Empire of Avarice (53 page)

“Princess Amne to you, Hunter.”

 Lalaas smiled and picked up another branch and threw it
onto the fire. “I wasn’t the one who abandoned her back in Bragal. Don’t think
for one moment I’m going to forget that. When I return to the emperor, and that
is who I work for ultimately, I’ll advise him on your treachery. I expect
you’ll hang from the nearest tree. Should be a rewarding sight.”

Theros paled. “Now, we don’t want to be that hasty, do
we?” he smiled, showing his teeth. “I’m sure we can come to some – arrangement.
Just name your price for your silence.”

Lalaas stared up at Theros. “You know, I only promised
the emperor I would deliver Amne safely to the Mazag, not anyone else. Your
career isn’t worth a burnt log once I give him my version of what went on.”

Theros’s face pulled down into a mask of hatred. “And do
you believe you’ll reach Kastania alive after I send my report back? My report
stating how you removed her clothing and touched her naked body? It is you who
will hang, you filthy desecrator.”

“Both of us know she would die unless I treated her so. Besides,
you never saw me do that – so how did you know?”

“I saw you in that barn back in Bragal remove her
clothing. I know a great deal more than you would expect.”

Lalaas snorted. “You’re full of droppings, Theros. Go
spread your rubbish to someone else. I’m not interested.”

“Well you should be. Unless you agree to say nothing
about my conduct, I’m going to tell the emperor and empress everything. You’ll
swing from the executioner’s rope in Kastan city square.”

With that he stalked off, his back stiff with outrage,
but inside he was in turmoil. Lalaas could indeed do a great deal of damage to
his career – and to his health – should the fact he ran out on them back in
Bragal ever become known. Theros was more determined than ever to make sure
Lalaas didn’t return to Kastan.

The following morning they were up early. Amne appeared
to have been the only one who had slept well. Theros’s eyes were red-rimmed and
sore and his temper was short, while Lalaas said little. He’d been going over
Theros’s words during the night and there was concern that he may be arrested
for removing Amne’s clothing. It was something just not done. It all depended
on what Amne would say. His life in fact depended on her defending him.

As they were packing up he heard noise from ahead, and
he stood upright, his bow suddenly in his hand. There were many people coming
their way, and by the sound of it all were armed and marching in a disciplined manner.
An army? He ran down to the road and stared ahead. Coming down the road from
the direction of Mazag was an army indeed, their green and orange coloured flags
fluttering in the morning breeze. Spear points glinted in the sun and many of
the soldiers were mounted.

He took one look at the symbol upon the flags and
lowered his bow. “Mazag army,” he called up to the other two who had come to
the edge of the camp. “It seems we’ve made it.”

Amne came running down and stood by Lalaas’ side,
staring in wonder at the approaching army. Theros waited, his eyes narrowed. The
leading members of the Mazag army came tramping past, heads turned in interest
at the three figures standing by the roadside. The man with the sword and bow
was clearly a warrior but one man on his own was not a danger. The woman next
to him was much more interesting; even though streaked with dirt and wearing
clothing faded and patched up, she was a beauty. The third man standing further
back was of no importance – he was clearly a civilian peasant.

One of the captains commanding the vanguard came over to
them and stopped a few feet away, examining Lalaas and Amne. “What is your
business here?” he barked.

Lalaas didn’t understand a word but Amne picked up most
of what he said. “We is Kastanian,” she said haltingly. “We on way Branak. I am
seeing Prince.”

The captain looked at Amne in surprise. Theros came up
and switched to proper Mazag. “Diplomatic mission from Kastan to Branak. Treaty.”

“Is that so?” the captain said gruffly. He was a soldier
and diplomatic issues were beneath him. This was something for his commander,
General Polak. He passed the issue down the line and soon the general came
riding up, resplendent in his shining armour. He had his visor up and his
florid face peered out with interest at the three figures standing with a Mazag
armed escort. Theros stepped forward and bowed low. “General, may I permit
myself to introduce the Princess Amne Koros of Kastania?”

