Empire of Avarice (58 page)

Fulmas turned up, looking furtive, carrying a large
pack. He might as well been painted bright yellow and with a sign hung round
his neck. He stopped by the gate and peered left and right, hoping to see
Clora. She wasn’t long in coming, having got a signal from Demtro. She came
along the street, her heart beating rapidly. She almost couldn’t run, she was so
nervous. Even though she knew Fulmas was a thief and a criminal, she felt sorry
for him. He was a victim of his own stupidity, and inexperience. She didn’t
like deceiving him as she had, but as Demtro had pointed out on more than one
occasion, he was stealing from everyone in Niake.

 As Fulmas straightened, having seen her approach, some
of the shadows in the alleyways moved. Suddenly figures converged on Fulmas and
he stiffened in shock and yelled at Clora. “Clora – run!”

Clora stopped in the street, her hands to her mouth. One
of the shadows had produced a dagger and sank it into Fulmas’ chest, and his
colleague grabbed the pack he had. Demtro nodded and the nonchalant armed men
drew their swords and blocked every exit, including the gate sentries. The two
shadows looked left, right and along the street. Clora was screaming at the
slumped figure of Fulmas, and the guards closed in on the two muggers. There
was a brief struggle, a flash of a sword and one of the two was down, his blood
draining into the paving. His colleague was immobilised, two men pinning his
arms and another man took the pack.

Demtro nodded again and the men left, dragging the
corpse of the killer away as well. People began running from all directions
towards the bleeding figure of Fulmas. Clora got there first and leaned over
him, weeping. The man’s eyes flickered open and he smiled. “Ahhhh… Clora, I’m
sorry…. All our dreams….”

“Fulmas!”

Fulmas coughed and struggled to raise his hand. Clora
took it. “You’re so beaut…..” and he stopped, his eyes no longer moving.

Clora buried her head in his shoulder, crying
uncontrollably. Demtro slowly came over and gently took her by the shoulder. “Come
on, Clora; let’s leave this poor fellow to the street militia. There’s nothing
more to be done for him.”

“He’s dead!” she wailed. Demtro took her and held her
tight. He said nothing more; there wasn’t much that could be said. It took some
effort but finally he managed to take her away back to the house. The inquest
from Clora came, of course, and Demtro did his best to placate her accusatory
tone. “You knew he was going to die, didn’t you?”

“No I didn’t, and that’s the truth.”

“I don’t believe you! He didn’t deserve that! You just
stood there and watched him die!”

“I had no idea that was going to happen. My men were
there with orders to take Fulmas prisoner. He was to be arrested with the money
in his pack. Those two murderers were obviously hirelings from whoever Fulmas
was supposed to give the money to. Clearly they thought him no longer useful.”

“Useful!” she pounced on the word. “That’s all people
are to those like you, aren’t they? Useful!”

“What else, Clora? Life is like that – unless you live
in a small community. This is a city and everyone survives because they are of
use to another. It’s give and take. I have use to those who want my goods, and
the buyers are of use to me because their money gives me this house and a
lifestyle I enjoy.”

“And what do you see me as, Demtro? Once I outlive my
usefulness to you – will you discard me like a worn out shoe?”

“No, no, no, of course not.”

“I don’t believe you, Demtro. You’re not honest. You
sneak around finding people’s weaknesses and taking advantage of them. I wanted
to believe you, that you were going to make my life better, but if this is what
you have planned for me I’d rather be back in the Black Rodent. At least there
you know what people want.”

“You won’t go back there to that life,” Demtro said
confidently. “Not now you’ve seen what sort of life you can have here.”

Clora balled both fists. “You are so arrogant! You think
you’re so right all the time.” She stepped up and slapped his across the face. “I’m
going back and I’d rather be beaten every day rather than be a part of your
games where people get murdered.” She stamped out of the house, leaving Demtro
fingering his face, looking at the door in shock.

