Empire of Avarice (45 page)

“The Tybar have never asked for a treaty before,” Panat
said. “Their declared intention was to destroy our empire, at least that’s what
their original warlord, Julsek, said after the disaster at Zerika ten years
ago.”

“Tell me, Panat,” Isbel said softly, “up to now nobody
has ever spoken to my family of that day, and our records don’t fully show what
did happen. It would look as if they have been erased or never written about in
the first place.”

Panat Branas sighed, looked at Alvan who nodded curtly,
then leaned forward, his arms resting on the table. “Ma’am, things were very
wrong before that accursed battle. Competent generals had been replaced by idiots,
pay was in arrears, units reduced in numbers. The army was in tatters after
years of neglect. We all thought there was no danger from the west and that the
troubles in the east were the only problem facing the empire. Then word came
that a new threat was coming our way, and the emperor at that time, poor
Sumorius Ronis, was persuaded by his council to personally lead the campaign,
so he left Kastan for what he thought was a glorious war. Little did we know
that already behind the scenes the Fokis and Duras families had agreed to use
the invasion as the excuse to seize power, and that their family members, both
of whom had generals with the emperor, were under orders to betray him – and
the army – to the Tybar.”

 There was a hushed, shocked silence in the chamber
following Panat’s words. The aged general put his head in his hands, then
looked up again. “I was put in command of the vanguard; the traitor Fokis had
the centre and his fellow conspirator Duras the rearguard. It was a hot
summer’s day when the Tybar army came into sight, all on equines, all carrying
those damned bows. My vanguard, all elite infantrymen, were sent forward to
drive them back, which was of course what both the Tybar and the traitors
wanted.”

Panat reached across for a glass and poured water into
it, his hands slightly trembling. After taking a draught, he cleared his throat
and continued. “The dust kicked up in those mountains by the Tybar’s beasts
obscured the sun. We could not see that we were now on our own. We could not
see that the emperor and his bodyguard had been set upon by the centre under
Fokis, and that Fokis himself would slay the emperor. We could not see the
rearguard walking away from the battle to leave my vanguard alone to face the
entire Tybar army.” Panat’s bitterness came out fully now, unchecked. “Those
arrows turned the sky black. My men were cut down in swathes. When we realised
we were on our own we fell back, in an ever shrinking circle, while they rode
round us without harm. We couldn’t get at them, we had no archer support. We
had been betrayed!”

“And then what happened?” Isbel asked softly.

“The darkness came and saved what was left of our
number. I made my way back to the camp to find the emperor dead and most of his
bodyguard the same, surrounded by imperial soldiers. It had been clear what had
happened. So we took the emperor’s body with us and made our way to Kezara but
now with only half of my men. The governor there had been given orders to
arrest me for the murder of the emperor by the Fokis and Duras traitors and
they had fled to Kastan to arrange the coronation of their own man.”

“And did he arrest you?”

“No, ma’am, he was a good man and distrusted them, and
once he heard from my men what had happened put himself and Kezara at my
disposal.”

“So that was what really happened at Zerika.” Isbel felt
sick, sick at how the ambitions of two greedy families had caused so much
damage.

The assembled group were silent for a moment, absorbing
the enormity of the event. Then, one of the councillors, the white-haired
Pandris, who had been present at the inaugural council meeting of Astiras,
stirred. “This must be recorded; we have up to now been given a version of
events that is vastly different from what we’ve heard today!”

“Yes,” another nodded, “and we should punish those
responsible!”

Isbel shook her head. “The time for recriminations is
not now. Besides, those who were responsible are dead. We know the Fokis and
Duras families fell out and resorted to fighting between themselves shortly
afterwards, and all the generals who conspired to betray the empire, as well as
those who probably gave the orders, are long gone. But their deeds are not. We
must work hard together to repair the damage. So, gentlemen, please, I need
your wise counsel now. What of this peace offer?”

“I distrust any peace offer from the Tybar,” Panat spat.

“May I ask, why are they offering peace when they could
just ride in and attack?” Alvan queried. “No peace offer has ever been made by
them, as far as everyone I know is concerned. So are they truly in a position
to attack, or are there problems behind the border we do not know about?”

Isbel looked at Valson, the diplomat amongst them. “Have
you heard of anything at all?”

“No, ma’am, but it is well known that any fresh conquest
would need time to consolidate. How strong were the Tybar when they first
invaded? Did they have the men to garrison all the major towns and cities, and
still have an effective army to attack further afield?” He looked at the
assembled men around him. “They must be having difficulties, particularly when
they are bringing in a new regime, religion and way of life. The populace is
Kastanian, or it is mostly, and there surely are pockets of resistance.”