“Princess of Kastania?” Polak repeated, doubt filling
his voice. He looked at Amne carefully, noting her filthy appearance and
scruffy attire. He chuckled. “You joke with me?”

“Certainly not!” Theros was stiff outrage itself. “We
are on our way to Branak to see Prince Lamak and to negotiate a treaty! We have
ambassadorial documents.”

“Do you indeed?” Polak said. He smiled. He doubted these
fools were genuine. “Please show me.”

Theros was escorted to the pack animals by a sergeant
and three heavily armed men. While he was fetching the document from the box
that had been stowed there in Frasia, Polak addressed Amne. “You are a
princess?”

“Yes. Emperor Astiras’ daughter.”

“Emperor Astiras? You mean the general waging war in Bragal?”

“Emperor. For two years now.”

Polak grunted. “I heard something had changed in Kastan.
And who is this?” he pointed at Lalaas.

“Guard. Lalaas. He not speak Mazag.”

“Hmm. He looks like a killer.”

Amne looked at Lalaas who returned her stare. He knew he
was being discussed but not what was being said. The princess decided to change
the subject. “What is army of Mazag doing here?”

Polak grinned. “Invasion. Valchia is Mazag now. Soon we
will capture Bukrat and then it will be our third province.”

“Good!” Amne said. “End the slavery.”

“Slavery? Oh, yes. That.” Polak didn’t seem to care much
for that aspect. He saw Theros returning with his escort, a rolled up document
in his hand, sealed and tied with red ribbon. It did look official. He took it
from a reluctant Theros and examined it after breaking the seal.

It was written in Kastanian and Mazag. It was sealed
with the imperial mark. He grunted again. It looked authentic. He sighed. He
looked at Amne once more, then bowed formally. “Ma’am. An honour meeting a
member of the Kastanian royalty.”

Amne curtseyed and smiled. Polak had to admit she had a
full set of teeth which marked her certainly as no peasant. “An honour meeting
Mazag general,” she replied.

Polak removed his helmet and rubbed his chin. A
quandary. What to do? Even though it was early morning he decided to pitch his
tent there and call a halt to the army. After all, Valchia could hardly raise
an army to face him. They were a sevenday or two from Bukrat and it would
easily fall to his troops. One day entertaining his royal guest wouldn’t go
astray, and he would send a swift messenger back to Branak.

He invited the three to be his guests for the rest of
the day, and the princess would be permitted to have a separate tent and to
freshen up. Amne accepted with a smile and was escorted by Lalaas to her tent
which was swiftly put up, and her privacy ensured. Two Mazag soldiers were
assigned along with Lalaas, pointing out that it was better to have three
guards than one and since Lalaas didn’t speak Mazag it was better to have men
who spoke the language of any curious soldier who came upon the tent so they
could be told to go away in a language they understood.

Theros was shown to the general’s tent while Amne was
getting herself familiarised with her temporary lodgings. “Diplomat,” Polak
said, sitting on a collapsible stool, “please tell me of your journey here and
how it is you come to be in this place.”

Amne, meanwhile, was gratefully changing into her better
clothes. At last she could dispose of her travelling outfit which was not even
fit for a peasant. Lalaas stood with his back to her, watching the tent
entrance, but even so Amne was behind a cloth screen so he couldn’t see her
anyway. “I’m so glad to get rid of these smelly things!” she exclaimed,
throwing them over the screen. They landed at Lalaas’ feet.

“Very soon you’ll be able to bathe, ma’am. And you’ll be
able to wash that dirt off your face and hands.”

“Ugh! You’re so right, Lalaas. I can look more like my
old self.” She came out from the screen and stood before Lalaas, smiling. Her
hair was still unkempt, but the dress she was now in was a deep red coloured
one, with buttons down the breast and a belt of the same colour tucking the
fabric in at the waist. It then fell in rich folds to her ankles. The sleeves
went to her wrists and on her feet were soft felt shoes. She twirled before
him. “What do you think?”

