1st of Iam, 1019 N.F (e.y.)
Why am I here?
Necrem sat on a fancy wooden bench with a cushioned seat, hunched over with his elbows on his knees. He rolled his shoulders, failing to soothe the itch between his shoulder blades.
It was his new clothes. The soft cotton of his shirt rubbed against his skin and was making him itch all over. He had never worn a finer suit. The white shirt without a stain on it didn’t stretch or strain from his broad shoulders, and the sleeve length was just right. The trousers were professionally hemmed. The black jacket could remain buttoned while he sat and wasn’t too tight. Brass buttons at that! The boots shined with a fresh polish, and he guessed he could walk from where he was to Manosete and not wear out the heels.
It didn’t feel right wearing any of it.
Except for the boots. Never turn down a good pair of shoes, of any kind.
He wished he could have turned down being where he was.
He sat up, pressing his back against the flowing woodwork of the bench, hoping to soothe his itch and hide in the background against the wall. A nervous tick traveled down his right leg, making it tremble, and his heel tapped sporadically against the floor tiles. The sound was blessedly covered up by the multiple conversations, the gentle melody of flutes, and soft plucks of bandias—a fourteen-stringed wooden instrument.
He could have fit his entire forge in the room he was in.
People milled about in small conversations on the bronze tiles. Lights from candles and oil lamps danced off crystal chandeliers in the ceiling and along the walls between the wooden columns holding up the room.
Necrem figured a whole forest had been cut down to build the exorbitant mansion he sat in. He had been stunned when he’d seen the size of the mansion as the wagon that had picked him, along with a great many camp workers, up along the road and onto the grounds.
Although, he’d been in a constant state of stunned confusion ever since he had awoken in the back of that wagon three days ago. After waking up, he’d been driven to a new camp with a view of another battle displayed before them.
Everybody had been in such a rush. Hezet had been called back to his new company, leaving Necrem alone with the doctor and Stefan. After the battle, nothing had happened, though. It was the first time Necrem had seen a city taken. He’d expected more damage, yet no buildings or homes had been plundered or burned. Its people weren’t being divided, sorted out as sioneroses. Instead, those who tried to flee were forced back into the city.
In the meantime, everyone seemed to have forgotten about him, which Necrem didn’t mind. He enjoyed finally being left alone. He’d made a new mask for himself, endured Maranon’s checkups, and was pleasantly surprised that the Lazornians had better food.
Then, yesterday morning, a Lazornian officer had informed him that he’d been summoned to a reception tonight.
By the personal request of the marquesa herself.
His entire day after that had been snatched from him. He’d been rushed to a tailor in Crudeas where the officer and soldiers had watched over him as he was measured and accidentally poked with sewing needles that he had to wonder if they had done it on purpose. They had sewn him a new mask that fit better than his makeshift one. It breathed better than his old ones, too, but he wasn’t sure if the thin cloth would last long. It felt too delicate against his scars and skin.
Now, he was in some baron’s conquered mansion. He felt more out of place sitting by the wall than he did in that fancy tailor’s shop.
Men in fine suits, jackets of silk with sleeves of lace, knee-high pants and hose, and polished buckled shoes sniffed and sipped wine while talking business ventures and road conditions since campaign season had started.
Women in dresses of shimmering silk, with bare shoulders and their hair done up to show off their jewelry, necklaces of gold and silver, and sapphire and emerald earrings, talked behind their hands. There were gleams in a few of their eyes for the Lazornian officers walking around in groups of twos and threes.
The Lazornians were easy to pick out in their violet and black uniforms. Each group kept to themselves. The Lazornians only mingling when either a group of city officials or ladies stopped them to briefly talk.
Water and oil, Necrem thought. Water and oil.
They were trying to mix, but the hesitancy was there. Necrem found it funny and odd at the same time. From what he had always seen, calleroses and the gentry always got along together, no matter if they were from a different marc or not. Them being standoffish from one another made him want to shake his head.
But someone might notice him if he did that.
He hadn’t moved from his seat since arriving. It didn’t matter which side was water and which was oil, he was hot steel, and both sides would give him the cold shoulder and distant, disdained glances.
The bench was just inside the room, no more than ten feet from the door. He stiffly turned his head, gazing longingly at the freedom beyond.
Maybe I should leave? He gripped his knees, squeezing them to stop his heel from trembling. They wouldn’t notice, would they? Or maybe I should wait until someone—
“Sir Oso?”
Necrem snapped his head around. A Lazornian officer was beside the bench who hadn’t been there a moment before. He stood straight with his hands folded behind his back. He was slender, but his uniform fit him perfectly. A glint sparkled off the metal rim of his spectacles in his unform jacket’s breast pocket. Necrem noticed marks on the bridge of his pointed nose that the spectacles had made.