Astiras was standing in the courtyard watching the
mounted archers gallop up and down, loosing off arrows on the run, when a
messenger came breathlessly up to him. The two guards with the emperor crossed
their volgars but Astiras waved them aside. “It’s alright,” he said, “I know
him; he’s from the army in Bragal. What is it, son, an attack?”

“No sire. Message from Commander Teduskis. Very urgent,
not to be opened by anyone other than you.” The messenger bowed low and back
away, having handed the sealed note over.

Vosgaris, standing close by, came over with interest. “Bad
news, sire?”

Astiras hungrily scanned the neatly written words, then
let loose a whoop of delight. Heads appeared at the windows all around the
courtyard. “She’s alive, Vosgaris! Amne’s alive!”

“Oh, that’s great news, sire! I’ll go tell the empress.”

“Wait,” Astiras held out a hand, and his face clouded
over as he read further down. A few figures came running out into the
courtyard, having heard the words. “There’s more. The Mazag are with her in
Valchia. They sent a messenger to our army at Zofela. It seems Amne was
attacked by her bodyguard.” He read to the bottom and frowned. It didn’t make
complete sense.

“Is she hurt?” Vosgaris asked.

“Nooooooo….” Astiras’ voice tailed off. “This message is
from Theros, the diplomat with Amne,” he held a second piece of parchment up,
“and he says Amne was attacked. There’s no message from Amne herself which is
odd.” Astiras walked away towards the entrance to the palace. Vosgaris stood
uncertain as to what to do, then he waved at the horsemen to carry on and
chased after the emperor who was passing through the knot of people standing by
the doorway. He didn’t appear to notice them. Vosgaris pushed past them and
came up alongside the emperor as they walked along the corridor. “A meeting,
sire? In the council chamber?”

“Aye,” Astiras nodded. “Bring the empress and Pepil.”

A short while later the four were seated at the immense
table. Isbel read the letters her hands shaking slightly. As she did so,
Astiras addressed Vosgaris and Pepil. “They got through Bragal after Lalaas
killed the enemy spy, and it was during the winter that Lalaas appeared to go
mad, attacking Amne and Theros. It seems the two others with them didn’t
survive whatever happened, although Theros doesn’t say exactly what happened. The
other strange thing is that Theros says they then crossed into Valchia and they
went to Bukrat, of all places! It was there that Theros rescued Amne and led
her out to meet the Mazag army that was coming to conquer Valchia. Lalaas was
arrested and is being held captive there until they get word from me as to what
to do with him. Theros recommends an execution.”

“Nothing from Princess Amne, sire?” Pepil asked,
surprised.

Astiras shook his head. “It’s not quite right,” he said.

Isbel finished and dropped the papers onto the table. “Theros
would appear to be the ultimate diplomat; saving princesses in distress and
overpowering warriors. You know Lalaas well, darling; would you say Theros could
defeat him?”

Astiras snorted. “Not even if Lalaas was asleep! Theros
skips a lot of the journey. If, as he says, Lalaas assaulted Amne and beat up
Theros and got rid of the other two, how was it that Theros went along until
Bukrat and then suddenly came out victorious? Pah!”

“I would have thought Amne would have written to you
herself, sire,” Vosgaris said.

“So would I,” Astiras growled. “I’m going to write back
to this General…what’s his name?” he grabbed the papers again. “Polak. General
Polak. I’ll demand Amne write to me directly. I know Lalaas personally and it’s
completely out of character for him to do what he’s accused of here! Why else
would I have picked him to guard Amne unless I thought him completely
trustworthy?”

“People do the most unlikely things at times of stress,
sire,” Pepil commented in a neutral tone. “He may have been in a situation he
couldn’t handle?”

“That is to be decided,” Astiras growled. “As is
Theros’s part in all of this. From the letter it would appear they are on their
way to the fortress of Branak but won’t be able to pass the mountains until the
spring. Damn these Bragal rebels! If Bragal was subdued then I would be able to
reach her.” He thumped the table gently. “I’m due to return to the army around
Zofela for the winter. It looks as if everything’s going to be put on hold
until the snows clear.”

