Baron of Blood (Dawning Era Saga) Page 2

  He wasn’t ashamed. It was the way life was. The bigger fish ate the smaller fish, end of story. But other people’s feelings or expressions embarrassed him. He was a man who liked to keep a stone face, not matter what the situation. Ezbon rarely let his emotion show through. It took a lot to bring him to his knees, and he had never cried.

  Ezbon’s fingers wandered down to his purse and he felt it absentmindedly, mentally trying to surmise the sum that was in there. Even if he stopped in another major town, he should be able to get back home with plenty to spare. That was another problem with what Sitharus had done to Drakkian Province. The currency of nearly all of Dragoloth, the dera, had become virtually worthless in the province. The silver, gold, and platinum coins were in such short supply that no one could buy anything local with them anymore. Your dera were used to pay your taxes, and that was it. If you wanted to eat, you had to beg.

  That was, of course, until the year 120, when some genius or other came up with a new form of currency he called the darak. It meant, of course, ‘little dera’. It was made of copper, iron, or pewter. Iron being the least valuable, pewter being the most. The darak was widely accepted in Drakkian Province, and could be used to buy everything local. It made dera easier to save and it was far more practical. Unfortunately, since there was so much of it, you had to have lots of it to buy the things you wanted. A man could have a full purse and only have enough money to buy his family dinner for that night. These were hard times in Dragoloth for those of Drakkian Province.

  Revolution, the word appeared in Ezbon’s brain again like the whispering of an evil spirit, trying to tempt him to do evil things. Revolution wouldn’t help much. Wars were costly, and not everything could be manufactured at home. Sitharus wasn’t going to help fund his enemy side. It was impractical to even think of.

  Still, the word lingered in his mind. A constant, quiet presence.

  Shaking his head, Ezbon slipped his foot into the stirrup of his charger’s saddle and threw his leg over the side, mounting. He dug his heels into the charger’s gray sides and took off down the streets of the city, which were now teeming with people who had arisen to conquer the day.

  The city wasn’t in good repair to begin with, but things did go from bad to worse. It seemed that the closer you got to the city boundaries, the poorer people were, and the worse the neighborhoods became. Houses were cramped together, pressed up against each other’s sides like people jostling their way through a thick crowd. Vines that crawled up crumbling stone walls intermingled with each other, unaware of which house they were supposed to be growing on. Thousands of people littered the streets. Most of them were diseased, some of them were dead. There were beggars, thieves, and prostitutes aplenty. For the right amount of coins you could buy yourself some company for the evening or, hell, the week. Ezbon did his best to not to look to either side, but kept his pale blue eyes fixed straight ahead on his destination – the city gates. Never mind the bodies that pressed against him and his horse, not to mention each other, and scrambled to get his attention. The prostitutes leered at him with poorly painted lips and beckoned from the doorways of their houses, inviting him to come in and stay awhile. Children – the most wretched creations of all – were running in front of his horse, laughing and giggling – as if they had never seen a nobleman! People begged him for money, they groveled, they threw themselves at him. Had he not been so anxious to get out of the throng and back onto the lonely, quiet road, he might have laughed at the comical spectacle that they were making of themselves. He didn’t think they realized how truly ridiculous they really were.

  Ridiculous, pathetic. Revolution.

  What left path had that come from? Ezbon irately tapped the sides of his charger, urging it forward through another thick part of the crowd. The word annoyed him; it had followed him all day. It was as if he could read it on the lips of every woman who smacked her laundry against the side of a washtub and draped it over a bush to dry. He could see it in the eyes of every man who smacked his wife in frustration, or every child who curled up on the doorstep of its house, staring into the distance with woeful empty eyes and a sunken stomach. Revolution, revolution, revolution! It rose up like a victory chant, filling the air, and they never even had to open their mouths.

  Ezbon’s hand dove into his vest and he pulled out a silver flask of brandy, putting it to his lips and tilting his head back. He allowed the scalding liquid to burn a path down his throat and bring tears to his eyes. His eyes were still watering as he took another swig and then placed the cap back on, tucking it into his pocket once more. He was going to need more than a swallow or two of brandy after this ordeal.

  Home was not too far away. It was almost senseless to travel all the way back, only to meet Ivan again in a week. But Ezbon knew that if he had stayed in town, then Ivan would have hounded him until the very hour before their meeting, trying to influence his decision.

  But that’s not why you left.

  He needed time to think with a clear head.

  You know it’s more than that.

  He couldn’t stand to be in the same building with Nicholas for more than a few hours.

  He didn’t hate Nicholas, but he didn’t enjoy his company, either. It went back further than that. It was more than just being spurned for a manservant, a common child that could be picked up off of any street corner.

  “I’m sorry, Ezbon,” Nicholas said, resting his hand against the baron’s cheek. “If things had just been different between us. But I love him, I cannot help that.”

  Ezbon ground his teeth together. “You don’t love anyone, Nicholas. You aren’t capable of it.”

  Petty or not, the words rang true, then and years later. Nicholas had never loved anyone in his life. He had been the only child of a baron and baroness who ignored him completely for most of his childhood. He was married to a woman he hated, and he had had scores of lovers – but none of which he loved. Ezbon was no exception. It made his face flush with humiliation at the mere thought that he had ever imagined himself to be different.