He was young, too. His dark hair was combed, and his face freshly shaven. There were bags though under his eyes, though, which Necrem suspected were possibly from this being his first campaign.
Ah, finally, Necrem breathed a soft sigh of relief, he’s going to tell me this was a mistake and to leave.
“Yes?” he replied hopefully.
The Lazornian sharply nodded. “Permit me to introduce myself. I am Commandant Cornelos Narvae, La Dama Mandas’s commandant de marquesa. On the behalf of my marquesa, I can tell you she is delighted that you could join us. Are you having a pleasant evening?”
Necrem sat there, staring at the man. His mask hid his jaw tightening. “Huh?” he grunted.
“The reception.” The young commandant blinked rapidly. “Are you enjoying it? Have you eaten?” He gestured to a side room where the scent of roasted meat and baked bread wafted out of. Groups of people drifted in and out, eating and drinking while standing. “There is plenty of food—”
“I ate earlier.” Necrem’s throat tightened, realizing who he had interrupted. He lowered his head respectfully. “Sir.”
He hadn’t known there would be food, but he still would have eaten before being forced to come. He avoided eating with the men he was conscripted with; there was no chance, under the threat of Oblivion, that he would eat among the people filling this room.
“Ah.” Commandant Narvae nodded. “Well then, if you’d be so kind to come with me.” He held his arm out, motioning toward the back of the room. “The La Dama is about to give an address to all the guests and personally requested I bring you up front to hear.”
Necrem knew a command when heard one. Through all the polite, confusingly formal, and long, unnecessary words, the message was clear. He’d been summoned, and there was nothing he could do about it. He had gone from playing the whims of a marqués to playing for whims of a marquesa.
Only this one remembered his name.
The commandant stood there with his arm out, waiting.
Necrem patted his knees a couple of times then eased up on them with a grunt, slowly rising to his feet, his legs shaking, as if he were hoisting barrels of coal on his shoulders.
The young commandant followed him as he rose, his head tilting back further and further. His calm demeanor remained the same, yet his eyes widened ever so slightly until Necrem towered beside him, his shoulders looming over his head.
Conversations around them, though, suddenly cut off. A few of the women stopped whispering about the Lazornians and gawked at him. Men who had walked by him, deep in conversations, whether it be the war, money, or the weather, without a second glance, pointed at him like he was a statue come to life.
Necrem let his shoulders hunch down, trying to make himself look smaller from all the attention.
“How are your wounds?” the commandant asked suddenly. He was looking him up and down with a concerned frown. “Have you fully recovered?”
Necrem’s legs wobbled from sitting so long, and he forced down his body’s pleas to stretch. He was drawing enough attention. He didn’t want to draw more from stretching and showing everyone how big he really was.
“I’m just getting old,” he replied. “Doctor Maranon said my wounds have healed up, but it might take me a while to get over them.”
“That’s good to hear.” Commandant Narvae smiled politely. “The La Dama will be pleased. Shall we?” He turned sharply on his heels then strode forward through the crowd, the clusters of people parting for him as he came upon them.
Necrem’s brow furled, and his eyebrows creeped down into his eyeline from the path the young man was taking. Yet, he had no choice. He followed, with shoulders slouched and head down.
“Who’s that?” a woman with a nasal voice whispered.
“He’s not a soldier,” one man mumbled.
“Or a calleros,” another man agreed. “Walks too humbly.”
“I wonder what’s under that mask?” A young lady giggled with a group of friends.
You don’t want to know, girl. Necrem shoved his hands in his trouser pockets to stop them from shaking.
However, it did bring him a little relief. Hearing them gossip and speculate assured him they didn’t know who he was. Therefore, the truth about him was safe. There were a hundred rumors in the camp about his scars, about how he had gotten them and why. Some were outlandish, while others terrifyingly close to the truth.
Only one thing was the same in all of them—Marqués Borbin was the one who had carved his face.
Why? The frustrating question echoed in his mind. Why did they tell everybody? Just to make everyone pity me more? That steelworker pride roiled inside him. No bigger than a lump of coal now, but it was enough.
Maybe . . . if I get the chance, I can ask—
Necrem failed to see the commandant had stopped and stepped on his heel. The young man jumped forward, startled.
“Sorry,” Necrem apologized, stepping back.
The commandant cleared his throat and straightened his clothes. He frowned at a large group of people, mostly women, huddled around someone buried in the center.
