Empire of Avarice (46 page)

The two men were similar, being big, strong and dark
haired. They may well have been brothers. They both were swinging gently large
straight-bladed swords with leather covered hilts. Lalaas thought the brothers
and their weaponry to be Risanian, that province to the south which was
challenging Kastan as the spiritual leader of the gods. With the decline of
Kastan, Risania had declared themselves to be the last true believers of the
gods. But Risanians were big, brutish, boorish, arrogant and the opposite of
the cultured Kastanians.

Lalaas didn’t know any Risanian, but their body language
spoke enough. The first growled and came at him, blade swinging up ready to
come back down on his head. Lalaas feinted to the left, then went right. The
blow passed through clean air and Lalaas thrust forward quickly, then back and
skipped aside as the Risanian staggered forward, clutching his wound. The big
man slowly fell forward onto his face. The other guard said something guttural
and brief, and Lalaas was in no doubt that it was something one wouldn’t repeat
in front of one’s grandparents.

The guard might have been big and strong, but he had no
martial ability beyond the straightforward brutish enforcer type, and his
throat-high slice left himself wide open to a riposte that Lalaas took full
advantage of. The second man was left coughing up blood from a lung wound. Lalaas
skipped over the fallen men and ran hard after Amne towards the tavern, wiping
his blade on a cloth and then sheathing his weapon. It wouldn’t do to be seen
running through the streets with a bared blade.

He caught up with her and the unhappy Theros by the
tavern. Theros had been complaining; Lalaas had heard him even before he caught
up with them. As he passed the diplomat he slapped him across the back of the
head, shutting him up once more. “I’ll go get our stuff from the room if you
saddle up the equines. Tie this idiot to the post in the courtyard; he’s worse
than useless and would only get in your way.”

“I’ll make my own decisions, Lalaas,” Amne said sharply.
“Remember who I am and who you are!”

“Not here,” Lalaas snapped. “Here we’re equals; walls
have ears,” he pointed to the tavern, whispering fiercely. “And keep this idiot
quiet; half of Bukrat could hear him!”

“He deserves to be whipped,” Theros growled, and then
was on his knees clutching a bloodied nose as Lalaas smashed a fist into his
face.

“I’m all for leaving you behind. What about it, Amne? He’s
a liability and will get us killed.”

Amne opened her mouth and then shut it. The sheer violence
Lalaas was displaying towards Theros shocked her. She composed herself. "I'm
in charge here, Lalaas. Nobody is going to be left behind! Now go get our
equipment and don’t tarry!”

Lalaas grunted and eyed Theros who had got shakily to
his feet. His eyes showed hostility but also fear. Lalaas pulled a face at him,
then plunged into the maw of the tavern’s open doorway, taking the stairs two
at a time.

Amne tugged Theros after her around the corner and
through the opening that led to the courtyard and the stables. The diplomat was
moaning, clutching his face, trying to stop the flow of blood that was
dribbling through his fingers and dripping onto the ground. His nose throbbed
and ached, and the other blows he’d received were competing for which could
hurt the most. He felt miserable and afraid. His only chance was to keep close
to Amne and hope that savage she was with left him alone. He would get his
revenge in time. He would see to it that Lalaas hung high when they got to
civilisation.

Amne left Theros to feel sorry for himself by the stable
entrance while she identified the four equines that belonged to them. Three
would be ridden now and one would have to act as pack beast; she wondered which
one would, and what they would do with the equipment; there was too much for
one beast to carry.

She got the saddles and tack onto two of the equines by
the time Lalaas reappeared. “Hurry,” he panted, “there’s a crowd gathering out
the front; they heard him shouting out too much. He called you ‘highness’ again
and now there’s a rumour running round there’s a princess here.”

Theros cringed as Lalaas passed him but the scout was
too much in a hurry to bother with him. He began fitting the equipment to the
two other equines. “What about Theros?” Amne demanded, tightening the saddles
and putting packs on the saddles of the ones that were to be ridden.