 “Suits you ma’am; but you’re particularly beautiful so
most clothes would look good on you.”

Amne laughed, throwing her head back. She could relax
now that the awful journey was nearly done. “You’re such a flatterer, Lalaas. But
thank you anyway.” She came up to him, her head at his lower jaw level. She
looked up at him. “Lalaas. Thank you. Thank you for everything.”

“My pleasure, Amne,” he whispered her name.

The princess beamed. “Don’t you ever go calling me by my
first name in public or we’ll both be in trouble.”

“Of course.” He bowed mock seriously. She poked her
tongue out at him. “So now we go to Branak, ma’am,” he said, escorting her to
the tent flap and holding it open for her. “I doubt we’ll get through the pass
before the snows come so we’ll have to camp this side of the mountains.”

“Oh,” she frowned. “You mean another winter out in the
cold?”

“I would guess the Mazag have some sort of place for
travellers to spend the winter.”

“I suppose you’re right. I would also be an opportunity
for me to learn their language properly. Let’s go see what Theros and that
general are talking about.”

Escorted by the two Mazag soldiers, they walked the short
distance to the general’s tent and were allowed in by more guards. Standing
before the general, Amne was closely studied by Polak.

“Truly a princess,” he commented. Then he looked at
Lalaas. “I have been informed by Counsel Theros here of this man’s misconduct
during your travels, your majesty. I shall have him clapped in irons and sent
to our deepest prison in Branak until we get word from your father as to what
to do with him.”

Amne opened her mouth to protest but Theros cut in. “He’s
guilty of so many offenses I doubt his body will finish in one piece!”

Lalaas realised something was amiss but he was seized by
two Mazag guards and held fast. “What is going on?” he demanded.

“Take him away,” Polak waved a lazy hand. Lalaas was
dragged off despite Amne’s protests. She caught a last glimpse of his face and
their eyes met at he was pulled out of the tent, then he was gone.

She whirled on Theros, her face a mask of fury. “You
scheming underhand animal!” she hissed.

“And you, ma’am, must conduct yourself with dignity!”
Theros snapped. “Forget him: he’s destined for a hanging once the emperor gets
his hands on him! My report will be sent by Mazag courier to him at Zofela
tomorrow. Your father will wish to see a letter from you, too, ma’am, just to
assure him you’ll be safe.”

“Oh, Theros, I’ll write to him, certainly! I’ll inform
him as to who really is due for a hanging!”

“Please,” Polak said, waving his hands, “can we please
conduct this conversation in Mazag? I have no Kastanian. We shall dine here
this evening and tomorrow I’ll arrange for an escort to take you to the
mountains with your belongings. You will winter at our camp at the foot of the
pass, for by the time you get there it’ll be blocked.”

Amne only understood half of what had been said. She
stood there, her fists balled in anger. Theros smiled and bowed to the general.
“The princess is tired and overwrought after such a taxing journey; she is not
used to such hardships and we must make allowances for her behaviour. Clearly
she thinks she is indebted to the rogue Lalaas, but time will show her that she
has been mistaken.”

Amne looked at Theros’s smug, smiling face, and realised
that any letter she would write would be examined and corrected before it was
sent. She – and Lalaas – were helpless.

For Isbel, the waiting for a reply from the Tybar was
interminable; she busied herself with a couple of major projects, the first of
which was to begin the training of the mounted archers both her husband and
Jorqel had recommended. The stables in the palace grounds were picked since no
mounted units were currently housed there; Astiras’ bodyguard had gone to
Bragal. Volunteers were asked for and over three hundred young, brash men had
put their names forward. Any experimental unit was bound to attract interest,
and gossip abounded as to why this step was being taken.

The next task was to find the right number of breeder
equines, but thankfully the royal stables had a few and gifts were forthcoming
from landowners keen to ingratiate themselves with the new dynasty, and
particularly when they were offered tax concessions for each equine supplied. Once
the right amount were supplied and the unsuitable ones rejected, and returned
whence they came, the bows were then selected.