“No need to apologize, Sir Oso,” he said, bobbing his head back and forth at the crowd. “I stopped without saying so. Would you be so kind as to wait here for a moment? I will tell La Dama you’re here.” He gave a sharp nod then strode away before Necrem could say anything.
Leaving him alone.
Out on the open floor.
He glanced this way and that. The groups of people gossiping about him seemed to have lost interest, yet he spotted an older woman in a cluster of ladies near him turn her head his direction a few times.
Over to his right, he saw two tall young men in deep conversation with each other. One man was a Lazornian officer, while the other wore a fine suit with pressed trousers and stood with a confident bearing. A semi-circle of men surrounded them, half Lazornians by their uniforms, behind the man doing most of the talking, and the other half wore suits matching the other. By the way they all stood—confident, arms stiffly to their sides, and heads held high—told Necrem what they were. Calleroses. Lazornians and Orsembians alike.
Calleroses are calleroses, no matter what marc they come from or if they are campaigning against each other. It made Necrem’s scars twitch hearing them laugh together. Nothing really changes.
He pondered slipping away when another laugh made him look again. He got a good look at the Lazornian in the center—square-jawed, broad-shouldered, tall yet shorter than him by a head. His carrying voice stirred a memory.
That general on the road . . . what was his name?
The commandant rounded the gathering in front of him, walking back with an apologetic frown. “Sorry to make you wait,” he said, “but La Dama is wanting to make a small speech first. She got detained by more guests than she expected and figured now would be the best time to address everybody.”
“Speech?” Necrem grumbled, raising an eyebrow.
The sharp tings of metal against glass rang throughout the room.
As the multiple conversations slowly quieted, the crowd in front of him flowed back, their heads tracking someone moving toward their right.
A Lazornian servant appeared and put down a wooden crate a few feet away from where the calleroses had mingled.
As the crowd pulled back, Necrem finally caught sight of the person who held everyone’s attention.
She was a young woman, much in her prime. She walked with her head and her supple nose up with dignity. The light from the ceiling reflected off her smooth, tanned cheeks, catching her dimples formed by her small smile. Her dark hair was combed smoothly back, displaying her heart-shaped face yet covering her ears, and rolled into a bun that sat at the back of her neck.
Her clothes weren’t outlandish or exposing. While most of the other ladies wore dresses with bare shoulders, white lace formed a collar around her neck. Her deep violet dress swallowed the light rather than shimmered when she moved, and there was no swish or loud ruffle of multiple layers of skirts and fabric underneath.
The servant stepped away from the crate with his hand out. The woman took it and pulled up on the hem of her dress with the other. When she stood up on the crate, she passed a roaming glance around the room, her dark eyes catching everyone.
Necrem thought he saw her thin eyebrows twitch when she passed over him.
“Good evening,” the marquesa said, “and thank you all for coming. I . . .” She paused to shake her head, lowering it slightly. “I know it’s odd for me to say that to all of you, especially after the events of the last few days.”
She turned and stuck her hand out to her right. “I especially wish to thank Baroness Sa Manta for allowing me to call this gathering at her home. This has been a very trying time her and her family. I wish to commend her and her household for bearing and caring for our needs with grace and courtesy. She and her family are true paragons of hospitality.” The marquesa started to clap, and the rest of the room followed.
The homely woman who she had gestured to stepped forward, bowing with her hand over heart and pulling her left skirt to the side. When she stepped back, though, Necrem caught the trembling traces of strain as she smiled softly.
It’s not as if she had a choice. He probably wasn’t the only one having that same thought.
“And this has been a difficult time for her,” the marquesa continued. She folded her arms in front of her. Her smile slid away as she faced the guests. “It has been a difficult time for all of you in Crudeas, having your home invaded and then invited here while my armies surround you. I know what you fear. Your homes destroyed. Your loved ones taken.” She shook her head. “That won’t happen.”
Soft whispers ran through the guest with cautious glances shot toward the Lazornian officers spread throughout the room. Some were having to mind their tongues.
The marquesa cleared her throat. “Some of you many know I have freed the sioneroses in your city. I tell you now that I did not do that to swell my army and put your people in their collars. I did so because they deserve to be free. As do all of you.
“Free of the Rules of Campaign. Free of this endless cycle of year after year of sacrificing your wealth, your food, your children to this senseless season and seeing nothing in return. No end in sight, no goal to strive for. We of Lazorna wish to change that.”
The marquesa drew herself up, her shoulders rising and falling as she breathed heavily through her nose. “We are not your enemies!” she exclaimed boldly. “Nor are you ours. The people of Orsembar have nothing to fear from us. Our grievance”—her eyes flashed in Necrem’s direction—“is with Marqués Borbin.”
