Empire of Avarice (41 page)

“But not the rubbish. There’s muck and filth everywhere.
I won’t have that in my town. We need to get people to clear their streets, and
then organise a system where we can employ gangs to go round once a sevenday
and clear up. How many streets are there?”

Gavan shrugged and glanced out of one of the narrow
oblong openings that acted as windows. As it was late spring the shutters were
wide open, to allow the sea breeze to cool the chamber. “Twenty or so, sire. Two
main ones and a load of small side streets.”

“Then there’s that mounted archer training school
outside the walls that needs to be manned, completed and kept in good
condition. And the land around Slenna; our army has left quite a mess and that
needs tidying up. Maybe replant with crops?”

“Yes, sire.” Gavan sipped his hot drink. “And the rest
of the province to administer, too.”

“Indeed. I’ll need an administrative office somewhere to
run the more mundane things. That needs setting up and people found to work in
it.”

“Oh, by the way, the captains of the spear companies
have written letters of condolences to the families or relatives of the dead. We’ll
send them with your report on the morrow to Kastan.”

Jorqel grunted in acknowledgement. “The sooner we get
people and goods moving around Lodria again the better. I also want a building
programme planned. Get someone to do a survey of Slenna and present it to me
within five days. I want to know what needs repairing and what needs replacing.
In time I want this town defended better. We need better ramparts and walls.”

“Are we really staying here, sire? For good?”

The prince gave Gavan a long, measured look. “Not us,
no. For the next couple of years, yes. But once I’ve done my job here in
getting this place back up on its feet and running along nicely for someone
else to take over, then I’ll go. You with me. The spears and archers will form
the core of a permanent garrison and probably won’t ever leave.”

“That’s good,” Gavan said before he could shut his
mouth. Jorqel looked up at him in surprise, and Gavan shrugged.

“Don’t like it here, Gavan?”

“It’s not that, sire, it’s just I prefer to be out in
the field campaigning. The settled life of a townie isn’t my idea of fun.”

Jorqel chuckled. “When I become emperor you may have to
endure the palace life.”

Gavan looked as if something had bitten him on the
backside. “May the gods strike me down dead if that’s my future.”

“Don’t say such things,” Jorqel admonished him, “they
may hear you. I’ve an idea; to celebrate our capture of Slenna we ought to hold
a celebratory banquet, and street parties. Set them for, say, two sevendays’
time so that the populace have got used to eating again. Have the Lodrian
nobility attend a ball here in Slenna – there must be somewhere suitable – and
the rest of the town can party in the streets. Call it a return to the empire
celebration, mm?”

“A ball?” Gavan looked as if a dog had messed on his
shoe. “You mean, smart outfits, hob-nobbing with the upper classes and watching
your language?”

“That’s the one.”

Gavan rolled his eyes. “Sire. Permission to attend the
street party.”

Jorqel laughed, his body shaking. “See to it and make
sure every nobleman in the province comes if they have a young, eligible
daughter.”

“Ahhh,” Gavan wagged a finger knowingly. “Now I see the
real reason!”

The prince shrugged. “I need to look for a wife and it’s
expected of me. I’m twenty-four and not getting any younger. The sooner I wed
and start producing heirs of my own the sooner the imperial line is secure. What
better way of looking for one than at this sort of thing? You might even spot a
choice girl.”

“What, from the nobility? Perish the thought, sire. I’d
rather have a full bodied common wench.”

Jorqel grinned. “Not many here full bodied at present. Wait
until they get used to eating again. Now get to it and let me dictate my report
in peace!”

“Yes, Your Majesty!” Gavan jumped to his feet and bowed
extravagantly. He left the room, leaving the prince to resume his report by
candlelight. One thing still bothered the prince; where was that spy Kiros
Louk?

Night had come to Kastan and Isbel made sure both Istan
and Argan were in bed asleep, before relaxing and making her way to the council
chamber. She often found herself there when she wanted to think. It was as if
the ghosts of the past were there to give their support and inspiration just
when she needed it the most. The weight of responsibility pressed heavily on
her shoulders, but she had managed to cope so far. Astiras was busy raising the
apocalypse in Bragal and had left the empire to her to run. What he would say
once he’d stopped playing soldiers and turned his attention to the empire
again, she wasn’t sure.

