Crompton dreaded reaching the Salatian capital. The countryside where he traveled was still wartorn; broken and burned buildings littered the fields. Half of those fields themselves were burned.
What a waste.
What an awful waste.
Had he known the war would have gone on this long and done this much damage, he never would have suggested it as an option. He would have just found a way to kill Sorren himself. Most of the battles of previous generations had lasted only months, if not weeks, for the sake of human life, but this war had taken none into consideration.
And he would have to live with himself and the part he had played in it.
The familiar Salatian palace came into view when his party crested the hill, its white walls gleaming in the hot Jumonat sun. Armed soldiers lined the entirety of the city preceding it. Crompton couldn’t blame them. He would do the same if a party were to arrive at Jalmar after the war.
Crompton lifted his hand to halt the party. “Only myself, Lieutenant Bryant, Ambassador Beaumont, and one man will continue on from here. We don’t want the Salatians more on edge than they already are.”
“Your Grace,” the ambassador said, “is that a good idea?” His beady eyes peered into Crompton’s, wider than they normally were.
Crompton leveled him with a hard stare. “You know these people, Ambassador. They were generous enough to send you with the message of war and allow you to return home rather than keeping you prisoner. Do you really think they would hurt you now that we’re brokering peace?”
The ambassador looked away. “No.”
Crompton turned back to the men. “Set up camp here, and we will send word daily on our progress to ensure that we have not become prisoners for better negotiations.” Crompton inhaled deeply, patting his horse on his neck. He would be lucky if his part in the war wasn’t brought to light. “Men, ride on.”
When they drew closer to the city, ten of the Salatian guards filed into two rows to escort them to the palace. Crompton’s neck prickled, and he glanced about, finding several of their escorts glaring at him. These would likely not be the only people to throw vitriol his way.
At the least, he deserved it.
Upon reaching the palace, they were immediately escorted to their rooms. There were only two of King Peralta’s counsel to greet them, which was more than Crompton expected. The ambassador was reinstated in his old chambers, and Crompton was given a suite where Alton and the solitary soldier, William, could stay with him.
Crompton motioned Alton into the bedchamber and closed the door behind him to keep William from hearing what he had to say. “When I am in meetings with the king, I want you to find as much evidence with my name on it as you can and hide it until we’ve left and can decide what to do with it.”
Alton furrowed his brow. “Why not just burn it?”
“There might be something in there to protect me later if King Peralta tries to charge me with war crimes.” If he did, Crompton would take him down with him.
“I will do my best, Your Grace.”
“Good.” Crompton clapped him on the shoulder. “Now go clean yourself up. We likely won’t leave this room until dinner, and the negotiations won’t start until tomorrow.
“What in the hell happened?” King Peralta yelled, throwing his paperweight against the wall. It shattered, small pieces spraying across the floor. “This war was supposed to be ours.”
“I was taken out of Salatia and reassigned to the capital. Your Majesty—there was nothing I could do without bringing suspicion on myself.” When Crompton saw the king’s enraged look, he quickly added, “And you. What do you think would have happened to us if Aratia found out we both brewed up this war? We would have been executed!”
Peralta sighed, sitting heavily across from Crompton. “All those people.”
“I know.”
“It’s our fault.”
Inhaling deeply and releasing it slowly, Crompton repeated, “I know.”
The king poured them both a drink of dark amber. Crompton started to refuse, but the king cut him off, saying, “We both need one. I don’t know about you, but I haven’t been able to stop since I realized we wouldn’t win.”
“It doesn’t mean much,” Crompton said, taking the drink, “but I’m prepared to offer far more than we would in a normal negotiation.”
“You’re right, it doesn’t mean anything,” Peralta snapped. “Hundreds of thousands of my people are dead!”
Crompton took a long drink before he responded. “You could have conceded at the end of a few months, Your Majesty, not waited until three years had passed when other countries got involved.” He pulled his lips in to form a flat line before he said any more.
“My pride was at stake!”
“So were your people, and ours. And Sorren is not one to back down.” Crompton stood, straightening his jacket. “I should leave before we get heated. I’ll see you at the negotiations, Your Majesty.”
Crompton wearily sank into one of the plush chairs of his sitting room. A week of negotiations, and they were no closer to having a treaty. Faulting the Salatian king for his part in keeping the war going for so long had been ill-advised, and now the king was taking it out on Crompton. He rubbed his face roughly with both hands, hoping the vigor would scrub away his weariness.
He pulled his hands away from his face when the door opened. Alton entered, looking equally tired.
“Have you found anything yet?”
Alton shook his head. “There’s nothing to find.”
“Keep looking.” Crompton sighed heavily. “We’re going to be here a while.”