A spike of ice coursed through Necrem’s body at hearing the name. He balled his fists in his pockets, stretching and straining the fabric as the rest of the room grumbled. Many around him frowned, shaking their heads, having trouble finding a difference between her being an enemy of their marques and them.
“He has campaigned only through guile and betrayal,” the marquesa accused. “Being needlessly ruthless when he didn’t need to, betraying ally after ally, and hiding behind the Rules of Campaign when faced with opposition. You stand alone, Orsembians, with vengeful enemies all around, all for Borbin’s profit. But I ask you: where’s yours?”
She placed her hand on her chest then leaned toward the guests. “I have seen the burdens he’s placed upon you. Every town we have marched through, granaries are under lock and key. Commerce is ground to a halt because no one has the deberes to pay, and the prices for goods are exorbitant.
“And where are your men? Gone. Squatting in trenches or laying in ditches in front of another wall so Borbin can add another acre of land to his name. While what do you get? Fathers who don’t return. Sons who come back mutilated. Fodder for officers who see them as a quota they must bring to eat the scraps from Borbin’s table. Scarred forever by whoever Borbin points them at, or Borbin himself.”
Her gaze fell upon him, and Necrem’s breath clawed in his throat. Those dark eyes consumed him, swallowing him as deeply as the sleep he had awoken from days ago. They screamed to him from their very core.
She knew.
A quiver ran up from the soles of his feet to top of his head. Everything shook. His heart raced. His teeth clattered together.
“Please,” he hissed under his breath, unable to keep the thought silent. “Don’t.”
The commandant and others around him shifted. Most gave him cautious looks, as if he had shouted. The commandant, however, frowned worriedly.
The marquesa’s eyes glistened, her eyebrows drooped, and her lips pressed tightly together. She braced, on the brink of tears for an instant. Then she shook her head, blinking and taking a deep breath before raising her head, and the small smile had returned.
“I won’t ask any of you to change your allegiances,” she said. “I won’t demand you rebel against your marqués to set you against your neighbors. Especially, again, with your homes and families surrounded by my armies.
“I only ask this. When we leave here tomorrow, and you spread word of our time here, tell them what I said, and then tell them what we did. Tell them we came in like a whirlwind but left your homes standing. Tell them thousands of men struck as a steel but honored surrender. Tell them we tore the collars from the sioneroses but did not put them on your children’s necks. Tell them our fight is not with them but with Borbin. All I ask is that you wait to see the outcome. After that, you can make your choices.”
She nodded sharply then hopped off the crate. She strode to join the calleroses to her left, her shoes tapping on the floor as the crowd watched her silently. No claps or cheers, nor whispers or grumbles. Everyone watched, faces struggling to remain placid while chewing on her words and obviously not ready to swallow.
Necrem found them hard to swallow himself. An enemy of Borbin himself? Wait and find out? What difference is that from year to year? Marquéses and marquesas are always enemies. They just choose which year to strut before each other, and the loser sells out to the victor.
A still voice in the back of his head whispered to him, however, That didn’t happen at the junction.
Conversations began to resume, small whispers grew louder and built on top of each other, after the general introduced the marquesa to the Orsembian calleroses. The calleroses clicked their heels together, nodding sharply and respectfully.
Necrem felt his sleeve being tugged, and the commandant beside him cleared his throat.
“This way, Sir Oso,” the commandant said, ushering him toward the marquesa. Again, the young officer didn’t wait and proceeded to walk ahead of him.
Necrem kept his head up so not to step on him again.
“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself,” the marquesa said to the tall Orsembian calleros.
The commandant stopped behind the marquesa and clicked his heels together. “Pardon me, La Dama, but I’ve brought Sir Oso, as requested.”
The marquesa turned on her toes, keeping herself able to address both groups with a turn of her head. She gave him an assuring smile, looking up at him in the eye without a glance at his mask.
“Good evening, Sir Oso,” she said, her voice as smooth as a touch. “I’m glad to see you’re better.”
Necrem swallowed, unsure of what to say. Everything inside him screamed to say nothing, yet she could see that as insult, as well.
“Thank you,” he said lowly, “La Dama.”
He remembered his hands were still in his pockets and took them out with a jerk to perform a hasty bow.
“You needn’t be so formal,” the marquesa said with a wave. “I’m not as . . . snobbish as some of my contemporaries.” Her smile grew to a grin, bright with an air of charm.
Necrem kept silent, rising only slightly yet keeping his head tilted. She was being nice, which only made him more nervous.
Does she . . . want something? What? What could I have?