“I think you could be right,” Panat nodded, something
close to vindictive pleasure in his face. “They may be bluffing; they may not
have the capacity to wage war on us.”

Isbel drummed her fingers on the table top. “So would
you call their bluff? Reject the treaty outright?”

There were a few nods, then others joined in too, seeing
that some had dared to do so.

Isbel sighed and rose up, and the rest of the group did
likewise. “Thank you, each and every one of you. I shall ponder on the matter
further, and then make a decision.” She walked out of the chamber, closely
followed by Vosgaris and the two burly guards, and then the meeting broke up
into small groups, discussing animatedly the peace treaty and the Tybar.

Isbel went to her day room, her head full of doubts. The
responsibility of signing a treaty weighed heavily on her and she sat at her
desk, thinking. Then she made a decision and dipped a quill in her ink pot and
began composing a letter to her husband. He would have to know, and maybe a
reply could be received within a few sevendays. In the meantime she would have
to stall and play for time.

She had almost finished when she was startled by a
high-pitched scream outside in the corridor which was followed by the
unmistakable sound of a child crying. The letter to Astiras was forgotten and
she dashed out into the corridor to see both her sons and a flustered Rousa. Rousa
was cradling a sobbing Istan while Argan was standing a little distance away,
his face bright red, and the biggest sulk of all time on his face.

“Rousa! What’s going on?” Isbel demanded.

“Oh! Your highness... I’m so sorry!”

“Rousa – please tell me what’s going on?”

The elderly maid turned an inconsolable Istan around and
across his face was the mark of a blow. His left cheek was red – as red as
Argan’s face. The three year old Istan ran to his mother sobbing and threw
himself into her arms.

Isbel spent a few moments trying to calm her youngest
son down, then looked at Rousa. “Well?”

Rousa glanced at Argan who pointedly looked away and
down at his feet. “This young man here hit Istan.”

“Argan!” Isbel snapped. “Why did you do that? He’s a
baby!”

“He started it,” Argan mumbled, looking at his feet, his
face even redder.

“I beg your pardon? Speak up and look at me when I’m
addressing you!” Isbel was angry.

Argan hung his head even lower and squeezed his eyes
shut.

“Argan – I’m talking to you.”

The six year old shuffled his feet uncomfortably. Why
couldn’t he disappear like magic and nobody could then see him? He knew he had
done a bad thing but Istan hadn’t stopped aggravating him when he had told him
to stop.

“Very well,” his mother said, “off to your room now. You
will not be allowed out until I say so.”

“It’s not fair!” he burst out, his voice carrying in its
high-pitched manner down the passage to the far end. Two guards standing by the
closed double doors there looked up in surprise. “He started it! Why do I
always get the blame? I hate him!”

“Enough!” Isbel demanded, her eyes flashing in anger. “You,
young man, have gone too far! I’m writing to your father; do you want me to
tell him just how badly behaved you’ve become?”

Argan stood glumly before her, shaking his head, tears
welling up.

Isbel composed herself, resisting the urge to hug the
boy. He had to understand what he’d done was wrong, and to comfort him now would
undermine that lesson. The role of a parent often was the hardest and most
misunderstood of all. “Then go to your room now. Vosgaris will go with you and
make sure you’re safely there, and he’ll lock the door so you can’t get out.”

“What if I want to wee?” the boy asked, his eyes wide
and brimming with tears. The feeling of being unjustly punished wasn’t being
helped by Istan smirking from under his mother’s hand as it stroked his face. But
one good thing about Istan’s sneaky gloating; it stopped the tears. Now he felt
rage. He bunched his fists, and swung about, not wanting to see his little
brother’s face.

“Well then go now,” Isbel said reasonably. “Vosgaris! Take
Argan to his room.”

The palace guard captain came forward, suppressing a
grin. He’d seen enough to know it was a healthy bit of sibling falling out. “Yes,
ma’am. Come on, young Prince, let’s go.”

Argan shuffled off in a huff, stamping along the corridor
in a very bad temper indeed. Isbel sighed and examined Istan’s face again. The
child had rearranged his face to look extremely sad and pitiful by this time,
so all traces of his triumph were gone. “Now are you alright?”

Istan nodded. “He hit me, mummy!”

“Why did he do that?” Isbel asked.

“I don’t know – I didn’t do anything!”