  Chapter Three

  “My lord!” the chamber door swung open, and cold winter air wafted in from the hallway, chilling Nicholas down to the bone. He groaned in protest and turned over on his side, pulling his fur coverlet high over his head and burying himself in the warmth that it provided.

  “My lord!” the page continued to pester, unperturbed. He walked over to his lordship’s bed and began shaking him by the shoulder, much to the annoyance of the baron. “My lord, news, my lord! From the king!”

  “Azrael’s eyes,” Nicholas muttered thickly as he sat up, raking his hand through his thick red hair to get it out of his eyes. “It’s an ungodly hour of the morning.”

  “Yes, my lord, but it is of dire importance.”

  Arodi had already slipped out of bed. The manservant was tending to the fireplace, coaxing the fiery, spitting coals back to life with his iron poker. He was dressed in loose, comfortable clothing that somehow managed to show off his every handsome attribute at the same time. Nicholas moistened his lips with his pink tongue. He wanted nothing more than to peel the layers of clothing away one by one, slowly revealing that sculpted body…

  His train of thought was interrupted by the relentless page, who was now all but sitting in his lap trying to relay his message.

  “The king has shut off all trade!” the page announced, quite pleased to finally be heard. “And he has announced that barriers are to be set up around the province – that no one may get through without paying a toll!”

  “What?” Nicholas’ gaze bore into the page’s skull.

  “Yes,” replied the page, enthused. “He announced it yesterday afternoon and the news just reached here this morning. I rode all night just to-“

  “You did a splendid job,” Nicholas interrupted, sliding out of bed and groping around for his velvet robe. Arodi appeared quietly with the robe and slipped it over his master’s shoulders, handing Nicholas his pair of wire spectacles a
s well. Nicholas set the glasses gratefully over the edge of his nose and peered at the page over the half moon rims. “Get out, go find the scribe; I have a letter to dictate to barons Clieous and Cavalla. They will want to hear of this, for certain. Go!” his final word sent the page scrambling off out the door to perform his duty.

  The baron glanced at Arodi, who was still standing quietly by his side, a few paces behind him. “What do you make of this?”

  “I don’t make much of it, my lord,” Arodi said, with a shrug. “The ways of kings and politics are above me. I leave that to the writers of books, and to men of your position, who know of these things. Would your like your breakfast, my lord?”

  “Arodi,” Nicholas sighed, and slipped his arms around his servant’s waist. “You can be honest with me.”

  Arodi pressed closer to his master, tilting his head back and meeting his gaze. “I don’t think your friends are going to be very happy.”

  “Sitharus did it, so Ivan is bound to be displeased.” Nicholas said. “And Ezbon is never happy with … with anything.”

  “No,” Arodi said, the image of Ezbon Cavalla still emblazoned in his mind. Not a picture that he wished to let linger.

  “Ezbon will continue to suffer through whatever is thrown at him, and act all the more the burning martyr for it. Ivan will rant and rave, but in the end I have a feeling that he will do what the rest of us do – just bear with it.” Nicholas sighed, and rubbed his face with his hands. “I wonder why the king does this.”

  “I don’t know,” Arodi confessed. “He doesn’t see the suffering of the people as we do.”

  “Perhaps he does,” Nicholas observed.

  “How can someone look the other way, when faced with such poverty?” Arodi demanded. “You remember where you found me – where I was-“

  “Yes,” Nicholas said softly, wrapping Arodi’s thick chestnut hair around his hand and pulling it aside so that he could kiss the soft, curved neck. “I remember very well. But that is in the past now, my love, we don’t speak of it anymore.”

  “But you didn’t look the other way,” Arodi argued. “And you took me in. I am eternally grateful to you for what you did for me, you know that.”

  “Yes,” Nicholas said, nodding. “I do.”

  “I don’t see how a king can be any less generous than a baron. Who is, in many ways, his inferior. It puzzles me, and I don’t understand.” The manservant sighed, and glanced out the window where the jagged black mountains rose from the ground like the teeth of a beast, capped in white snow.

  “You don’t think I should write them,” Nicholas said, as if reading his servant’s thoughts.

  “No,” Arodi said, without looking up.

  “Ezbon can’t touch you,” Nicholas said soothingly, reaching out and brushing his hand across Arodi’s cheek. He brushed a strand of hair away, and noted the livid, ugly scar that twisted its way up from the servant’s jaw to his temple – a blow that had nearly killed him. He winced at the memory and kissed it tenderly. Arodi recoiled.

  “I don’t fear him!” The servant said hotly, his hand flying to the scar on instinct. “I don’t want you to write him, but you will if you want to. Who am I to stop you? I’m just a servant – and I know nothing of these things!”

  “Stop talking like that!” Nicholas roared, an octave louder than he intended. “You are much more than a mere servant to me, and you know it!”

  “Do I?” Arodi’s voice was so hushed that, in comparison, it seemed to be a whisper.