The general on the other side of her cleared his throat. “Excuse me, La Dama, but may I . . .?” He nodded at Necrem then at the calleros beside him.
“Oh, but of course, General Galvez,” the marquesa replied happily, taking a step back.
General Galvez held out his hand, as if presenting Necrem to the other calleroses.
“Luziro,” the general said, “may I introduce you to Sir Necrem Oso. He is the Orsembian soldier who rallied against us at our battle at the junction.
“And Sir Oso, may I present Cal Luziro Ribera.”
Necrem’s eyes widened upon hearing that name. The calleros’s own piercing hazel eyes widened, as well. He certainly wasn’t the White Sword. However, he was as tall and slender as the famous marshal Necrem remembered. The calleros was the opposite of the general, however. His shoulders weren’t as wide, and his face was all sharp angles, with his high cheekbones, pointed nose, and cleft chin. There were also specks of white in his dark hair, blending with his gray clothes.
Cal Ribera looked Necrem up and down then turned to the general. “Is this the man?”
“He is,” the general assured.
Cal Ribera snapped his heels together, going instantly to attention. “Bravo, sir!” He gave Necrem a sharp nod then stuck his hand out to him. “To hear a man stood alone against a whole company and got others to rally, with your bare hands, no less. It’s truly an honor. You did your marc proud.”
Necrem stared at his hand. It’s an honor?
The words sounded strange to his ears, as did his gesture. Yet more things to add to the pile of things that stopped making sense since that terrible night at the junction.
Everyone waited. While Cal Ribera kept his hand out, Necrem saw his fellow calleroses watching him as cautiously as they did the Lazornians. It would be rude not to take the man’s hand.
Still.
He was a calleros.
Whether it was that kernel of steelworker pride or his old scars, Necrem couldn’t.
“I don’t rightly remember what I did,” he said, turning his head away, “but it was nothing to be proud of.”
He kept his head down. He saw Cal Ribera’s hand wavering in the air and heard boots shifting on the floor tiles. He was sure they were glaring at him. However, in his current situation, maybe being accused of being rude would make them force him to leave sooner.
“I’m sorry to hear you feel that way,” Cal Ribera said softly, his hand falling away. “And I beg your pardon, La Dama, if I offended you.”
The marquesa shook her head. “Think nothing of it, Cal Ribera,” she replied. “While it was a slight against my soldiers, I must admit it was a small one. And, unlike the other rulers of the marcs, I am no stranger to calleros bravado. I grew up hearing it.” She shared a small look with both the general and the commandant. They were faint and quick, yet Necrem had caught them thanks to his head’s angle.
“By the way,” she continued, “I do apologize for our field marshal being absent tonight. While I assure you that he wanted to be here, the pace of our march has left him in need of some rest. I’m sure he would have been honored to meet the grandson of such a famous marshal.”
“Thank you, La Dama,” Cal Ribera said cheerfully. “I, too, would have been honored to meet the field marshal. My grandfather spoke highly of only a few commanders outside Orsembar, and Baltazar Vigodt was always one of them.”
The marquesa laughed softly; a small, happy, practiced laugh. “You are too kind. I hope your grandfather is doing well?”
“Last I heard. I haven’t seen or had word from him since a couple months before the exchange. In fact, it was . . .”
The conversation was leaving Necrem further and further behind. Worse, he found himself caring for it less and less. The courtesies. The formal addresses. The polite apologies followed by polite disagreements. They all left him standing there, wondering the same thing over and over.
Why am I here?
“If I may ask, Cal Ribera, what did you think of my speech tonight?” the marquesa asked.
There was a pause.
Necrem lifted his head to see Cal Ribera with his arms folded, his head tilted forward, and brow furled.
“To be honest,” he began, “I’m not quite certain. You’ve campaigned against my marc. It is my duty as a calleros of Orsembar to defend it. And, while it is commendable for you to say you are not an enemy of my people, I’m still left with my duty.” He chuckled, a smirk breaking his frown. “I’m afraid that doesn’t matter now, though. No matter how much leniency you give us, we’re still your prisoners.”
Everyone’s attention slowly slid back to the marquesa.
She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Something to be said for the honest response of a dutiful soldier. I’m afraid I probably won’t get any such honesty from the rest of the people in this room. The baroness is merely praying for us to leave to write to her husband about how dreadful we’ve been, and he and his ilk will likely not take kindly to me upending their world.
“All the merchants and this city’s important families are probably too uncertain to say they would be for or against. They’d probably just tell me what they think I want to hear.”
Her gaze shifted, locking eyes with him. Necrem knew what was coming before the words left her mouth.