“What about him?” Lalaas said.

“Which one is he going to ride?”

“This one,” Lalaas slapped one of the saddled equines. “Tell
him to mount up now. I want to be away in a few moments.”

Amne looked cross, her cheeks staining red. “You tell
him!”

“I’m not speaking to that fool; you want him with us –
you tell him. Or I’m off and I’ll have you across my saddle and he can take his
chances with the mob.”

Amne gasped. Theros staggered to the side of the equine.
“I’ll get up, ma’am,” he mumbled.

“Amne – mount up,” Lalaas snapped curtly. He now had his
bow slung across his back and a quiver of twenty arrows hanging from a baldric
slung across one shoulder. “This may be pretty rough; you head out of town to
the south east. There’s a road that leads that way. I’ll follow on foot. Now
go!”

Amne got up and settled herself. She was furious with
Lalaas but was level-headed enough to know he was talking sense. She would
reprimand him later. Leading one of the pack animals, she led Theros out of the
courtyard and onto the street. Lalaas had been right. A crowd had gathered and
was being spoken to by one of the armed leaders of the town. Cries went up of
‘there she is!’ as she came trotting onto the street, and she dug her heels
into the side of the beast. It sprang forward, forcing the pack beast behind to
break into a gallop too. They swept past the crowd which parted to allow her to
ride through, and they shook their fists and shouted insults in her wake, then
jumped back in fright as Theros came lumbering past with his pack beast at
about half the speed Amne had managed.

Lalaas kept Theros in sight, an arrow in his left hand,
the bow in his right. “That’s a slave!” someone shouted, pointing at Theros’s
collar. “Stop them!”

The armed man drew his sword and Lalaas fitted the arrow
to his bow, brought the bow up and loosed off all in one fluid motion. The
arrow smashed into the man’s shoulder, spinning him round, and he crashed to
the ground, his sword clattering noisily across the side of the street.

As the townsfolk turned in surprise, Lalaas nocked
another arrow to the bow and ran out across the street to the other side with a
sideways motion, keeping the crowd fully in his sight. “Anyone who comes after
us dies,” he said clearly. “If you don’t believe me, then try, and I’ll show
you all that I’m deadly serious.”

Nobody moved, except the wounded man who sat up and
snapped the shaft of the arrow from his shoulder, then stared furiously at
Lalaas. “You’ll not get away, I promise you!”

“Yes we will; who wants to die for a lowly slave and a
Kastanian scout?”

“The princess is worth it,” someone answered.

“Which is why I’m prepared to kill you all and burn this
worthless dung heap of a town to the ground if you try.” Lalaas trotted off in
the wake of Theros and headed for the town limits, leaving the crowd moving
after him slowly, wanting to get their hands on Amne but too afraid to risk the
arrows of Lalaas.

The scout used an old trick of rapid cross-country
speed; he ran four or five paces, slowed to a fast paced walk for ten steps,
then repeated the run, and back again to the walk. By this means he kept well
ahead of the crowd and came out of Bukrat, seeing ahead of him the four horses
and the two Kastanians waiting for him. He had the distinct impression that
Theros wanted to ride on while Amne was the one waiting for him.

Amne indeed had shouted at Theros after he suggested
they kept on going, and the diplomat lapsed into a sullen silence. She looked
over Lalaas’s shoulder at the crowd who were coming their way, armed with
clubs, sticks and no doubt stones.

“Right,” Lalaas breathed, slinging his bow over his
shoulder, “let’s be on our way.”

“Lalaas,” Amne began, but the scout shook his head.

“Ma’am, you wish to speak to me on my conduct; that is
clear to me, but I suggest we wait till we’re clear of the lynch mob there. They
won’t pursue us very far.”

“Very well,” Amne nodded, looking sternly at the scout,
“but don’t think I’m going to forget by the time we stop.”