One of the refugees who had come east was in fact a
rogue Tybar soldier. He’d shaved off his facial hair and wore Kastanian
clothes, but his slight frame and thin features plus his darker skin set him
out clearly as a foreigner. He’d adopted a Kastanian name, too, so as to
conceal his racial origin, knowing he could be lynched if his neighbours were
aware of his true identity. He’d come east after a blood feud and falling out
with his officers, and he feared for his life. In Kastan at least he could go
to ground and be hidden.

Now he saw an opportunity to get back at the people who
had killed his family and had driven him out of his tribe. He felt no
allegiance to his people anymore. He had presented himself to Vosgaris one
morning, bowing low. “Esteemed sir, may I volunteer to be the trainer of your
new experimental archers? I am well versed in the art of such warfare.”

“And you are?” Vosgaris had said.

“I now call myself Deran Loshar, although my original
name is much longer and harder to pronounce.”

Vosgaris had narrowed his eyes. “You are a Tybar?”

Deran had bowed again. “A refugee from my tribe’s
hunters. If I show my head to them it shall be removed from my shoulders.” He
had shrugged. “I put myself in your hands. I believe I have value and I desire
to gain revenge for the slaughter of my family at their hands. To train your
mounted archers to fight the way of the Tybar, would give you a huge
advantage.”

Vosgaris had decided to take the refugee Tybar on as the
second in command of the new unit; the captain would be a Kastanian, naturally,
but he was not going to turn down such an opportunity. It was too good to miss.
Vosgaris had spoken to Isbel about it, and after an initial reluctance, she had
accepted his reasoning.

Isbel had been against any Tybar involvement at first
because of the trauma Argan had received in coming face to face with Kijimur in
Mr Sen’s study room. It had been a shock to the young boy and at such an age it
had frightened him. Kijimur had been apologetic but had wisely withdrawn and
taken the Kastanian offer of a treaty back to his own lands shortly afterwards.
Nobody wanted the Tybar diplomat on the loose any more than was necessary, so
he was escorted by Kastanian cavalry.

Argan hadn’t wanted to go to the classroom any more but
finally was persuaded when everyone assured him the Tybar had gone. Mr Sen had
been taken to task by Isbel about the entire affair and promised never again to
invite a foreign diplomat into his room without prior permission. His own
intellectual curiosity had got the better of him.

The other project she was involved with was to ensure an
empire-wide series of staging posts were set up along the roads. This was to
facilitate a speedy relay of messages from one end of the empire to the other. In
the past news had taken a long time to get around and she was eager to ensure
this put in place before the year was out.

Now she was chairing yet another committee meeting. This
one was to approve the coming half year’s building programme. Zipria was close
to completing a temple and had audaciously requested funding to turn their
town’s walls into stone. They had plenty of raw materials to hand but not the
labour unless some funding was found. Evas Extonos had asked for the port of
Aconia just down the road from Niake to be enlarged so it could take larger
ships, both merchant and military, while Pelponia was going to undertake a
region-wide land clearance programme, if the money could be found, in order to
make the province more arable.

Thetos Olskan had submitted a request for a grain
exchange to be built in Turslenka which would hugely improve trade there, while
in Kastan there were plans to build a market, again to boost trade. There was
very little being spent on military facilities. This was causing some friction
amongst the more hawkish members of the council who wished to see better
accommodation and armouries built.

Isbel was being backed by Pepil and Frendicus while
Panat Branas and Alvan Ecvar were in favour of more army facilities. Valson
Kelriun the diplomat, Vosgaris and Cleric Waylar were in neither camp while
Elethro Ziban was positively drooling over the proposed market and grain
exchange.

