Empire of Avarice (42 page)

“Don’ the town leader do anythin’?” Lalaas asked.

“No. He makes a lot of money from the slavers, so he’s
happy to support them, and to ignore their excesses. We only have a sevenday to
suffer, then they’re gone and we can get back to normal. I’d be careful about
what you did,” she warned Lalaas, “if anyone finds out you killed those slaver
guards you’ll be in big trouble.”

“Ye’ll speak up won’ ye?” Amne said.

“I’m sorry; I saw nothing, I know nothing. It’s not
worth the trouble to get involved. If you’ve any sense you’ll say nothing too. I’m
grateful for your help but I really can’t help you if you get into trouble. I’d
lose my home and we’d be forced out of Bukrat – if we’re lucky! We may even end
up on the auction block!”

Amne squeezed Keli’s hand. “I unnerstan’. You look after
yeself.”

“Thank you. You are very pretty, you know?” Keli smiled,
then looked up at Lalaas. “You’re a lucky man.”

“Ah,” Lalaas nodded, “ah know.”

They left and paused outside. Amne took Lalaas’ hand. “Ah’m
sorry ‘bout bein’ cross at ye back there, bu’ I was so angry at wha’ they were
doin’ and ye standing doin’ nothin’, and they had to be stopped.”

“Ye’re righ’ and ah’m sorry, Amne. Sorry ye go’ struck,
too. Does it ‘urt?”

“Mmm, a bi’, ah,” she tongued the inside of her mouth. Her
face was swelling and Lalaas gently stroked it. Amne smiled and pressed herself
briefly against him. Lalaas sighed and closed his eyes, then took his hand
away. “If only ye weren’t a princess,” he said softly.

“Ah know, Lalaas – ah know. C’mon, le’s ge’ relaxed, we
need it. Ah’ve never been t’ a tavern afore. Wha’s i’ like?”

“Ah’ll show ye,” Lalaas grinned and took her hand and
tugged her along the street back to the inn they were staying in. Best they got
off the streets while the reaction to the two dead guards took place. They
would by now have been found by their paymaster and it wouldn’t be wise to
remain outside while the recriminations went on. Time to forget slavery. The
inn was getting busy by the time they got back and the usual collection of
patrons were there the world over, or so it seemed to Lalaas. Amne was
hesitant; Lalaas could feel her apprehension, unsure of what to expect. He took
hold of her hand firmly and guided her over to a corner table that had two
chairs. The table had seen better days, probably a century or so ago by the look
of it, and was stained with age and an uncountable amount of alcohol.

Being in a corner had the advantage of being in the semi
darkness and not having anyone able to sneak up from behind. They were also out
of most of the patron’s eyesight. A few people looked at Amne as they passed,
but then they resumed their conversation or drinking. A serving wench came up
to them and asked what they would like to drink. Lalaas asked her what they
had. The choice was ale, mead, wine or something called stevos. Lalaas hadn’t
heard of it and decided it was best to stick with what he knew, and what Amne
may be able to tolerate. So he ordered a jug of mead and a jug of water.

“Not wine?” Amne asked in a low voice.

“No, ah don’ know if it’s proper wine or low quality
rubbish,” Lalaas said. “Won’ be wha’ ye’re used to.”

Amne nodded and waited until the serving girl returned
with a tray. Lalaas passed over a coin and the girl looked at it in surprise. “Tab?”
Lalaas asked. The girl nodded, smiling widely, showing a few missing teeth, and
walked off.

Lalaas poured a measure of mead into the jugs and topped
it up with water. “Best no’ to drink too much,” he said.

“Ah,” Amne nodded and sipped gingerly. To her surprise
the drink tasted pleasant; sweeter than she expected. She commented on that.

“Honeyed, mead is,” Lalaas said, then drank a mouthful,
swallowed, and nodded. “No’ bad.” The evening drew in and they sat quietly at
the back, slowly savouring the watered mead. They heard shouts at one time
outside and men went running past making noise, and the two looked at each
other and remained quiet. But apart from that there was no disturbance.

Eventually Amne needed the lavatory. The conveniences
were out the back next to the stables, two open-faced sheds with buckets and a
water pump close by. It was basic and Amne had put off going there until she
could bear it no longer. She stood up and almost fell over. The room was
spinning. “Uh, wha’s goin’ on?” she slurred.