“I wouldn’t think of such a thing, ma’am,” Lalaas said
gravely, and, casting a look over his shoulder, jog-trotted alongside the
equines as they all set off once more, heading away from Bukrat and the crowd. Lalaas
was right; the crowd soon gave up and dispersed back to the town, and the three
made their way onwards for half a day until darkness was approaching, then
Lalaas had them move off the dirt road down towards an outcrop of rocks to the
right. Chuckling alongside the rocks was a brook and they all drank from this,
the equines included, and the beasts were unladen and hobbled so they couldn’t
roam too far, and they happily set about cropping the grass.

As they sat down around a small fire set in the rocks so
it couldn’t be seen from the road, Amne faced Lalaas. “Now we’re away from that
beastly place, and we no longer have to masquerade as those commoners, you’ll
remember who I am. I do not take orders from you, Lalaas.”

“Certainly, ma’am,” Lalaas bowed. “But please remember
this is my environment; I am the expert here and I would strongly urge you to
accept whatever recommendations I do make while we are in the wilds.”

“Perhaps, Lalaas. But I will tell you; you will never
strike this man again, you understand?”

Lalaas eyed Theros with ill-concealed contempt. “So what
happened to the other two then after you deserted this sick princess?”

Theros looked sharply at Amne. She just waited for his
reply, not reacting to Lalaas reminding her of Theros’s cowardly desertion. “Uh
– we got lost and then before we could know what was happening, bandits sprang
at us and we were separated; I don’t know what happened to the others. I was
sold to a slaver and sent to Bukrat; the rest you know. Ma’am, may I please be
freed of this collar? It chafes and I really don’t think it’s appropriate for
me to wear it anymore.” His voice was nasally, his nose being swollen and
blocked thanks to Lalaas’s blow.

“Yes, Theros,” Amne nodded, “I can’t see why you should
wear that beastly thing! Lalaas, the key.”

Lalaas reluctantly handed it over and Amne opened it
after a few moments of fumbling. Theros looked relieved and threw the collar as
far as he could into the darkness. “Thank you, ma’am. I am eternally grateful.”

Amne bowed in acknowledgement. She turned to Lalaas. “Now,
how far is it to the Mazag border?”

Lalaas looked thoughtful. “I really don’t know. I’ve
never been this far before. If we keep heading south east and make for the
mountains, then we’ll get there sure enough. We’ll have to watch for bandits
and brigands of course, but with luck we should be there before the winter. I
don’t know if the mountain passes are blocked in the winter, so I think we
ought to try to get through them onto the Branak Valley before the snows come.”

Amne digested that, then looked hopefully at the meal
Lalaas was preparing. “All this excitement has made me hungry. What is it
you’re cooking?”

“Something I bought in Bukran,” he said. “Spiced herd
beast. They like using a hot spice here with most of their cooking. I’ve thrown
a few vegetables in and am boiling them in a herb flavoured water.”

“Your skills as a scout are wonderful,” Amne said,
trying to bring some friendliness back into the conversation.

“Thank you, ma’am.” Lalaas was formal and correct, but
distant in his tone.

Amne sighed inwardly. Already she was missing the
closeness and comradely manner that had been between them, but knew she would
from now on have to be treated as a princess once more. She wondered if she
would ever view being of noble blood the same again.

Argan sulked. It was so unfair! Istan always got his
mother on his side, even when he started things. He was so annoying, picking on
Argan and taking his things and then crying if Argan tried to take them back,
so that the grown-ups sided with his younger brother.

They were always telling him he had to act like a prince
and behave, but it was so hard, especially if Istan made him cross. Istan never
behaved like a prince and they were never telling him to act like one. So why were
they always telling him he had to be? Argan sat on his bed and stared at his
feet, kicking them in the air since he still wasn’t tall enough for them to
reach the ground when he was on his bed.