The arguments for and against were getting quite heated
and Isbel had to slap her hand on the table a few times to get the others’
attention. Clearly the issues were not going to be sorted out any time soon. Isbel
was finally reduced to sitting listening to Panat shouting at Frendicus, both
on their feet, yelling at each other from a distance of three feet.

Suddenly the door crashed open.

Everyone stopped. The two guards swung round, their
volgars already at the ‘on guard’ position, when they recognised the newcomer,
and they stepped back and snapped to attention. He came down the stairs,
removing his gauntlets, staring hard at Isbel. Vosgaris reached for the hilt of
his sword, wondering why this man hadn’t been stopped when the light from the
lower part of the chamber finally lit up his face.

Vosgaris gaped. Isbel gasped. “Astiras!”

The emperor strode slowly towards her, ignoring everyone
else. He casually tossed his metal gauntlets onto the table, narrowly missing
Pepil. Isbel stood up, trembling. It had been a long time since she’d seen her
husband. “When-when did you get back?”

“Just now,” he growled, taking her by the shoulders and
staring at her intently.

Vosgaris stood there, his brain switched off. The others
were all standing too, in a reflex of etiquette, but nobody was sure whether
Astiras had noticed them or not. Isbel looked at the sweat streaked, armour
clad man, and realised he’d ridden hard to get here and had come straight to
the chamber. “I-I thought you were at Zofela.”

“I was – but I had to return here.” He looked at his
wife again, then slowly his head turned and Vosgaris had the distinct impression
his soul was being burned out of him by his intent eyes. “Get out – now.”

Vosgaris snapped into life. “Yes, sire!” He began
stumbling towards the exit.

Astiras turned his attention to the others. “All of you
– out. I’ll speak to you all tomorrow!”

There was a rush for the door and Vosgaris pushed the
two guards out, too. The door was closed behind him and he stood in the
corridor, suddenly perspiring. “By the gods,” he breathed to the guards, “I’d
forgotten just how frightening he can be!”

Isbel was being held tight. “Astiras – we were having a
council meeting,” she protested.

Astiras didn’t reply. Instead he kissed her, long and
hard. Isbel uttered a few noises before melting into his embrace and returning
his kisses. She was lifted up and seated on the table. “Astiras…”

He was removing his armour. “I haven’t seen you in over
a year,” he growled. “Stop talking.”

Then she was being pushed down onto the map-inlaid table
top and he was upon her and, indeed, she had no more time to talk.

____

The news was round the palace like wildfire. The emperor
had returned! Argan was beside himself with joy. “Father is back!” He bounded
towards the imperial day room but his mother was not there. Frustrated, he went
running from one room to the next, shouting out for both mother and father. He
came pounding round a corner and collided with Vosgaris. “Whoa, young prince,
slow down there!”

“Father’s here, Vosgaris!”

“Yes, yes,” Vosgaris grinned, tousling the boy’s hair,
“I’ve seen him.”

“Where?”

“He’s with your mother. He’ll want to see you soon but
he’s got lots of things to say to her. Grown-up stuff,” he added, nodding with
emphasis.

Argan’s face fell. “Oh. I hope he won’t be long!”

“I’m sure he won’t. After all, he’ll want to see what a
big strong boy you’ve grown into, eh? And he’ll want to see Istan, too.”

“Phaw! Istan can get lost.”

“Now, now,” Vosgaris wagged a finger under Argan’s nose,
“that’s not the way to speak about your younger brother.”

“I don’t care,” Argan sulked, unhappy that he couldn’t
see his father immediately.

“Look, I’ll tell you what. Let’s go to the dining room
and see if the cooks can rustle up something to eat, eh? We’ll get to eat the
hottest and freshest things before anyone else. Mmm?”

Argan stood undecided for a moment. “What if mother and
father don’t want to eat?”

Vosgaris took the boy by the shoulder and began guiding
him back down the corridor. “Oh, don’t you worry about that! Your father will
be very hungry after he’s seen your mother. And your mother will be too, I
bet.”

“Why?”