She slowly circled the great table where the map rested.
Was it their destiny to recover all the lands lost in more recent times? Or was
it to watch as the final acts were carried out on a one mighty empire and
preside over its death? The only course of action to save the empire was
clearly to build a strong enough army to be able to turn back the foreign
invasions, and then to invade them and push the boundaries back. But the
problem was how? They needed men and money. They needed able generals, and ones
that would not betray the empire.

Clearly only those connected with the Koros were
trustworthy; the other dynasties had proved in the past that they would not
hesitate to stab their own people in the back for financial gain. So no army
post would go to the other families, unless they were, for example, married to
a Koros. Amne’s future husband, whoever he may end up being, would be such a
case. It would be some time before Jorqel produced children who would then grow
up to be eligible to take up a military command, and even longer for Argan and
Istan’s offspring. That was far into the future.

For now the empire must tread carefully and softly. Regaining
Lodria and Bragal would be the immediate territorial gains but any further ones
would run the risk of alerting their neighbours that a revival was under way
and they may decide that this was not desirable; the Kastanian Empire had gained
a list of enemies over the centuries and when they had begun to fall, appeals
for help from other nations had been ignored. Nobody cared about Kastania. When
territory had become available, those neighbours had argued amongst themselves
like children at a dinner party as to what tasty morsel each would have. Nobody
even asked Kastan’s emperors for their opinion, or whether they felt it was
right to take it. To them, Kastania was a dying animal to be consumed.

Would they however allow Tybar to take all? Or would
they even take the step of allying themselves with Kastan just to repel the
tribes? What was certain was that the eastern kingdoms detested the Tybar as
much as Kastania did, but they had done nothing to help. In fact, they had
inflicted some terrible wounds themselves, Zilcia more than any other. Zilcia
had wrested the Talian lands from the empire in the same year as the military
disaster against the Tybar, but this was due to their superior military prowess
rather than treachery. It was a symptom of the crumbling military power of
Kastania that had been exploited fully by the Tybar – somewhat to their own
surprise – eleven years ago.

If Kastania tried to regain all its former lands, it
would have a whole array of opponents to overthrow. That was beyond even the
strongest power, let alone a weak empire. Isbel worried for the future; she
couldn’t see how they could regain their former standing, but who knew in these
days how the gods decided these matters? It was all a game to them, laughing
from their high places at the puny struggles of man. But surely they would
intervene to help the only people who still believed in all of them?

The fact that no other foreign power had sent a diplomat
to Kastan even now, showed just how disregarded they were. She was surprised
that no visitor had come. Perhaps they were waiting to see who made the first
move on the ailing empire? If only Amne had managed to get through to Mazag;
she would surely be there by now. Still no news of any sort from Bragal or
Mazag. It was very worrying.

The door to the chamber opened slowly and more light
filtered in from the corridor. Isbel looked up in surprise at the intrusion,
and saw it was Vosgaris, a concerned look on his face. “Yes?” the empress
asked. “Is there anything wrong?”

“Oh, no, your majesty,” Vosgaris replied hastily, “I was
doing my rounds and the guard said you were in here. I was wondering whether
there was anything amiss.”

“No, Vosgaris, there’s nothing amiss. I’m having some
time for reflection. So much to think about.”

The palace guard captain nodded. He stood by the
doorway, unsure whether to leave or stay. “Any news from the emperor, ma’am?”

“Not for a few days. Sieges are terribly long and not
much happens, or so I’m told. Is there anything else?”

“No, no, ma’am. I was just concerned you were here alone
without a guard. Even in the palace it’s not wise to be unescorted.”

“Vosgaris, I’m grateful for your concern,” Isbel smiled,
“but really, I’m fine. There are guards just outside the room and I’m never far
from one. Thank you.”

The captain nodded, bowed and backed out of the room. Isbel
remained looking at the door for a while. She had the impression Vosgaris had
wanted to speak to her about something but hadn’t the courage to ask. The young
man had done exceedingly well since being thrown into the job, and perhaps in
time to come would be one of the most important people of the empire’s
apparatus. He was the son of a minor noble and maybe a marriage to Amne could
be on his mind. That would have to be discussed on Amne’s return to Kastan,
whenever that was.

Would he be her ideal son-in-law?