Now he was locked in his room. All because Istan had eaten
his own sweet pastry fast and then snatched Argan’s half eaten one and stuffed
it into his own mouth, and Argan had slapped Istan for being a thief and a
greedy porcine. Rousa hadn’t been able to control Istan – she was getting too
old to stop him running around anyway – and all she had been able to do was to
comfort the thief and tell Argan off.

He hated Istan. He hated the old Rousa. He hated being a
prince. Why couldn’t he be like the other boys and be allowed to run around and
shout and play in the courtyard? There were other children in the palace now,
but he had been told he wasn’t allowed to play with them since he was a prince
and they were not. He had asked his mother a few times wistfully but she had
been quite severe and had told him not to ask again the last time he’d asked.

There were voices coming through the window that
overlooked the courtyard now, and he got off the bed and scrambled up onto the
toy box by the window and peered out, his nose pressed against the cool glass. The
sun didn’t get around to his side of the courtyard until late afternoon, then
it made his room nice and warm.

Down in the courtyard there were three boys running
around, boys he didn’t recognise. New arrivals? There were people coming and
going a lot these days, and he’d even heard that there was – and he whispered
the name in his mind – a Tybar here in the palace! He worried what the Tybar
would do. Would he turn into a hissing orph…orph… he tried to remember the
correct name Mr. Sen had told him but he couldn’t quite do it, so he made up
his own name: wriggler. Would the Tybar turn into a wriggler and come into his
room to try to eat him? Hopefully not, and there were always guards outside his
room. They’d stop it with their volgar things.

He’d once asked a guard if he could hold his volgar and
the guard had chuckled and told him it was too heavy, but Argan had insisted so
the guard had put the long weapon down on the floor and asked if Argan could
pick it up, and Argan found it was so heavy that he could hardly move it! But
the guard had kindly said to try the pole end and Argan had managed to lift
that up to his tummy and the guard had clapped which had been nice of him. The
guard had said that once he was big and strong enough to lift it all up then he
could hold it like the guards did. Argan had been pleased. At least the guards
were nice to him. He liked the guards, and their boss, Vosgaris. Even though
Vosgaris had to do as his mother told him, quite often Vosgaris sneaked in
things for him with a wink like sweet pastries.

Now, as Argan peered down into the courtyard, he saw
Vosgaris talking to a tall man, and the tall man called one of the new boys
over to him and ruffled his hair when he got to the man’s side. It must be his
son. Vosgaris smiled and spoke to the boy. Argan would have to speak to
Vosgaris and ask him who the boy was, and the man. After all, the palace was
his home too and he should know who was coming and going. He might also ask
about the Tybar. Vosgaris never laughed at him when he asked questions like
some of the others did.

He felt lonely. He so wished he could join in the
chasing game the other boys were playing, and a tear ran down his cheek. The
palace felt like a prison at times, whatever a prison was, but he had heard
some people say that when they didn’t like what was going on. Maybe he’d ask
Mr. Sen what a prison was. He was sure that was a sensible question and Mr. Sen
wouldn’t hold his fat tummy and chuckle at him for asking what he thought was a
silly question.

Argan was fascinated by Mr. Sen’s tummy. He was dying to
poke it and see if his finger vanished into the wobbly skin, or if it would pop
like a bubble and lots of fat stuff would flop out. Ugh! He thought that would
be horrible. Maybe he wouldn’t poke Mr. Sen’s tummy after all. He wondered how
he was so fat and others weren’t. Would he ask Mr. Sen? No, he thought it might
be rude. Despite his sad mood he giggled to himself and cheered up a bit.

He did wonder about a lot of things, such as what was
that stuff that came out of Istan’s nose. And why was there so much? He still
hadn’t found out where eggs came from, as Amne wasn’t there anymore and he was
sure she knew. He had been told she would return one day but his mother looked
so worried when anyone spoke about Amne and Argan decided he better not mention
Amne. He did like her and he missed her.