“Must you go so soon?” Isbel asked, her hand on his arm.

“Yes, Isbel, I’m afraid so. The fact that Mazag is in
Valchia means they will now be on our southern frontier all the way to the Balq
Sea. I hope Amne gets that treaty signed; Mazag will look to Bragal before long
if I’m a good judge of the eastern kingdoms. It’s enough with Venn threatening
our south-east. I don’t want another powerful enemy itching to rip us to pieces
if I can help it. I must be with the army in Bragal. My presence there will
deter them from making any silly moves.”

“If you must, dear,” Isbel sighed. “But spend some time
with your sons before you go. They do miss you.”

“Of course. What do you take me for?” Astiras said. He
heaved himself up, wincing as a sudden pain shot through his leg. He was
getting old. “Keep the shop tidy for my return after I end this damned war. I’ll
deal with that fool Duras in Turslenka as soon as I can. Good day, gentlemen.” He
took Isbel’s arm and led her out of the room, followed by the others.

Vosgaris checked on Argan first. He was practicing with
Panat and Kerrin in the courtyard now the mounted archers had finished. He
watched for a moment, noting how Argan was growing taller. He seemed to have
sprouted up over the past couple of sevendays. It did happen once they got to a
certain age. In a few years Argan would begin to broaden and then would be
given his first iron sword. Vosgaris smiled and returned to the corridor, seeking
out the guards, making sure they were on duty as they should be and were attentive.

Istan was in the nursery. His new guardian, a
white-haired former priest by the name of Gallis, had been appointed. Gallis
had been displaced following the collapse of authority in Bragal and the
burning of the temples across the province. He’d managed to reach Kastan alive,
unlike many of his profession, and found employment teaching children about the
gods. Istan was just another posting, no matter it was a prince he had to
tutor. He had no ambitions to climb any higher in his profession and so didn’t
particularly care if he trod on toes, as long as he did a good job. And that
was first and foremost in his mind; he took great pride in doing what he
considered was decent and professional. Because of that he often argued with
those who employed him, hence his tendency to move on from place to place and
never remain in one location for long. But he was recognised as being good at
what he did – mostly by those who had dismissed him and who found out too late
he was right after all – and as a result found it easy to get employment.

Gallis was not going to take any messing about,
especially from a noisome brat of almost four years of age. Istan had learned
very quickly that his tantrums got him nowhere with this old man, for he found
himself placed in a very stout looking cage Gallis had brought with him until
he promised to behave. The two occasions he’d gone immediately back on his word
ended with him being dumped unceremoniously back in the cage. Complaints to his
mother had gone unheeded as Isbel had said Gallis was doing his job and unless
Istan learned to behave, Gallis would continue to discipline him. Istan tried
crying, sulking, screaming and even calling him names but nothing had moved the
quiet, softly-spoken man.

Vosgaris stood at the doorway of the nursery and watched
as Gallis patiently read to Istan about the feats of the empire going back a
thousand years. Istan was sitting with his hands over his ears making loud
noises. Because Gallis wanted to tell him about something Istan was simply not
going to listen. Vosgaris grinned as Istan was picked up and placed,
protesting, in the cage. Gallis then proceeded to untie his cloth bag and get
out a particularly tasty looking bread and meat snack and began eating it in
front of Istan. The boy began demanding the stupid old man give him some or
else, and Gallis put his hands to his ears as he chewed slowly and began
humming.

Vosgaris chuckled, and Istan turned his attention to
him. “Stop laughing! You don’t laugh at me!”

Vosgaris shook his head. Where in all Kastan had this
young boy learned to speak like that? Who had spoken like that in his company?

“Don’t shake your head!!” Istan raged, his face turning
red. “I’ll bite it off!”

“Is he usually this bad tempered?” Vosgaris asked the
elderly tutor.

“Yes,” Gallis sighed. “A particularly difficult child,
this one.”

“I’m a prince, not a child!” Istan screamed, then sat
down and began to cry.

