The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) (65 page)

More truths, more unknowns. “Your grandfather served under my father?”

The stranger nodded. “Yes. He helped Emperor Adam forge his new realm. No one gave him his due credit, but he did that.”

James finally remembered to ask. “What is your name?”

The other man slapped his forehead. “Forgive my manners! Too many drinks tonight. My name is Robin. But you can call me Rob.”

They shook hands. James liked this man. He saw no reason why he should not extend an invitation and let him stay at the estate.
My new friend?
James wondered. At the very least, they shared the same taste in women.

“Well met, Rob. Call me James.”

“Sure, Your Highness,” Rob said, and James laughed in earnest.

CHAPTER 40

“L
ook here,” the mercenary whispered, producing three leather-bound boxes from behind his back.

Bart leaned forward, swaying slightly. His head felt heavy.

The soldier placed the boxes in front of him. Each was a different color, red, gold, and black. Carefully, the man pried them open. Inside each, seated on a velvet cushion, was a scorpion, matching the color of the casing.

The count grinned like a fool, delighted.

“Pick one,” the other man lisped, just as drunk as the Eracian.

“The yellow one,” Bart said, pointing. His finger inched close to the scorpion.

The Borei gasped and swatted his hand away. “No! You get stung, you die.”

The count nodded solemnly. “Yes, yes. The yellow one for me.” He placed a handful of gold coins on the dirt in front of him. All around, the soldiers of all nations lay down their bets. The Borei man chose the red arthropod.

Carefully, he picked them up with a mailed glove and placed them in a deep sieve, shook it hard to get the scorpions riled, and then the fight to the death started. Men crowded around the miniature arena, cheering. Soon, it was over. The red one won.

Bart slapped his thigh. “Damn.”

The mercenary spread his arms amicably. “Ah, Lord Count, no matter. You win some, you lose some.” And then he roared with laughter.

Bart slid over his coins, then reached for the flask of snake wine. The thing had the taste of a dead animal embalmed in wine, but it sure did send fire coursing through his veins.

The Borei did not celebrate the Autumn Festival. Instead, they called the event the Balance. There was one in the spring too, when light and dark shared equal portions of a day. For them, the holy day was not so holy, more sort of a day of luck and chance. From now on, until the next Balance, the night would be stronger, but sometime again in the uncertain future, daylight might prevail again. With uncertainty looming ahead, the best you could do was drink and fuck.

The count of Barrin had been invited to join the Parusite celebrations, but he was in no mood for praying and some more praying, diplomacy be damned. He might be considered a guest of honor, but apart from dry hospitality, the king had given him no promises, no reassurances, nothing. And he sure was not going to beg. So perhaps declining the invitation might convince them that he was displeased. And if Bart were displeased, so would the monarch be.

Besides, he felt more at ease with the mercenaries and his own retinue. He was not quite sure why obstinacy had gripped him so suddenly, but he was proud of his shaggy beard and the deep tan and the newly acquired cultural wealth. Gambling with the Borei taught you more than a whole year in the academy of politics.

His companions were easygoing soldiers of fortune who cared little for reasons beyond killing. What mattered was the money. Bart thought he ought to despise them, but their convictions were no less true than words of patriotism and sermons of faith that the people in the realms professed. They fought just as other men hammered metal and baked bread. If you accepted that simple truth, you realized the mercenaries were ordinary men who enjoyed life and would accept anyone who cared to join them for a drink or a toss of the dice.

His scorpion adversary was called Junner, a mahout by profession. He promised to take Bart for a ride one day, preferably not during a battle. Next to him sat Anbal, a sapper with few words in his mouth and fewer teeth. Corporal Kacey was lounging some distance from the pits, sharing a skin of wine with a Red Caps woman. The relentless advances seemed to have worked, or perhaps it was the loneliness that brought strange souls together. A furtive and intimate hug spoke of more than roadside friendship.

Captain Paul was at Bart’s side, acting as a sort of bodyguard, although in his current state, the best he could do was not cut himself when drawing a sword. Half a dozen other soldiers were dispersed in the colorful crowd of Borei and a few odd Parusites, enjoying music, spicy food, and wild stories of war. Hundreds of women mingled with the soldiers, the collective wifehood of the mercenary camp. Bart was amazed that they cared nothing for marriage or even blood ties like people in the realms.

“Incest is wrong,” the count tried to argue only yesterday.

“Incest only, yes,” Mennad the footman agreed instantly. “That’s why you must have orgies.”

Yes, orgies
, Bart thought inanely. The Balance was not just a celebration of luck; it was a massive spree of lust and wild abandon. Nine months from now, hundreds of bastards would be born into the ranks of Borei, who would grow into warriors without knowing who their father is. But it made no difference, because they raised all children as their own.

“The women know who their pups are. That’s the important thing,” Mennad said.

Apparently, the bad blood sorted itself out, Bart thought, looking at his hosts. They all looked healthy, with clean features and healthy bodies, minus the battle scars.

Paul giggled like a girl as he collapsed into the lap of one. The woman was wearing a large pelt over her naked form and feeding the captain with figs. He seemed to be enjoying himself immensely.

Even his half-deaf servant Edgar had gotten past his terror of partying before his lord and was nuzzling the breasts of a woman a third his age. Everyone had someone, except him. He was entirely alone, and his groin ached. Sonya would not let him around her very often. She thought that if she denied him, he would grow tougher and more deserving of the reward, but he just considered her cold and cruel.

“What, no woman for you, Lord Count?” Junner shouted, reading his mind.

“I’m a married man,” Bart said, almost automatically.

“And I have a cock and two hairy balls!” the man exclaimed, fondling his crotch. He rolled backward as he laughed. Everyone joined in. Except Bart. He sipped more of the vile wine and thought about his life, his choices.