The day dawned cloudy and cool, with a mist covering the
ground. The two travellers shivered in the morning air and packed their tents
and readied themselves to enter Bukrat. They had camped within sight of the
town overnight so that they could get there before things really began. A
casual enquiry to a fellow traveller the day before had given them the
information that a slave market was going to be held in three days’ time. Lalaas
needed to find accommodation fast and get a slave collar from a vendor. There
wouldn’t be any other reason for them to be in the town if they were not there
for the sale, and that would raise undue suspicions against them.

Amne was very quiet that morning; nerves were getting
the better of her. She dutifully packed her belongings, having by now become
proficient at such a task. Lalaas had complimented on her ability to pick up
knowledge of outdoor craft, and not for the first time he regretted she was
high born; she would make him a wonderful wife otherwise.

They rode slowly towards the muddled collection of
buildings that was Bukrat. There was no wall to protect the place. Instead, a
loose boundary of farmhouses and animal pens surrounded the living
accommodations grouped around the central square where the market was held. The
administration building and taverns were there. One building missing was a
place of worship. The people here followed no official religion and worshipped
what they liked as they saw fit. This place was for buying and selling, and the
gods had no place here.

The administration centre was merely for the local bully
to hold control and keep a record of what was sold and bought, and he only
remained in charge as long as he kept the slavers and the tribal leaders happy.
The tribes got slaves from the slavers, so they supported that business,
backing that support up on occasions by force if necessary.

Men wandered the streets fully armed. Duels and fights
were common place, but none were permitted on market day. The bully in charge
had his enforcers and they would group together to deal with anyone breaking
that unwritten law.

The first thing they noticed as they neared was the
smell. Animal and human ordure filled the air and Amne wrinkled her nose. “Ah,”
Lalaas warned her, “tha’s normal yer. Don’ show tha’ thee don’ like it, eh?”

“Yar,” Amne nodded. “Stinks, though, darlin’,” she said,
remembering they were supposed to be man and wife.

“S’pose t’ be like ‘ome,” Lalaas chuckled, and led Amne
past the first of the outer buildings, past a few curious onlookers and into
the centre of Bukrat. Most of the buildings were basic one level mud and wood
constructions, but a few in the heart were of stouter materials, even stone. These
had two storeys and were clearly for the higher echelons of Bukrat society. The
streets were unpaved and completely of mud, and in winter it would be a morass.
But now in late spring it had been trampled back down from the rutted state it
had been and was reasonable.

They turned a corner and came to a tavern. It depicted a
female slave kneeling before a muscled man, posing heroically with a large
sword in his hand. Amne looked at Lalaas with a mock tolerant stare. Lalaas
grinned and shrugged. “Don’t ge’ any ideas,” Amne muttered as they dismounted.

“As if I woul’,” Lalaas replied, then grinned. Amne
slapped him on the arm. Lalaas pushed the door open and peered inside, taking a
few moments to get used to the gloom of the interior. “Oy,” he called out,
“any’un ‘ome?”

“What d’ya want?” a man with a gruff voice answered,
coming into the main room from the rear, cleaning a mug. “You visitin’?”

“Ah,” Lalaas nodded. “Two f’us, wan’in’ room. Can do?”

“Got equines?”

“Ah. Four. Go’ stables?”

The innkeeper came out and squinted at the beasts, then
at Amne and his face softened. Even with dirt on her face and her hair
unbrushed and dishevelled, she could still turn heads. “Yeah. Stayin’ for the
market?”

“Ah. ‘Ow much fer a room?”

“A fermin fer a night. Got just one room left. At the
back at the top.”

“A furmin? Tha’ a lot.”

The innkeeper shrugged. “Prices go up at market time. Take
it or leave it.”

“Well, if tha’ includes stablin’, then it’s a deal.”

The innkeeper cursed; he hadn’t thought of the stabling
costs. But one look at Amne’s smile was enough to make him forget the slip. “Sure,
deal.”

They spat into their hands and shook on it. Lalaas put
four coins into the innkeeper’s palm. “Four nights.” The innkeeper showed them
where the stables were, back down the street and through an arched entrance
that led to an alleyway, strewn with dung and refuse, and led to an area around
the back where stables stood. They weren’t in good condition and the straw was
wet, rotted and smelt of urine and faeces. Lalaas shook his head. “Ah’ll ‘ave
to clean this up, darlin’,” he said. “Else t’animals ‘ull get sick.”