  Silence descended. Nicholas looked at his servant in mute understanding, and Arodi returned the look. Neither had anything more to say.

  Arodi bowed without another word and went back to tending the fire with renewed vigor. Nicholas paced around the room for an instant before deciding to dress and have breakfast on his terrace. It was a beautiful afternoon, and the sun was as its fullest glory, blazing brightly in the sky and reflecting with blinding brilliance off the snow. His terrace had a beautiful view that looked out to the distant countryside, vast and empty by this time. In his mind, he still debated on whether or not to contact his dear friends.

  Whether or not he contacted them, he knew that they would find out eventually. It wasn’t simply something that could be ignored. Sooner or later, Ivan would discover what the king had done, and then he would be out for blood. He would come after Nicholas’, more than likely, simply because he was an easier target. While the Clieous family was still young, and the Cavalla branches had more prestige than riches to back them up, Ercole still managed to sink to the bottom of the pecking order in Drakkian Province’s barons. It wasn’t fair, Nicholas thought. His family had the wealth, the power, the prestige. They were not the oldest family to exist, but they were close. They were in close running with the Turtems, who had appeared a couple of generations back.

  They were trained assassins; it ran in their blood as thickly as their noble lineage. And yet, the other barons simply did not take him as seriously as he would have liked.

  I should like to show them that Ercole is a force to be reckoned with!

  Arodi brought him his lunch, but they still did not exchange further words. Nicholas had nothing to say. He was too lost in thought, Ivan’s proposal from the night before turning over in his mind as he picked up his goblet and placed it to his lips.

  Ivan had proposed revolution. Well, treason. Wasn’t it all the same? Maybe Sitharus wasn’t fit to be king. Maybe the Dragolothian empire was just too … big for one man. After all, there were many provinces, and over fifty barons to help keep order. It was very likely that Sitharus had bitten off more than he could chew. He didn’t ask for all those lands, he had inherited them from his father. The former king had been the warmongering villain who wanted to know that his empire would stay together, but perhaps he hadn’t chosen wisely, perhaps the empire would crumble in his son’s hands.

  The empire needn’t crumble, just let Drakkian Province break away. If you help them, then you could share the spoils, and maybe you could rule a large portion of it. Imagine if Ezbon doesn’t join! Then you will have half. Half of this vast province could be yours…

  He glanced out at the landscape again, trying to envision it. All of the territory he could see and beyond that, past the snow-capped mountains, all the way to the borders of Drakkian Province, stretching almost as far as the Blackened Sea. All of it could be his, and then they would realize that the House of Ercole was a force to be reckoned with.

  It was an idea worth considering.

  Nicholas picked his spoon up from the table and dipped it into the bowl of stewed pears, stirring them around in their juices. They were hot and heavily spiced with cinnamon, something he had never cared for, but was all the rage this season. His cook insisted that his lord eat as fashionably as he lived. It was an ideal that was quickly grating on Nicholas’s nerves.

  He would probably go riding today, if time and duty permitted.

  Maybe if you were king, you would have no need for your wife.

  Nicholas shook his head. What a stupid thought – he would have more need for a wife than ever, if he was king.

  He spooned one of the stewed pears into his mouth, chewing slowly, thoughtfully as he contemplated the entire situation.

  Sitharus was just digging his own grave, sitting safely on his throne. He should have known that if he stirred up the wasp nest and then stuck his hand right into it, he was going to get stung. And he was, even if it was only Ivan doing the stinging.

  But maybe Ivan wouldn’t be alone.

  Nicholas pushed the pear into his cheek and sucked the juice out of it. What if there was a revolution?

  He chewed on the pulp, and swallowed it, spooning another into his mouth.

  What if I were king?

  It was something worth considering.

  Chapter Four

  The final blow had been struck. There was nothing more to it – something had to be done.

  Ivan crumpled the paper in his fist and catapulted
it into the fire, watching it burn to a cinder being only a minor consolation. The paper crackled and popped as the flames licked at its sides, curling the corners and darkening them, but he was no longer paying attention. He whirled away from the fire, and turned his attention instead to the matter at hand, and what Sitharus had done.

  Nicholas had written him, the letter had arrived in only a matter of hours. Sitharus wasn’t going to allow anyone to leave without paying a toll, which was out of the question for even most merchants in Drakkian Province. He had cut off all their trade, they could only live of the local food from now on, and that was going to run out very, very quickly. What was the king even thinking? Was there a method to this madness? “What does he want?” Ivan cried out to no one in particular, punching his heavy fist into the air and shaking it furiously. “What is all of this for, hatred for me?”

  That wasn’t entirely true. Sitharus probably didn’t hate him, but he was punishing him – of that there was no doubt. The king had been hells-bent on punishing Ivan ever since their last falling out… which just so happened to be in the middle of the entire court. Ivan had denounced his king as a liar and a villain, and a bloodsucking leech on the country’s pulsing jugular. Those had been his exact words, too, “bloodsucking leech”. Perhaps he should have chosen them more carefully. But it was all done within minutes, and he left the court almost immediately after that. Sitharus hadn’t been too happy, but at the time, Ivan didn’t think there was really anything he could do.