He returned to his bed and climbed up onto it. Ever
since they had moved to the palace things had changed. He could still remember
that night, even though it was a long time ago. He couldn’t remember much else,
but he did remember that wriggler and it still gave him the scary shakes. He
lay on his back and looked up at the ceiling. It was all lines and shapes and
he often stared at it, following the lines as they curved round into the flower
shapes that were all over it. Someone had told him it was plaster work. He
would one day find out what that was. Oh! There was still so much he didn’t
know, and it annoyed him! Mr. Sen did teach him a lot but it wasn’t enough.

He still hadn’t been told what difference it was to be a
prince, and what he would be taught that was different to any other boy. He
hoped they would soon begin to teach Istan to behave and stop stealing food and
toys from Argan. One day Argan would box Istan’s ears so much they would look
like those on the great monsters he’d seen in Mr. Sen’s colourful animal book. What
were they called? Fantors, or something like that. Fantors were not supposed to
be real, Mr. Sen had said, but some had said they were supposed to be real
beyond the western mountains where nobody went. Mr. Sen had said the Tybar had
come from beyond the western mountains which was why they were so scary.

Fantors were massive beasts, as big as a house, and
crushed people and other animals with their huge feet. One of the cooks,
Delorsa, had big feet. Maybe she was part Fantor. She was always treading on
things, including the other cooks’ toes, and he’d heard one shout once that
Delorsa was a clumsy Fantor. Argan giggled again. Delorsa had not been pleased
and had screamed at the cook and whacked her with a spoon. Maybe Argan could
use that as an insult to Istan? Not yet, because Istan didn’t know what a
Fantor was, but once he did, he’d go round calling Istan a clumsy Fantor. Or
maybe something that ate a lot and stole food. What silly animal did that? He’d
have to think on that.

On an impulse he slid off his bed and grabbed one of the
books on his bookshelf. It was of animals in Kastan, and he flipped the thick
pages – they were thick because of the lovely colourful drawings – and stared
at them. There! A porcine was eating some things on the ground, and all the
pictures of porcines were of them eating and getting dirty in the mud. Istan
the Porcine. That was it.

“Porcine, porcine,” he said in a sing-song manner. It made
him feel better even more. “Istan’s a porcine!” He laughed and slapped the book
shut and jumped onto his bed. He’d cheered up.

“What’s all the singing, then, young Prince?” Vosgaris
asked from the doorway. Argan was startled; he hadn’t heard the door being
unlocked and opened.

“Nothing!” Argan smiled brightly. “Just singing to
myself.”

“Ah.” What Vosgaris meant by that was anyone’s guess. “Well,
young Prince, I’ve been asked to bring you along to meet your new teacher.”

“My new teacher?” Argan asked, sliding off the bed
again. “What’s going to happen to Mr. Sen?”

“Oh, Mr. Sen is still going to teach you what he’s been
teaching all this time, it’s just that now you’re going to learn how to fight
and hold weapons.”

“Oh? Really?” Argan asked, sucking in his breath. It was
exciting; at least something to do other than sit in stuffy old rooms. A chance
to do something different! “Who is my new teacher, Vosgaris?”

The captain smiled and tapped the side of his nose. “Patience,
young Prince. You’ll see very soon.” Argan was led downstairs, past a few
guards and a group of people who bowed to Argan. Argan had been told that
people would bow to him because he was a prince, but he must smile and
acknowledge them. What acknowledge meant he didn’t know, until Mr. Sen had said
it meant noticing what they did. So Argan smiled as he went past and the
people, three women and two men, smiled back, but just a little. It wasn’t
considered good manners to smile more than the prince. Vosgaris always looked
more serious at times like that, as if he was looking to see if anyone wasn’t
going to bow, and once they turned the corner, the captain relaxed again and
leaned forward to Argan. “Now, you must be serious and not fool around; this
man, your new teacher, does not like silly children being foolish, and since
you’re a prince, you ought to behave better than any other boy.”

“Vosgaris,” Argan said with a huff, “you sound just like
mother!”