Lalaas took her by the arm and gently guided her through
the room. Sniggers accompanied them as the patrons saw how drunk she was. A few
lewd comments followed which Lalaas decided to ignore but Amne was prepared to
challenge, but she was quickly ushered out of the tavern down the rear
passageway to the back door. “They shoul’ have a piece o’ my mind,” she said
loudly. She had forgotten to speak in the slang manner but she was so drunk it
made little difference as she was slurring so badly. “I know, darling’,” Lalaas
said soothingly, “bu’ they won’ listen.”

“Yea, they’re iggorant,” Amne nodded fiercely and tried
to concentrate on walking by herself but for some odd reason everything went to
the left. Lalaas guided her to the shed and seated her. He turned his back and
stood on guard, listening to the struggles of Amne as she tried to adjust
herself. There was a fair deal of muttering but finally she got it right. Eventually
she needed lifting up off the wooden seat and her clothing smoothed down. Amne
grinned at him and slipped her arms around his neck. “You’re marvl’us,” she
sighed and sagged against him. “Whoops.”

Lalaas picked her up and carried her back into the
tavern, then up the stairs to the bedrooms. “We goin’ to bed?” she asked, her
eyes rolling.

“Ah. You’re drunk, Amne. Time for sleep.”

“I’m no’ drunk; you’re abductin’ me. Tha’s treason,” she
said assertively, then hiccupped.

“If your father saw me now, I suspect he’d agree,”
Lalaas said in a soft voice. Amne giggled, then hiccupped again. They got to
their room and Amne had to be put down while he got the key and unlocked the
room.

As he picked her up again she complained. “I was comfy
there. Why you not le’ me sleep?”

“Better sleeping place in here; nobody can fall over
you,” Lalaas said, locking the door and putting Amne down on the bed. She
wrapped her arms round his neck and pulled him close to her. “You stay with me;
I feel comfy snuggled into you.”

Lalaas couldn’t complain; she had firm hold of him and
he nestled her head onto an arm and cuddled into her. Amne smiled and hiccupped
again, then shut her eyes. “You’re ever so warm and lovely,” she said softly
and sank into sleep.

Lalaas looked at her, then smiled and settled down as
best he could, on the edge of the bed, while the princess fell into a drunken
slumber. If Astiras had been there, there was little doubt he would have gone
mad. Lalaas hoped to the gods that nobody ever found out about this.

The book went flying through the air and landed untidily
against the wall. “I won’t read any more!” Argan shouted crossly. Mr Sen
waddled over to the discarded book anxiously and picked it up, smoothing the
creased pages and fussing over it. The boy sat in a sulk and folded his arms,
refusing to look at his tutor. “I’m tired!”

“Young prince, you must not do such things to books,” Mr
Sen said sadly, shutting it. Fortunately there hadn’t been too much damage done
to it. “Books are to be treated gently; they contain knowledge and knowledge is
very important.”

“I don’t care!” Argan wailed. “I don’t like books. I
want to play with my soldiers.”

“I’m sorry, young prince, no reading, no playing.”

“Don’t you tell me, Mr Sen!” Argan shouted. “I’m a
prince! You have to do as I tell you!”

“No, young prince, I do not,” Mr Sen stood there in
front of him, looking at the red-faced boy sternly. “Not if you don’t behave
like a prince.”

“I’ll tell my mother and she’ll have you thrown out of
the palace!”

“Go ahead, young prince,” Mr Sen said equably. “And I’ll
tell her how spoiled you’re behaving and what you’ve done to this book.”

“I hate you!” Argan shouted and ran from the room. He
ran along the corridor, tears of frustration in his eyes, and threw himself to
the floor and beat the carpet with his fists. Two guards on duty looked at each
other in surprise, then grinned. Tantrums. They had children of their own and
were used to such outbursts. Time for mother to intervene, they thought.

Mr Sen appeared in the doorway and shook his head sadly.
“Go fetch the empress,” he said to the nearest guard. “Someone needs a good
talking to.”

“Sire,” the guard grinned and loped off towards the day
chamber.

Argan buried his face into the carpet and tried to
pretend nothing else in the world existed. He was tired of learning. It was
hard and Mr Sen had kept on correcting him, and Argan didn’t like getting
things wrong. So he didn’t want to learn as then he wouldn’t make mistakes. Reading
was so hard. Footsteps came closer and he put his hands over his head and tried
to make himself invisible. It didn’t work. Hands picked him up and he smelt the
familiar perfume his mother used. Then came her reassuring voice. “Now, Argan,
what’s going on?”

