Empire of Avarice (65 page)

Extonos stared into space. His hands shook. Demtro
leaned on the desk top. “Want the good High Priest to jump on your case? Want
me to add my weight to his argument against you? You’d be left with no friends
and nowhere to go. The last place you’d find yourself is in the brig on an
imperial ship sailing back to Kastan City and an interview with a very furious
Astiras Koros. Not something anyone who wishes to have a future would wish
for.”

Evas nodded, sweating. His course was clear, to borrow a
sailing term, but the storms were blowing him one way and then the next. Rocks
were to the left and right. He must steer the correct course.

Demtro folded his arms. “You’re Kastanian; forget about
betraying the emperor of Kastan. Leave that to traitors and fools. Have the
guts to declare publicly who you’re siding with; condemn Lombert Soul. Make it
clear he has no place in Bathenia as long as you’re Governor. Put yourself in a
good light with the Koros. I leave that to you.” With that the merchant sat
down and stretched out his legs. “Now, what about a nice hot cup of klee? I’m
parched with all this talking.”

The arrival of the messenger from Zofela brought Amne
and Lalaas before General Polak once more. Since the formal signing of the
treaty and alliance between Mazag and Kastania, the two Kastanians had been
allowed the freedom of Bukrat, now rapidly assuming the appearance of a
frontier garrison town. The old slaver market town was gone, and the native
population largely dispersed. Amne in some ways missed the old town; the Mazag
transformation was harsher, stark and functional. Soldiers marched everywhere,
and Mazag traders quickly snapped up what locations they could.

Amne was given the best room in the tavern, guarded by
two of Polak’s elite unit, and Lalaas was quartered in the same location, but
in the next room. He had full access to her, however, as befitting his position
as an imperial guard, which is what Amne insisted he was.

Their return journey hadn’t been decided, given that
winter was descending once more onto the land, and Bragal was still in turmoil.
Isolated bandit groups were still at large and much of the province was
ungoverned and wild. Only in the Zofela region and north of that along the two
main routes into Kastania proper could safety be guaranteed. Polak was prepared
to give the two a full escort to Zofela, and it seemed likely their route back
would be in that direction. Rather than the direct route north, they would ride
north-east, then north-west back to the capital. Polak insisted they await the
return of the messenger he’d sent to Zofela.

The messenger had now returned, weary but intact. The
escort had lost one man to a brigand but they had cut their way through,
killing most of the ambushers. Polak vowed to hang all brigands his men found –
all to help their honoured allies the Kastanians, of course.

Amne seated herself and politely waited Polak’s words. Her
Mazag had improved immensely since she had been in the town, and Polak had
complimented her on her adeptness. Lalaas had picked up a few rudimentary
phrases, but he hadn’t made too much effort since he was of the opinion he’d be
returning to duty in Bragal or Kastania after his task with Amne was through.

“Your highness,” Polak began, studying the parchments he
had, “you will be interested in learning the men I sent to Zofela have
returned. They delivered my message to your father.”

“And of that traitor Theros,” Amne said brusquely.

“And indeed of Theros,” Polak inclined his head. “As he
is now a member of my diplomatic corps I would appreciate a cessation of
insults against him.”

Amne pursed her lips. Red stained her cheeks. She fought
to control her fiery temper. “Very well, General, as a mark of respect to you,
I shall cease at once.”

“Thank you,” Polak smiled briefly. He passed over an
unopened message to her. “This came from the Kastanian army currently besieging
Zofela. Your father was not there. The message directed to me was signed by a General
Teduskis.”

“Teduskis? Oh, yes; he’s in charge there? What has
happened to father?” Amne tore open the seal and eagerly scanned the message. Her
face clouded. “We are to return to Zofela and await my father’s return. He’s in
Kastan City presently but is due to return very shortly. He wishes to see both
myself and you, Lalaas,” she looked up at the hunter who was standing by her
side. “To clear up allegations made by Theros.”

Lalaas smiled bitterly. “I suspect Theros wishes me put
to death.”

Amne slapped the parchment onto the table. “General. I
would ask a favour of you.”

Polak looked interested. “Yes, Princess?”