“What of you, Sir Oso?” she asked. “You are neither baron, calleros, nor rich. What do you think?”
A knot formed in the small of his back. After being left out, the conversation suddenly engulfed him again, and when he lifted his head a little more, hard stares greeted him. Both Orsembians and Lazornians gave him warning looks and, caught between them, they made his response that much more obvious to him.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said.
“Oh”—the marquesa raised an eyebrow—“I think it does.”
“That’s not what I meant.” He shook his head. “You win. Borbin wins. It doesn’t matter. There will always be next season. Another marc. Another tax. Another order for a pound of flesh. On and on it goes. It’s just not worth it.”
The warning looks softened into blank stares. The marquesa’s face became expressionless, no hints of her inner thoughts escaped her. Finally, her soft smile returned.
“Walk with me, Sir Oso,” she requested.
She passed between the two groups, giving the calleroses a respectful nod as she went by. Her commandant beside him gestured to follow.
I should have stayed quiet, Necrem berated himself. His entire face twinged under his mask, fearing what was coming next.
Again, he was led through the room, and again, people parted. The marquesa, though, turned right down a corridor, out of the room and away from the exit. Voices grew louder behind them as they left, the guests more at ease to talk now that their benevolent captor had left.
The wood-paneled corridor echoed with the sound of bootsteps, more than just his and the marquesa’s commandant. Necrem looked over his shoulder. Two soldiers were following, wearing black breastplates over their uniforms. Their sleeves had black stripes, and their helmet’s black visors covered their faces, save for the eyeholes. The farther they got from the guests, the louder their bootsteps, accompanied by their swords slapping against their legs.
Necrem paid for not paying attention again and missed the marquesa stepping into a room off to the left. He walked past it a few steps before the commandant cleared his throat to alert him that he had gone too far. He bashfully turned back and cautiously walked into the room.
It was small room, about the size of Eulalia’s bedroom. Except, it was filled with chairs instead of a bed, all spread out through the room as if invisible people were having conversations with each other. There was a long, low table in the center of the room where two armchairs sat facing each other on either side.
The sound of pouring water grabbed Necrem’s attention to the right, and he looked to find the marquesa filling two wooden cups.
“That will be all for now, Cornelos,” she said.
The commandant snapped his heels together, nodded sharply, then drew the door with him as he stepped back out into the corridor. He didn’t close it. Instead, he left it slightly ajar, wide enough for Necrem to catch sight of one of the soldiers standing beside the door.
Still, he was left alone with the marquesa.
“I know you probably don’t want to drink in front of me,” she said, carrying the cups of water around the table and toward the armchair on the left side of the table. “But I would have felt it rude if I poured a cup for just myself.” She placed one of the cups in front of the chair on the other side of the table then sat down in her chair, already tilting her head back to drink. She took a couple of large, loud swallows then pulled her cup away with a relieved sigh.
“The worst thing about these events is that it nearly aways leaves me with nothing to drink,” she said. “A downside from my oath.” She gestured at the armchair opposite her. “Please, Sir Oso, sit.”
Necrem did as bade. He dragged the chair back a little more from the table to give his legs space then sat down. He folded his hands in his lap, his elbows resting on the armrests, leaving the water she offered on the table. He raised his head and found her studying him. She crossed her legs under her skirts, held her cup in her lap, and watched him.
Finally, she blinked then glanced down at her cup. “When General Galvez informed me that you had recovered, I asked him what he thought of you. He described you as being . . . beaten.” She leisurely swirled the water in her cup. “But I didn’t know how beaten you were until just now.”
Necrem rubbed the back of his knuckles. “I . . . didn’t mean—”
“You said nothing wrong,” the marquesa interjected. “Hiraldo—General Galvez—and the rest of the calleroses have all lived in a world where they are taught how to fight and know how to fight on even after a loss. But you”—she winced—“you’ve never been given a chance to fight for yourself, have you?”
Necrem was as lost as if he had awoken in the middle of the Desryol Sea. He listened the best he could, but he had no idea what she was talking about. There was only one resounding question that kept nagging at him, and he found that was the only response he could make.
“What do you want from me?” he asked. “Doctor Maranon said I might not be alive if you hadn’t ordered it. Why?”
The marquesa frowned into her cup. She took a small sip then placed it down on the table. “Because we share a similar pain,” she replied.
Necrem sat straighter and watched her rise back up. Her gaze was stone, yet a fire burned within those eyes.