“Mr Sen is being nasty to me I don’t want to learn I’m
tired of books I don’t want him teaching me anything anymore he won’t let me
play with my soldiers I want to be in my bedroom…” then he descended into an
almighty sob, burying his face into her shoulder.

Isbel turned and looked at Mr Sen who spread his hands
wide in helpless apology. “Tired, is he?”

“So much so he’s throwing books, your majesty. He’s
finding reading a little challenging.”

“Hmm. We’ll have to put a stop to today’s lessons, I
think.”

Mr Sen looked disappointed. “Your majesty….” he began.

“Mr Sen, I think a mother knows better for her child
than a tutor, don’t you think?”

“Of course, ma’am, forgive me,” Mr Sen bowed. A large
chasm had opened up in front of him and the tutor had wisely backed away. “We’ll
resume tomorrow morning.”

“Something other than reading. Writing, I think.”

Argan wailed into her shoulder. “I want to play with my
soldiers!”

“No, Argan, only good boys who know how to write and read
can play with them. You will have to be able to spell them before you can play
with them.” Isbel winked at Mr Sen who beamed and bowed to her wisdom.

“Awwwwwwwww!” Argan’s wail could be heard halfway
through the palace. He writhed in Isbel’s arms.

“Argan, if you don’t stop this silly wriggling I may
drop you, and that will hurt.”

“But….” his muffled cry came.

“But nothing, you silly boy. You’re beginning to sound
like Istan. You want to sound like him?”

“No! I’m not Istan!” Argan pulled his face away from his
mother’s shoulder and looked outraged.

“Well then stop making those silly noises like he does,
then.”

Argan pulled a sulky face but stopped crying. Isbel put
him down. Mr Sen stood there, waiting. He wasn’t sure how this would end, and
he hadn’t been dismissed yet from her presence.

Isbel looked at her son. “Now, Argan. I want you to say
sorry to Mr Sen. Princes do not behave like that.”

“No,” Argan sulked and folded his arms.

“No supper, then,” Isbel said and tuned away from him. She
faced Mr Sen and smiled so that Argan couldn’t see.

“Aww! Mother!” Argan said in despair. “I’m sorry,” he
mumbled almost inaudibly.

“I didn’t hear that,” Isbel said, turning round, “and
I’m sure Mr Sen didn’t either. Well?”

Argan looked down at the carpet, going red. He wanted
the ground to open up and swallow Mr Sen. “I’m sorry,” he said louder, hating
saying it.

“That’s better. Mr Sen?” the empress turned to look at
the tutor, an eyebrow raised.

“Apology accepted, young prince. Tomorrow we shall see
if you can write the names of your soldiers, and if you can, then you can play
with them afterwards.”

“You promise?” Argan’s tear-stained face looked up at
him. Isbel almost swept him up into her arms, he looked so vulnerable at that
moment. But she steeled herself and remained motionless.

“I promise, in front of your mother too, so I cannot go
back on my word.”

Argan nodded, slightly mollified. “What’s for supper?”
he asked brightly, keen to talk about something else.

Isbel almost laughed. “Well,” she said, “we could have
that cream and jam cake the cooks like making with a nice refreshing drink. How
does that sound?”

“Oh, yes!” Argan bounced up and down, his tears
forgotten.

“In that case, go tidy yourself up, and I’ll ask the
cooks to make one now. It will take a quarter watch to make, so you’ve got
plenty of time. Mr Sen, how does that supper sound to you?”

“Ma’am, I’ve long gone past the stage of worrying about
my weight,” Mr Sen patted his girth and chuckled. “It sounds too tempting to
pass.”

“I shall leave the eating to you and my two ravenous
sons,” Isbel said. “I avoid such unhealthy food. I have my appearance to think
of, you know.”

“And a marvellous job you are doing too, if I may be so
bold, ma’am.”

“Go on with you; flattery will get you nowhere,” Isbel
said with a smile.

Mr Sen bowed and returned to his room, already thinking
of supper, his mouth watering. Isbel smiled to herself and paused in front of a
window and saw her own reflection, running her hands down her body. Yes, she
did look good for her age, but it took a lot of willpower not to succumb to
eating unhealthy food, especially when those around her feasted on it. After
two children, it had taken a lot of work to get herself back to anything like
the shape she had been in before. Ah well, onwards.