“It’s alright, Istan, the pain will go away; it’ll be
nothing.”

Istan snuggled into his mother’s breast, enjoying the
feel and smell of her. He didn’t want to be with Argan. He didn’t like him
being his brother. He wanted his mother all to himself.

Rousa came forward. “Argan was provoked, your highness,
but his reaction was a shock to me. I do apologise; I’ll make sure it doesn’t
happen again.”

“Provoked?”

“I’ll speak to you about it later, ma’am.”

Isbel nodded, passing a protesting child to the nurse. “You
go with Rousa now; Argan is in his room and won’t be allowed out for a while.”

“I don’t want him out ever!”

“Oh, don’t be silly, Istan,” his mother said, standing
up, “he has to come out to eat and to go to lessons.”

Sulking, Istan reluctantly allowed Rousa to take him
from his mother. Isbel stood and waited until the nurse turned a corner before
returning to her letter. The last thing she needed now was a squabble between
her children. She would have to have a word with Rousa – and Argan.

The whispered discussion by the slave pen had been
brief, but both Theros and the two he had horrified had made their feelings
known and now Amne and Lalaas had withdrawn from the slave pens to talk the
matter over. Theros remained by the bars, peering out at them, his presence a
dark cloud in their minds. The slave owner hadn’t seen any of the exchange as
he had been busy with another potential buyer, pointing out those slaves he
regarded as being the best of his current lot.

“We’ve got to buy him, Lalaas,” Amne insisted, making
sure nobody was in earshot. Her face reflected the desperation she felt. “Nobody
deserves to be in that position! Not even Theros!”

Lalaas looked reluctant. The memories of the courtier’s
treachery and unsettling behaviour on the journey through Bragal were still too
fresh in his mind. “How do we know he won’t give us away in any case, my lady?”

“Trust me, Lalaas,” Amne insisted, her face inches from
him. “You have enough coin to set him free?”

“I should think so,” Lalaas patted the pouch hanging from
his belt. “I can’t see him fetching much of a price.”

Amne looked at him sharply for a moment, then nodded in
satisfaction. “Then we will buy him back. Tell him.”

Lalaas sighed deeply and made his way slowly over to the
cage. Theros’s white, wide face stared back at him, his eyes pleading. Lalaas
leaned forward. “Listen, you. The Princess will set you free, but you must keep
your mouth shut. One word and we leave Bukrat and leave you here to be bought
by whoever will pay for you.”

Theros nodded eagerly. “Thank you! Thank you!”

Lalaas snorted. “Don’t thank me, Theros. Thank the
Princess. Oh, and when we buy you, keep on behaving like a slave. If you don’t
I’ll beat you, and everyone will expect to see that! Remember.” He stood up
fully and walked across to the slaver who had finished showing the other people
a cage full of younger slaves.

“Yes, good sir? You have seen one you would like?”

“Ah,” Lalaas slipped into the rustic accent of the
country people once more. “’Un over there in tha’ cage. ‘Un lookin’ a’ us now,
like.”

The slaver saw who Lalaas was pointing at and frowned. The
slave was unremarkable but had been dressed in fine clothes. If memory served,
he’d been sold to him by local Bragalese bandits. There was something in their
manner that said this slave was something more than the usual local
unfortunate. “I’ll put a reserve on him if you’ll pay and if nobody comes up
with a better offer he’s yours.”

“An’ wha’s the price?”

“Twenty furims. Ten is the reserve, the minimum price,
and the other ten is for your maximum bid. If nobody else bids, you get the
other ten back. After twenty, and there’s still someone else in for it, then
you can carry on bidding or give up. Up to you.”

Lalaas couldn’t see what else he could do, so he paid
the money over. The slaver saw the other coins in the pouch and smiled to
himself. Yes, a nice little profit to be made here, I think. Easy to part these
dumb country folk from their coins. He passed Lalaas a note and told him to
keep it for the morrow, the day of the auction. “See you then! Good bidding!”

Lalaas moved off and returned to Amne and told her of
the deal. As Amne smiled and clasped her hands together, Lalaas saw out of the
corner of his eye the slaver watching them, a curious look on his face. Lalaas
took Amne by the arm. “C’mon, dear, time we was off, like. Go’a prepare
f’th’auction tamarra.”

Amne allowed herself to be led away. They turned the
corner and Lalaas let her go and peered back round the corner. The slaver was
talking earnestly to another man, a short, stout man with a receding hairstyle.
“Wha’s up?” Amne asked in a low voice.