“Three years ago,” she began, “Borbin violated an alliance he made with my uncle. He invaded us, marching in virtually unopposed and stormed the city of Puerlato. The commander of Puerlato’s garrison, the one my own uncle abandoned without help, was my beloved.” Her mouth twisted, and her chin wobbled. “He was killed trying to guide soldiers he thought were his retreating. Instead, they were Orsembians. They dragged him from his horse and butchered him in the mud.”
They sat there for a moment. Her pain was plain, yet talks of alliances, campaigning, and loss of cities meant nothing to him. As for the death of a calleros, Necrem felt nothing.
“Another campaign where the marcs betray each other,” he said.
The marquesa gave him a searching, dismayed look. “Is that . . . all you have to say?”
Necrem knew he shouldn’t have said that. He also knew he shouldn’t answer. He knew he should apologize. He did, anyway. “We common folk face such things every season. There’s not a family that doesn’t have someone fail to come back from the campaigns. It’s just how it is.”
The marquesa leaned forward, her face bright. “What if we could change that?”
“Change it?” Necrem snickered. “By you beating Borbin? How does that change anything?”
“No.” The marquesa shook her head. “Ending the Rules of Campaign. Everything.”
Necrem blinked at her. “What are those?”
The marquesa’s expression went blank. Then she snickered, halfheartedly chuckled, and lastly laughed; a desperate, sad laugh.
“It’s the boot on all our necks,” she said. She rubbed her forehead, causing a few strands of hair to come loose and fall across her face. “What all the marcs agreed to when the Desryol dynasty collapsed to see which ruling family could take its place. The reason for the yearly negotiations, the yearly declarations, and the meaningless campaigns. They set out the Bravados for the calleroses, the dealings between the marquéses, even who is chosen as a sioneros and who is not. All of it.”
What is she talking about? He understood some, other parts sounded ridiculous.
She looked at him as if he did, possibly expecting some passionate response. Instead, Necrem turned away.
The marquéses, the barons, and their calleroses all seeing everyone as having their job to do, some more important than others, was just how it was. It didn’t matter if was by whim or law.
He shook his head, feeling suddenly tired, and that they were getting nowhere. “I don’t understand what any of that has to do with me?”
“Do you not hate Borbin?” she asked coldly.
Necrem snapped his head up. The fire in the marquesa’s eyes was now an inferno.
“I saw how you looked at the Cal Ribera. And Hiraldo. The other calleroses. Even my guard outside.” She pointed at him. “You hate calleroses.”
“I—”
“That wasn’t a question.” She waved him off. “I remember every word you said that night in the clutches of the laudanum. You may not remember, but I do. You tore your scars, grimacing and snarling at every mention of them. For . . . what they did to your wife. You snarled and growled talking about Borbin, too.
“That same hate, the same loathing, I’ve felt that for three years, waiting for this campaign.” Her voice dripped with venom. Her face became a serene mask, yet her lips jerked and spasmed, fighting not to pull back into a snarl.
“So, because of that . . . you want me to join your army?” Necrem ran his fingers through his hair, pulling them back, damp with sweat. “I’m not a soldier! How many times must I tell people that?”
“No,” the marquesa replied in a hushed tone. “You’re much more than some conscripted soldier to be traded back and forth.” She ran her tongue across her lips then suddenly reached down to seize her cup, draining the last of her water in one gulp. When she finished, she held the cup to her chest, folding her other arm around herself. “That night, after the laudanum had run its course, Doctor Maranon told me what you did during the battle. I saw the look in his eye as he told it. He was . . . proud of you.”
“Proud?” Necrem grunted. “He called me an idiot.”
“All doctors call their patients idiots.” The marquesa snickered. “But he was proud of you that night. The other Orsembian soldiers, they stood up the whole night to hear if you had recovered.”
The tops of Necrem’s cheeks around his scars warmed. He looked down and rubbed his palms against his knees. “Can’t imagine why they’d do that.”
“You inspired them.” A hint of awe laced the marquesa’s voice as she leaned forward, returning her cup to the table. She kept the pose, leaning with her arms against her legs. “You charged a whole company, alone, with your bare hands. And instead of running or slipping away in the dark, you inspired men who had no reason or desire to be there, no hope of winning, to fight.” She gleamed brightly. “That’s special, Sir Oso. That’s why the soldiers keep talking about it. Why even Cal Ribera wanted to shake your hand.”
“And why you want me to join you,” he said.
“Yes, but not to fight.” She held up a finger pointedly. “I want you to tell your story. Everywhere we march, as we draw out Borbin’s army bit by bit, I want you to tell everyone in Orsembar what he did to you. How he let his calleroses rape your wife. How he mutilated you for defending her. I want you to show them your scars and tell all Orsembar who did it to you!” She spoke louder and louder until she was yelling. She paused to take a breath, panting as her shoulders fell up and down, the fire returning to her eyes. “And I want you to be there. I want you to be there that day when we face Borbin himself and tell him, ‘Vengeance comes for him!’”