“He’s getting tired now,” Gallis said. “He won’t take
much in now. I’ll try to read to him a bit but he’ll probably just sulk.”

“Best of luck,” Vosgaris said and left. He was very
relieved that he was not going to be Istan’s guardian.

____

Far to the east the rolling plains of Makenia stood,
squeezed in between the Aester Sea, the rugged lands of Bragal and the mountain
barrier that formed the current eastern frontier of the Empire. The plains took
the form of gently rising land, some covered in woodland, others open
grassland. It was this that made Makenia such good farmland, and much of the
food that went to the cities of Kastan and Turslenka came from this province.

The main road from Kastan to Turslenka ran through the
middle of the plains, and a side road ran down to the port of Kalkos, a port
that normally distributed trade to the other parts of the Empire. But this
winter it was deserted. All trade had been cut and no ships came to collect the
foodstuffs, sulphur and marble that usually flowed through the wharves and
jetties. The Duras had control and were not going to let the Koros have it back
without a fight.

Nikos Duras stood facing the sea and breathed in deeply.
This was their territory and no upstart regicide like Astiras Koros was going
to take that away from him or his family. Despite his defeat in battle at the
hands of Astiras, he was confident that this time his forces would be good
enough to drive off anything the Koros could raise. He knew Astiras was too
busy in Bragal to bother with him and Thetos Olskan in Makenia too weak to
march against him. The other imperial forces were in Lodria watching the
western frontier so he had a free hand to do what he wished.

All trade raised in Makenia would go to the Duras, and
eventually he’d be strong enough to take the city of Turslenka and use it as
his headquarters to conquer the rest of Kastania. He would crown himself
emperor and have the Koros exterminated. Totally. The thought pleased him. All
this foolish taxation to build up roads and military constructions would stop,
and any monies raised through taxes would once again fill the family coffers. They
could then once more buy off the other nobility to look the other way while
they plundered the empire’s remaining resources, then allow a foreign power to
take over provided that the Duras got the primary trading contracts. It was
clear to everyone save the idiotic Koros family that Kastania was finished. Better
that it be taken over by one of the vital eastern kingdoms and added to a
growing power, rather than remaining in a dying one. If it meant rejecting the
gods and turning to the monotheistic belief of the easterners, so be it. Who
cared if there were one or fifty gods? He only cared that he was rich. Money
was his god. It made life easier and gave him the means to control people. People
always had a price for their services or compliance, and having unlimited
wealth gave him unlimited control over people.

He turned as footsteps came to him and he saw his
general approaching with a well-dressed man alongside him. Two soldiers marched
close behind. The newcomer could only be someone from Kastan. Nobody else
dressed that luxuriously. “And who do we have here, General?”

The general, a grizzled, grey-haired man with a long
beard and a myriad of wrinkles on his face, saluted smartly. “Sire, diplomat
from the Koros. Asked to see you, sire.”

“Does he indeed?” Nikos said, examining Valsan Kelriun
critically. “Has he been searched?”

“Yes, sire. Carrying documents but no weaponry.”

Nikos looked at his general in surprise. “Really?” He
addressed Valsan directly for the first time. “You are a little over trusting
not carrying any weaponry, or having an escort!”

Valsan bowed his head briefly. That was all he was
prepared to do in acknowledgement of the rebel commander. “The lands of the
Empire should be safe for a diplomat to proceed in peace. Emperor Astiras
wishes it so.”

“Astirias!” Nikos spat venomously. “An upstart murderer.
What does he know of ruling Kastania? He’s just another ambitious soldier who’s
got above his station. He shall face justice once his armies are defeated.”

“With due respect, Lord Duras, Astiras Koros is emperor
and you are in the position of being the rebel.”

Nikos stepped forward, his teeth bared. “Now listen to
me, Counsel! It is not your opinion that counts here; it is mine! I control
Kalkos and most of Makenia, and before long Turslenka will open its gates to me
and my army, and I shall use that traitor Olskan as my footstool.”