The captain looked surprised, and made a show of being
shocked. “Really? Oh please don’t go telling her that! Nobody’s allowed to be
like your mother! I think she might tell me off, don’t you?”

“She might, yes,” Argan nodded, then realised they were
about to go out into the courtyard. He followed the guard captain out into the
sunshine and saw the tall man he’d seen earlier from his bedroom. Vosgaris went
up to him and spoke a few words, then turned.

“May I introduce the Prince Argan of the House of
Koros.”

The tall man bowed, a serious expression on his face. Argan
inclined his head to just that small degree he’d been taught, then stared in
fascination at the man. There was a deep line down his face, a red line that
seemed to look like a cut. It went from the side of his face opposite his eye
down to his chin.

Vosgaris indicated the tall man with his open palm. “Prince
Argan, may I introduce Panat Afos, your new military tutor?”

“Pleased to meet you,” Argan said, a little nervously,
still staring at the deep line.

“Your majesty,” Panat bowed once more. “I’m honoured to
meet you, and doubly honoured to be your tutor. Under me, you will learn how to
handle a sword, and to conduct yourself in a battle. I served the empire for
many years until this wound,” he waved at the deep line on his face, “after
which I had to retire. You may like to meet my son, who is probably about your
age.” He called across the courtyard to the boy who he’d earlier ruffled. “Kerrin!”

The boy came running over and bounded to a halt by his
father’s side. “Kerrin, my son,” Panat said proudly. “Kerrin, this is Prince
Argan Koros.”

Kerrin, a pale complexioned boy, stared at Argan in
surprise, then bowed low, his face very serious.

Argan bowed in return. “Are you going to stay here from
now on?” he asked Kerrin.

“Oh, yes, your majesty!” Kerrin beamed, looking up at
his father. “We have just moved into our new quarters!”

Panat laid a hand on Kerrin’s shoulder. “Why don’t you
tell the young prince about yourself? Captain Vosgaris and I have to discuss
many things.”

“Why is that?” Kerrin asked, and Argan leaned forward,
his voice low.

“Captain Vosgaris is in charge of the security of the
palace, and I’m sure he’s going to speak to your father about that very thing! He’s
my guardian here in the palace, did you know that?”

“No,” Kerrin said, “but I’ve just got here so I don’t
know much about the palace, except it’s very big and posh! Much posher than
we’re used to, I can tell you!”

“It is, you’re right, Kerrin,” Argan nodded.

“Young Prince,” Vosgaris said, guiding Panat over to the
other side of the courtyard, “you’re to be at the dining hall in a half watch’s
time for dinner. Don’t be late or I’ll be in trouble with your mother!”

Argan bowed, then whispered to Kerrin. “You’ve not seen
much of the palace then?”

Kerrin shook his head. “Only our rooms, which is – oh –
I don’t know. We went along so many twisty corridors to get to this yard. Are
you really a prince?”

“Yes, but I don’t feel like one. But I don’t know what a
prince is meant to feel like,” Argan said. “I keep on not being allowed to do
this or say that or go there by the grown-ups and it’s all very silly. I mean,
if I’m a prince then surely I can go anywhere I like!”

Kerrin giggled, his hand over his mouth. “Grown-ups are
like that, don’t you think? I’m not allowed to do this or that as well!”

“So where shall we go?” Argan asked.

“I don’t know – where is there to go?”

Argan thought for a moment. “Um; the servants are all
busy working, and they get cross if you get in their way. Mother is doing some
grown-up thing with some boring councillors. I know! Let’s go to my study room!
Mr. Sen won’t be there now and there’s lots of interesting things in there! C’mon!”

The two boys slipped through the courtyard door and
Argan led Kerrin along the marbled passageway. They passed a couple of guards
who watched them out of curiosity, but since the young prince was one of the
two, they did nothing other than bow. A scribe came hurrying out of a side
room, almost knocking Argan aside, and he apologised profusely, bowing low,
before scuttling off to a room on the other side of the passageway.