“Nafin’,” Lalaas grinned and moved away from the corner.
“Jus’ wond’rin ‘bout th’auction.”

Amne looked unconvinced but Lalaas winked at her and led
her back to the inn.

The following day was a cloudy and drizzly day. The
ground was wet and the wind sent in gusts that blew the light rain against
walls, doors and townsfolk and visitors alike. Both Lalaas and Amne were
amongst the hundreds of people crammed into the town square, waiting for the
slave auction. At one end of the square a platform had been erected and the
bidding was made there. A slave or group of slaves would be brought up and
exhibited, and the bidding would then start.

Sometimes the bidding would be brisk, but on other
occasions it would be slow. The auctioneer, a burly, dark complexioned man with
bushy curly hair and hands like a blacksmith’s, took Lalaas’s note and told him
when the slave he was interested in was due to be put up on the block. As the
time came close, and the number that preceded Theros’s was sold, Lalaas nudged
Amne. “Next ‘un.”

The two tensed, and the auctioneer cleared his throat. “Now,
next lot. One middle-aged slave, standard work type, no trace of infirmity or
ailment. Healthy. Not particularly big or strong. Possible indoor slave or
menial tasker.” Theros was dragged to the front and made to kneel, as had all
the other slaves. The auctioneer looked round. “What am I bid for this slave,
then?”

There were no shouts or raising of hands, and Lalaas felt
a wave of relief go through him. He locked eyes with Theros who was staring at
him intently. The diplomat had searched the crowd and spotted Lalaas and Amne
within moments. There weren’t too many women at the auction.

“Ten,” a voice came from the far right hand side and
Theros swung his head to see who it was, and got a slap around the head from
the auctioneer. Slaves must not move.

Lalaas, however, could and he picked out the man with
the raised arm. It was the man with the receding hair the slaver had been
talking to. The Kastanian scout sighed and nodded in understanding. Amne, too
short to see over the sea of heads, stood on tiptoes but still couldn’t see. “Who’sit?”
she asked.

“Sum man ov’r far side.”

Lalaas raised his hand. “Fifteen.”

Eyes close by switched to him. The auctioneer pointed
his whip at Lalaas. “Fifteen, to the man close to the front here.”

“Twenty,” the man on the far side said faintly but
distinctly.

“Twenty-five,” Lalaas said laconically.

“Thirty,” the other said quickly, a little too quickly,
so Lalaas thought. Smiling, Lalaas shook his head and turned away. “C’mon,
darlin’, let’s go.”

“Bu’-“ Amne protested, “we go’a buy ‘im!”

“Nah,” Lalaas shook his head, “too much. C’mon.”

He thought Amne was going to argue, but then meekly
followed, not wanting to he left there amongst the crowd of strangers. Theros,
on the auctioneer’s block, opened his mouth to shout his disapproval, but got
another slap, this one even harder, and he fell to the wooden surface heavily. “Any
more takers?” the auctioneer demanded.

The crowd chuckled amongst themselves. Clearly thirty
was way beyond the value of such a slave, and everyone knew it. The laughter
was directed mainly at the man on the right hand side with the receding
hairline, who was looking bemused. He turned and stalked off angrily, pursued
my sniggers.

“Hey,” the auctioneer shouted, “you’ve bought this
slave! Stop him, someone!”

Lalaas turned and watched from the back of the square as
willing onlookers barred the man’s route and turned him about, propelling the
protesting man to the front. He put up such a struggle that two rather tough
looking men picked him up and carried him to the front.

“Wha’s goin’ on?” Amne demanded, looking up at Lalaas in
vexation.

“They go’ that fool who bid ‘gainst us, an’ e’s been
carried to the front!”

The auctioneer glared at the struggling red-faced man. “You
bid, you buy! Thirty! Pay up, you idiot!”

“Got no money,” the man muttered.

“Then why bid, you cretin? You waste my time!” He turned
to two of his enforcers. “Break this fool’s face, then throw him out of here!”

Screeching in protest, the man was hauled up onto the
stage, dragged off out of everyone’s sight, and then all heard a sickening blow
and a cry of pain. The auctioneer glared at the crowd. “Anyone else here want
to bid and not pay? If you haven’t got no money, then don’t bid or push off!”

Lalaas grinned and took Amne’s hand and pulled her back
through the crowd. The onlookers parted for them, knowing they had been
wronged. Lalaas went up to the stand and pulled out ten furims. “My bid?”

The auctioneer looked at him, then sighed and nodded. “You’ve
the right. This slave is yours. Got a collar?”