They left the beasts tied to a post and went back to the
tavern. They were shown their room, a cramped little space big enough for a
single bed, washbasin on a stand, a clothes rack and a chest. The single
shuttered window looked out onto the yard where the stables were. Amne remained
in the room looking out as Lalaas went about making the stables fit for their
four equines. He had little in the way of tools to help clear the muck out, so
he used a combination of his feet and hands. Once that had been done and the
saddles and equipment removed and stored in the cleanest spot he could find, he
went off with some coins to buy hay. Prices were high, and the seller offered a
buy now pay later scheme if Lalaas couldn’t afford to buy at that moment. It
seemed the practice was for buyers to pay after the market with their gains. The
added extra was that interest was charged at a rate Lalaas could only describe
as being daylight robbery. Thanks to the money he’d taken at the bridge, he was
able to afford the extortionate price to feed the four animals.

That being done he found the slave equipment shop down
the road from the square. A collar cost as much as a sevendays’ food, and
Lalaas wondered at how they could sustain such prices. It seemed they had
turned up at the wrong time. Prices dropped by as much as ten-fold after the
market closed.

Back in the room he looked around and saw there was
little space to move around in. Amne was sat on the bed. “Best tie yer ‘air
back,” Lalaas advised her. “It seems custom ‘ere fer married women to tie their
‘air as such.”

Amne found a small length of ribbon in her belongings
and fixed her hair back. Lalaas nodded approvingly. “Now all know we’s a
couple.”

Amne smiled, then looked at the collar and her
expression became serious. “Can I?” and held out her hand. Lalaas passed it
over. It was a simple iron item, with a lock at the back and an eye at the
front. The eye was for a rope to be slipped through if that was ever required. The
collar had a flat face at the rear for an insignia to be put upon it to denote
who owned the wearer. The lock was simple, being a bar and catch type. The key
was in the lock. “Barbaric,” Amne commented, looking at it this way and that. “Ah’ll
keep it and show father when ah ge’ back.”

“Yar. ‘E’ull be int’rested.”

“Wha’ ‘bout tonight?” Amne whispered, leaning forward. “’Oo
sleeps where?”

“You take the bed, Ah’ll take the floor.”

Amne nodded. There was only so far the masquerade could
go, and the bed wasn’t big enough for both of them, even if they wanted to get
intimate. “Thanks. Wha’ d’we do now? It’s three days to market an’ we got all
we need to. We can’t wait in this room all tha’ time.”

“Nah,” Lalaas agreed. “Let’s look ‘round the town. C’mon.”
They went out, Lalaas locking the door and making sure the box of coins was
under the bed. The innkeeper grinned at them as they came past and watched as
they went outside, his look lingering on Amne’s rear end longingly. She would
fetch a fantastic price at any sale. A fortune, in fact. Shame she was taken.

Bukrat was a small town. Four roads led into the central
square, each curving away in an arc from the square out to the farms and pens
on the town’s edge. People were hurrying to and fro, some townsfolk, some
visitors. The two played spot the difference for a while, then their interest
was taken by the arrival of a slaver and his ‘goods’, a line of miserable
looking captives tied together by a long looping chain affixed to their
collars. There were men, women and even children, of all shapes, sizes and
ages.

Amne drew in a shocked breath and Lalaas squeezed her
warningly on the arm. “Quiet, now, darlin’, we don’ wan’ any trouble, does us?”

“It’s awful,” she replied, momentarily forgetting her
accent. Then she remembered. “Yeah, bu’ it’s shockin’ seein’ these poor souls
like this.”

“Big slave trade further south in the Great Plains,”
Lalaas commented, “this is just the tail end of it. We’re on the edge of the
slave area.”

“We must see these folk,” Amne insisted, “find ou’ where
they’re from.”

“Migh’ be dang’rous; tha’ slaver there looks fierce.” Lalaas
nodded at the slaver who had led the line of about thirty slaves into the
street ahead of them. There were a number of mercenary guards standing
alongside, watching their charges, but they were superfluous; any fight that
may have been in the shabbily dressed prisoners had been knocked out of them.

“Wha’s gonna happen now to them?” Amne asked, staring.