Vosgaris cursed under his breath. He’d forgotten the
curiosity of youth. “Oh, your father has ridden from Bragal and I think he
hasn’t eaten properly so he’ll be as hungry as anything! I bet he could eat an
equine!”

“Do they eat equines?”

“We don’t, no. But some places do.”

They came towards the dining room and two guards on duty
opened the door. Vosgaris stopped and spoke to one, advising him to pass on the
word that a special meal was being prepared to honour the return of the
emperor, and the food would be served in one watch’s time. Then they entered
the dining room, so big and empty without diners. “Where do they eat equines,
Vosgaris?” Argan asked, looking up at the captain.

“I hear they eat them in Mazag.”

“Ugh! That’s horrid!” Argan stuck out his tongue in disapproval.
“That’s where Amne’s gone, isn’t it? Will she have to eat equine, too?”

“Oh I doubt that; she’s like you I think. She won’t like
eating equine. Anyway, they have other foods than equine in Mazag.”

“Have you heard from her yet? She’s been gone so long
I’ve forgotten what she looks like!”

“No, nobody has heard. She’ll send a letter once she
gets to Mazag, don’t worry.” Vosgaris sat the boy in his chair and clapped his
hands loudly. A cook popped her head through the wall serving hatch. “Yes, sir?”

“The emperor has returned. Get a dinner cooked. Full
course, celebratory style.”

“Oh, goodness!” the cook shrieked and jerked back,
banging her head on the hatch architrave. The hatch shut loudly.

“Clumsy fantor,” Argan said.

Vosgaris looked at the boy in astonishment. “Fantor? Where
did you learn about them?”

“My books! They have lots of monsters in them, Vosgaris.
You’ll have to see them.”

Vosgaris grinned. The chamber began filling up. Rousa
appeared with Istan. At the sight of his brother Argan scowled, and Istan stuck
out his tongue. Vosgaris twisted his lips. The two brothers really didn’t like
each other. It was unsettling. Rousa put Istan in a seat five places from Argan
and it seemed they would ignore one another, until a pile of steaming sweet cakes
were brought out from the kitchen.

By then Mr Sen had appeared, wondering where Argan was
since he was missing the morning lesson. He soon sat down though and the cakes
were shared out. Istan crammed his into his mouth as fast as he could and dived
out of his chair and made towards Argan’s as fast as he could. Argan, though,
had seen him coming and twisted away, holding his cake. Istan, enraged, struck
out, then pulled Argan’s hair, screaming at him, “give me my cake!”

Argan dropped his cake on the table and screamed in
pain, and the chair he was in fell back, taking him with it. Vosgaris grabbed
the falling boy and saved him from a possible injury. Istan clambered onto the
table, making for the cake, but Vosgaris grabbed him by the collar and hauled
him off. Istan yelled in outrage and struck out, catching Vosgaris around the
head.

The captain cursed under his breath and put Argan down
gently, then he swung Istan round, placed him over his knee and proceeded to
spank him hard. Istan screamed in surprise, pain, and fury. Rousa got up,
flapping her hands in distress. “Oh, oh! Don’t, don’t! Leave him, Captain!”

“Be quiet, Rousa, and see to Argan here,” Vosgaris said
tightly, then carried on smacking the bawling Istan. Finally he stopped and
pulled Istan round to face him. The three year old was clutching his bottom and
screaming. “Istan – be quiet!” Vosgaris barked. “Or you’ll get another
smacking; do you want that?”

Istan shook his head and stopped, but the tears were
still falling down his face. “You horrible!” he spluttered.

“Yes I am,” Vosgaris said sternly, aware that Rousa was
now fussing over Argan. The six year old pushed her away and picked his chair
up, avoiding the ineffective efforts of the nurse, and got back into his chair
and rescued the crumbling remnants of his cake. “Now you listen to me, Prince
Istan. You are behaving very badly, not like a prince. You’re more like a
canine. Do you wish to be treated like one? If so I’ll put a collar around your
neck and put you in a kennel.”