Lalaas produced the collar he’d bought and the
auctioneer took it and slipped it round Theros’s neck. He locked it and allowed
Lalaas and Amne to come up onto the platform. Money was handed over and the
auctioneer pushed Theros over to Lalaas. “He’s all yours. Leave by the back
way.”

There was a set of unsafe looking steps leading down to
the back of the square and the three looked around for the way out. Off to the
left there was a trampled path and Lalaas nodded in that direction. “That way,
I think.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a short length of rope.

Theros went to push past but Lalaas caught him by the
neck and swung him round. “What are you doing?” Theros demanded.

“You’re a slave,” Lalaas stated, taking hold of the
front of the collar where the ring bolt was. He threaded the end of his rope
through it. “So you’re going to remain one until we’re out of Bukrat.”

“Are you mad?” Theros demanded, looking at Lalaas with
undisguised hatred. He looked at a silent Amne. “Your highness –“. He got no
further as a backhander from Lalaas knocked him to his knees.

“If you say that again I’ll cut your tongue out,” Lalaas
said evenly but quietly. He glanced around. The nearest people were taking no
notice but they were within hearing range of normal conversation. “You will not
speak until you are spoken to. Do you understand – slave?”

Theros fingered the red welt on his face. He looked up
at Amne who was looking at Lalaas with her hand to her mouth. “Your….”

Lalaas slammed a fist into Theros’s jaw, sending him
falling back onto the ground. He lay there, dazed.

“Lalaas!” Amne gasped, shocked.

“If he blurts out…” Lalaas took another look around and
leaned closer to her so he could whisper into her ear. “If he blurts out you’re
a princess here, we’re all finished. Do you know how much they’d get for
selling a princess?”

Amne stared at him, her eyes wide in horror.

“You wouldn’t be sold here, that’s for certain. No. They’d
take you to Krom or somewhere like that and sell you to the Epatamians or
Tybar. They do a roaring trade there! You want to end up one of those
chieftain’s slave-wife’s? Then he,” and Lalaas jerked his thumb at the sitting
up Theros, “will keep his mouth shut!”

Amne moved back from the two, too frightened to say
anything. Lalaas stood over Theros, staring down at him. “We’re going to leave
Bukrat shortly. But I want to tell you that you’re only with us because of her,
and if you open your big stupid mouth again and endanger her future then I’ll
cut you up into little pieces and leave you all over this blighted region. I
want you to understand how close you are to being killed by me. I don’t like
you. I don’t care for you one tiny bit. You’re a liability. I don’t need you
and I don’t think Amne does either. So shut up and do as I tell you. Or else.”

He looped the rope, tied a slip knot in it and then
jerked Theros to his feet savagely. The diplomat stumbled after him as he led
the princess away from the slave auction, but as they rounded a corner, from
beyond the canvas side of a tent the slaver and his stooge came into sight,
right across the track. Both turned and saw them.

“Oh, no,” Amne drew in her breath and stepped behind
Lalaas. Theros shrank away in fright, recognizing the man who had maltreated
him so over the past couple of sevendays.

What was more, the slaver recognized them. “Damn you,
I’m owed money on him!”

“You’re owed nothing, slaver,” Lalaas said. “You tried
to cheat us and you failed.” He looked at the stooge who was nursing a broken
nose behind a wad of blood-coloured cloth. “And it cost him his good looks.” The
man hadn’t been comely in the first place.

“Don’t get smart with me, you cocky porcine,” the slaver
snarled. “Nobody bests me. I’ll have that slave back and you can get lost out
of Bukrat.”

Lalaas handed the rope to Amne. “If he tries to run,
pull hard,” he muttered to Amne.

“Hey, what happened to your accent?” the slaver suddenly
demanded.

Lalaas wasted no further time. One mighty blow under the
slaver’s ribs sent him sinking to the ground. Lalaas followed up with a blow to
the back of his head, his fist half open in a curious looking blow. The slaver
crashed to the dirt, out cold. The stooge turned and fled, still holding his
cloth. Two guards, standing close by, drew their swords and came for Lalaas,
their faces twisted in fury.

The scout hauled out his own weapon and faced the two. “Amne,
get to the tavern now, and get the equines ready! If Theros tries anything, tie
him to the nearest available post and leave him for the Bukratians to find
him.”

Amne dragged an unresisting Theros after her, leaving
Lalaas blocking their way to her. “So who’s first then?” the Kastanian scout
asked softly.