Necrem’s hair stood on end. Every scar on his face throbbed, tugging the stitches. Fire raced down his spine, forcing him to sit up. The lump of coal, which was left of his steelworker pride, ignited from it. His heart pounded in his chest like a hammer. It resonated with the marquesa’s words and the fire in her gaze.
A singular hatred in common. It roared deep within him, long buried yet refusing to be contained. The roaring demand of a wronged man wanting retribution.
The memory of Eulalia flashed before him, as she was before and as she was when he had left her. The memory of her bedridden deafened the roar. Eulalia and Bayona were home, alone and waiting.
“My wife . . .” he said softly, “needs me.”
The marquesa had sat up, as well, head high and assuredly feeling the same connection he did. Her fire blew out, and her shoulders fell.
“Your wife? She’s still . . .?”
Necrem gripped his knees, stopping his legs from shaking again. “She has her good days . . . but most are bad. It’s been . . . challenging. Especially for Bayona.”
“Bayona?” The marquesa raised an eyebrow.
“My daughter.”
The marquesa paled. “Is . . .? Is she—”
“She’s mine!” Necrem’s words came out harsher than they should, but he’d been plagued with others who knew what had happened back then, asking the same question. His fingers dug into his knees. “I see it in her face, in her eyes, how she’s grown. She’s mine. My . . . little miracle.”
“They conscripted you”—the marquesa sat back with a disgruntled expression, folding her arms—“even though you had a family and your age.”
Necrem’s mangled mouth twisted. “Couldn’t pay the tax. Borbin made it so high. They left me no choice.” He folded his hands together tightly. His knuckles went white. “I couldn’t leave my family without a roof over their heads.” He licked his misshapen lips, his breath going hoarse from his dry throat. He reached for the cup but stopped short of grabbing it.
“Would you excuse me for a moment?” he asked her.
The marquesa nodded.
Necrem took his cup and got out of his chair, walking over to a corner of the room. He kept his back to the marquesa as he lifted his mask only above his chin. He held his head back then poured only small trickles into his mouth, enough to quickly swallow yet not worry about overflowing and spilling from the holes in his cheeks.
The lukewarm water rushed down his throat, soothing it in streaks as he took one sip. Then another. Then another.
“Do your scars hurt?” the marquesa asked.
Necrem lowered the cup then lowered his mask back over his mouth and chin. “If I don’t keep them clean. Or if I don’t keep them salved. Or if I make any sudden movements and raise my voice. They hurt at least once a day.”
“I’m sorry.”
Necrem glanced over his shoulder, finding her with her hands folded in her lap, her head down, contemplating.
“I didn’t know they’d taken you from your family,” she said. “I assumed you’d lost them. And despite what I believe you can bring to my cause”—she shook her head—“I can’t ask you to abandon them.”
Necrem turned, his heart pounding again.
“We’re moving out tomorrow,” the marquesa continued. “When we leave, I’ll make sure you’re able to get back to them. You can stay with us until we reach a part of the road that’s safe to leave.”
Necrem’s jaw dropped, pulling on his mask. Is it . . .? Is it really that simple? Just like that?
He tried to speak, but his words came out as grunts. “Thank you, Marquesa,” he finally got out.
She gave him a knowing smile. “You needn’t thank me. You can stay here for the night to rest. That way, you don’t have to—”
“Is she in there?” a man demanded outside.
Both Necrem and the marquesa’s heads spun toward the door.
“The La Dama’s busy,” the commandant replied. “Come back—”
“Damn that!”
Boots scraped against the floor tiles in the corridor. The loud thump of someone hitting the wall made it shake. The marquesa was already on her feet when the door swung open.
From his angle, Necrem couldn’t see whoever was holding it open. He saw the marquesa’s eyes narrow, glaring at them, her fists balling around handfuls of her skirts.
“What is it?” she demanded pointedly.
Something unspoken passed between her and the person holding the door. Whatever it was made her take a deep breath before putting on a serene expression and turning back to Necrem.
“Please excuse me, Sir Oso,” she said. “Something important has come up. I do thank you for letting me speak with you.”
Necrem was about to thank her, but she turned on her heels and strode out of the room. They didn’t close the door all the way, though, and he was able to hear them outside.
“This better be important, Sevesco,” the marquesa warned.
“One of my informants outside Compuert finally got word back to me,” a man said. “Borbin is marching straight for Puerlato.”