“Pen them in, I think. There’s pens at the back of tha’
inn there; I thought it were for animals, bu’ it may be for them. Then they’ll
be cleaned up, dressed in clean tidy clothes and presen’ed on auction day to
the likes of us.”

Amne had tears in her eyes. “It’s too awful fer words;
those poor people!”

“Amne, best ye stop those tears; we’re buyers an’ we
don’ care ‘bout these folk, remember?”

Amne nodded, turning away. The slaver was shouting at
the owner of the tavern, demanding he allow his pens to be opened for his
property. The guards, all disreputable looking fellows, stood idly by watching
everyone. Anyone passing by hurried up until they were past. The smell of
unwashed bodies was quite strong and Lalaas and Amne walked away, not wanting
to attract any undue attention.

They passed another ramshackle building and in the
doorway two men were busy disrobing a struggling woman, readying to rape her. Both
were wearing swords and were clearly mercenary guards from another slave train
who had recently arrived and had decided to release some of their pent-up
feelings on a hapless passer-by. Amne tugged on Lalaas’ arm. “Stop them! Do
somethin’!”

“It’s no’ our bus’ness, Amne – want us to ge’ inta
trouble? This sorta thing goes on all the time ‘ere.”

Amne fumed. This was not her idea of visiting a town. She
stepped up to the nearest man, the one standing back while his comrade had
first go, and pulled his arm. “Stop that! Don’ be so disgustin’!”

“Get lost, whore!” the man snarled and backhanded her
across the face. “You’ll be next otherwise!” he continued as she fell with a
cry. Lalaas growled and dragged his sword out, advancing on the guard.

The man looked on in surprise as Lalaas raised his
weapon above his head. “What?” he managed to say before the edge of the blade
cut his throat. The man gurgled obscenely and collapsed against the wall of the
building, clutching uselessly at his fountaining wound. His comrade turned
round in surprise. He took in the scene in a flash and stood up, fumbling for
his sword but it was caught up in his pants which were around his ankles.

Lalaas rammed the point of his sword through the man’s
side, skewering him, and then jerked the blade free and watched dispassionately
as the second man curled up into a foetal ball and whimpered as his lifeblood
seeped onto the hungry dry ground. The woman lying in the doorway remained
there, shaking, sobbing, her clothing ripped and torn. Amne got to her feet,
unsteadily, and Lalaas offered a helping hand. Amne glared at him, shook him
off and went to the sobbing woman. Lalaas sighed and stepped back, glancing up
and down the street. People had noticed the incident, but ignored it. Clearly
this sort of thing went on most of the time. “C’mon, Amne, let’s ge’ goin’.”

“Ah’m no’ leavin’ her,” Amne snapped, her face red from
the blow and with anger. “She needs ‘elp.”

“Well bring her wiv ye. We can’t stay ‘ere.”

Amne helped the sobbing woman up and they walked
unsteadily away along the street. Some people looked at them in curiosity, then
passed by. They reached a wider part of the street and a water trough provided
a convenient means to clean the woman up. She nodded her thanks to Amne. “Lucky
we go’ t’ yer before they did anythin’ to hurt ye,” Amne said as she wiped the
woman’s scratched neck. The men hadn’t been gentle in ripping her dress apart
to get at her breasts. They all knew what Amne had meant. The act of rape
hadn’t actually taken place, but only because of Amne’s intervention.

“Thank you,” the woman finally said in a shaky, small
voice. “My husband will be grateful.”

“Where’s ‘e?” Lalaas asked.

“Away chopping wood in the forests. He’ll be back
tomorrow.”

“Let’s ge’ you ‘ome. Ye need to keep away from these
people,” Amne said and they walked back to the woman’s house. She gratefully
let them in and they sat in the living room while the woman changed into
another dress. She would repair the torn one as best she could. She returned
and explained she was a seamstress so replacing the dress wouldn’t be
difficult. Her name was Keli and had lived in Bukrat all her life. She was like
many of the townsfolk, living there for convenience and happy to have higher
living standards than those out in the countryside, but having nothing to do
with the slavery business. It was at times like this, once every four sevendays
or so, when the auctions were held, that it was advisable not to stray on the
streets too long. She had thought it was safe to do so just to go to the
bakery, but she had been attacked en route quite by surprise.