He shook his head. Enough of that. He was here to enjoy himself. “What other games can we play?”

Junner rubbed his callused palms together; they rasped like dry wood. “Oh, many. We can do cockfights. We can do bear fights. There’s mongoose and cobra dance. There’s frog racing, anything you want, Lord Count.”

Bart considered the options. He was too tired to shamble to another game pit. “Let’s do another scorpion fight. I’ll take the black one this time.”

Again, he lost.

Junner patted him on the shoulder. “You will win one day, Lord Count.”

Bart nodded solemnly.
Will I?
He wondered how this war was going to end. If the Eracian nobles and dignitaries ended up on rusty spikes on some wall somewhere, he was not going to win. So far, he had managed nothing at all. But he had a new plan.

Back home, the Autumn Festival was a half-happy, half-serious affair. Peasants had it much like the Parusites, except they didn’t focus on religion so much. In the cities, much like Caytor and the Borei camp, there would be great celebrations raging through the night, bringing up the tally of base-born children to a new record. At the Barrin estate, he would be hosting a large dinner followed by some sort of exotic entertainment. He would have to squander money to hire a troupe of dancers or singers or saber jugglers or some such nonsense so that his peers would consider him courtly and modern. A few months back, it would have seemed a totally reasonable thing to do. He was not so sure anymore. There was old black anger inside him, crying to be released.

He had a plan.

“Cards?” Junner persisted.

Bart waved his hand in dismissal. “You will cheat.”

Instead of being offended, the mercenary just winked. “Ah, the snake wine sharpens your mind, Lord Count.”

The night stretched. Bart rose and walked a few paces away to piss against a bush. The night was brisk, but mercifully without rain. A woman trotted past him, waving. He waved back and followed her with his eyes until he realized he had turned half a circle, still pissing.

“Shit,” he mumbled, lacing himself up. He had drunk too much. And the night had just begun. “What else you got for me?” he asked Junner when he returned and plopped back onto the soft rugs.

Junner looked at Anbal. The toothless man nodded. “Come.”

Groaning, Bart rose again and followed. Steady on his feet, Junner led him away from the noise. They weaved a seemingly random path through the Borei camp and then entered one of the tents. Inside, there was a woman in a cage.

“For you,” Junner said.

Bart frowned. “What? Who is she?”
A kidnapped Athesian?
he thought with rising alarm. Worse, could she be a Parusite soldier? He had heard rumors about the mercenaries taking liberties with women. If they were alone and unescorted, they were free for the plucking, the Borei reasoned. But that seemed to have stopped since King Sergei threatened to cut manhoods off any perpetrator caught. So what now?

Junner pointed. “For you.”

“Did you kidnap her?” Bart insisted. When he went back to the main camp, what would he say? Would he mention her to the Parusite king or his sister? Would he ignore her?

The mercenary shook both his hands and head. “No, no, no. She’s one of ours,” the man said, almost defensively.

“Why do you keep her in the cage?” the count asked.

The mahout seemed confused by the question. “Why? Because she’s a maiden. It’s for her own protection. We keep them locked until they can be sold and bargained for. This one is for you.”

Bart swallowed. Junner simply ignored his earlier mention of his marriage. “You consider this a game?”

Junner inclined his head. “Game, yes, no. It’s the Balance. Best night to lose maidenhood. And she’s for you.”

The count realized he should be honored. Looking more sharply, he realized the woman did not seem frightened or harried or malnourished. She was healthy, clean, and even looked bored. The cage was rather large, and it contained a bed, a washstand, and a handful of dolls and board games to keep the woman occupied.

“You keep her locked in there all the time?”

Junner chortled. “No, of course not. In daylight, we get them traveling together with other women, under guard, but tonight, you can’t know what might happen, so it’s best to keep your assets protected. This one is mine. I got five maidens,” he declared proudly. “Sold the other four earlier, so she’s the only one left. But most expensive, too.”

“Is she your daughter?” Bartholomew was sober now.

The other man just shrugged innocently. “Could be, but I doubt it. She’s prettier than me.” He laughed madly. “You can have her, if you give me your Kacey woman,” Junner offered.

Bart suppressed his anger. “My soldiers are not for sale. They are free people and will choose their own destiny. If Corporal Kacey wants to be with you, it’s her choice. I do not own her. And I wouldn’t suggest you ever ask her that.”

Junner sensed the sudden change in the count’s mood. “Ah, Lord Count, take no offense. You’re not into bargains, no matter. I saw you play and drink. I thought you wanted some dessert.”

“No, thank you. Let’s go back.” Bart realized his cultural enrichment had taken a whole new turn.

“You stay here!” Junner told the girl. She looked disappointed. Laughing, he led the count out of the tent. “She’s a pretty one. I won’t sell her cheap.” And his friends would not buy costly, it seemed.

Bart felt empty when they returned to the celebration. He took his place near a fire, eating roasted meat mechanically, his mind reeling with thoughts. The sight of the caged woman, even if voluntarily, shocked him. Then, he should not be surprised. The Borei had little regard for the rigid family and marital rules that bound the realms.
Welcome to reality
, his mind whispered.

He drank more wine—snake wine, red wine, white wine, plum wine, anything he could lay his hands on. Soon, the world swam before his eyes. A throbbing rhythm hit his temples, and he slowly realized those were drums. The Borei had cleared a large circle. Women were stepping into it, limned in orange flames of campfires, dancing to the beat of the music. Scantily clad despite the cold, sweating and swaying drunkenly, the Borei non-maidens gyrated in front of the cheering, hollering crowd of soldiers. Men were tossing coins toward the women and shouting offers. Every now and then, one of the owners would stand up and accept the bid. Never pausing, the purchased women snaked their way out of the circle, following their new owner for the night.