bastard son was far more important. And so were the accidents.

Sasha stood near the table laden with plates of food. She pushed the one with lizard tails away, looking disgusted. “Do you have enough troops to wage war on two fronts, if you must, Brother?”

Sergei didn’t like her tone. Nor the fact most of the troops in Athesia were his sister’s Red Caps, utterly loyal to her. Facing west, against the possible threats of the High Council and Emperor James, not east toward Eracia and the nomads.

In the east, he had only the settlers to rely upon. He did not like the idea of having to fight inside the Safe Territories, so close to holy sites. The people were busy rebuilding ruined cities and temples, and now, to impose a new war on them, it would be a disaster.

But the Eracians might as well choose to invade if cornered. They would call it a peaceful migration, nothing more. It would not be much different from what his troops had done after the last war. How could he object to people of the realms wanting to be closer to faith?

He had no idea what the tribesmen might do. What if the Kataji decided, instead of grappling with Eracians for their land, to just move south, into the empty stretches of the Territories? Use the land of the gods to advance unchallenged and sweep around their foes? If they captured Mista, there would be no one to stop them from entering Sevorod.

Sergei realized he might have to mobilize troops back home again. But it would take weeks for the messages to reach his dukes and counts, months before they arrived to help, if they decided to indulge him. Their oath-bound service had ended, and Sergei could not force them again until next year.

Hopefully, he could convince just Duke Yuri and Count Pavel to march into the Safe Territories and bolster the defenses, perhaps bribe them with a promise of new lands. All of that meant at least four or five months before he could refuse the Kataji delegate. The man would probably not wait for the Parusite regiments to slug north to their positions before departing for home, carrying the king’s ambiguity as his definite reply.

Or I could indulge Under-Patriarch Evgeny with his combat clergy
.

The army of faith would be useful, akin to the now-disbanded Outsiders. They would serve for life. Only they would not be bound by the oaths like his lords, which meant losing control of the Safe Territories altogether.

He had the most powerful army in the realms, and yet he felt helpless, indecisive, desperate. He started imagining all the little wars that could burgeon, and he saw himself trapped in Roalas forever, fighting till infirmity, with Adam’s ghost cackling from the grave, mocking his foolishness.

Sending for Yuri and Pavel might not even work. They would be forced to muster their forces in the middle of winter.
It would be a gruesome, tough march through slush, icy autumn rains, and biting storms. Most of the Parusites were not used to harsh inland winters. The siege alone had crippled thousands, without ever seeing an Athesian in battle. Sending them to a forsaken land, where they might fight savages or desperate Eracians, would be a likely disaster.

He had to endure with what he had. Make sure Sasha listened to him.

He had to be decisive, ruthless, practical. Like the last man to have held Roalas.

Perhaps this was what Adam saw when he birthed his little empire. Perhaps he saw the looming threats everywhere, had to listen to a hundred emissaries voicing lies and veiled threats. Perhaps he understood that more war would ruin him, so he settled for a cold peace
.

Bloody Abyss, he cursed to himself.

There was a loud knock on the throne-room door. Almost urgent. One of the guards cracked it open. A messenger entered and fell on one knee.