“Please write to my father. I shall take the message
myself. Please advise him of the – sympathies of Theros and that Lalaas was
unjustly arrested on his recommendation. Your words as an ally and honourable
soldier would carry weight to my words when I speak to father.”

Polak chuckled. “Of course, ma’am. I could do nothing
else. I have heard of your father, even in Mazag. He has a tough reputation. I
would very much like to hear more of what he’s like.”

Of course you would, Amne thought. You see him as a
future opponent. She smiled, however. “Once this has been done we should
depart. Father would not wish to be kept waiting too long. May I request of you
an escort?”

Polak clapped his hands together. “I would allow nothing
otherwise! A full escort of fifty men is awaiting your command. I shall extend
my compliments to the emperor.”

Amne smiled again. This time they would be properly
guarded and the journey shouldn’t take too long. They would be travelling on
roads rather than going cross-country, and not be slowed down by Theros. “Then
tomorrow we leave. I’m eager to see him again after such a long time.”

“So soon? No matter. Will you require a carriage?”

Amne shook her head. “I’m used to equine back. It will
be faster. We’ll just need enough food and supplies to get to Zofela. Tell me,
General, has your messenger advised you of the situation at Zofela? Will it
fall soon?”

Polak grunted. The details given him had been
comprehensive. “The land around has been wasted utterly. No structure or tree
stands for three stadia or more. Your father has built a fence around the city,
very impressively I may add, and his men have also diverted the river away from
the city! Astounding! I am envious, I can tell you. The Kastanian army
apparently is well supplied and organised and supplemented by mercenaries. Your
father has been most efficient. I’m pleased he is an ally.”

Amne felt smug satisfaction at the respect being shown
by this soldier to her father. Familial pride swelled in her bosom. “And the
rebels?”

“Zofela is isolated. It could fall by the spring. I
doubt it’ll last much longer than that, if the report I have is accurate, and
my men usually are fairly good with those.”

“Then I must thank you, General, for your hospitality. We
shall prepare for our departure in the morning.” She got up and Lalaas allowed
her to precede him out of the room. Polak watched her go, wistfully eyeing her
bottom swaying as she walked. Ahh, I must make use of my slave girls tonight.

The two Kastanians returned to their tavern. Amne asked
Lalaas to join her in her quarters for a few moments. The door closed and Amne
motioned Lalaas to come away from the door. “Those guards may be there because
they understand our tongue,” she whispered.

Lalaas nodded in understanding. He glanced briefly out
of the single window but nothing stirred below in the street. “I’ll be glad to
leave this place, ma’am,” Lalaas said in a low voice.

“Amne, remember, when we’re alone,” Amne smiled.

“Yes, Amne. I don’t think we’ll get many more
opportunities to be alone.”

Amne agreed. “I will have to return to my social world
and whatever future awaits me there in Kastan. What about you?”

“The army. It’s the only guaranteed paid work. I hope
the war in Bragal ends soon; it’s not a pleasant conflict. I think the emperor
will determine what happens to me, though. If he believes Theros’s lies then
I’ll be hanged, drawn and quartered.”

“He won’t!” Amne said forcefully. “You’ve been more than
exemplary in your conduct towards me, no matter what that kivok says!”

Lalaas grinned.

“What?” Amme demanded.

“I can imagine the courtly ladies’ eyes going wide if
you use that language at Court. Can you imagine the scene if you greet a Tybar
diplomat like that?”

Amne giggled, her hand to her mouth. “I can still see
Polak’s face when I called Theros those names.”

Lalaas’ smile grew wider. “It shocked me, I must admit. Coming
from your mouth, it was such a surprise.”

“Oh? Such a sweet young thing as I?” she said
coquettishly.

“Amongst many things, yes. I might have expected it from
an old back street peasant, but not a beautiful young princess. I had to bite
my lip not to laugh.”

Amne chuckled. “I’ve learned so many things on this
journey. Not things my father and step-mother would approve of, but it’s helped
me learn things I should know about and never would have learned if I’d been
shut away at Court. I intend learning more about the people of Kastania when I
get back.”

“I think you’ll be plunged deep into courtship rituals. They’ll
want you married off in no time.”

Amne pulled a face. “Bah! No doubt I’ll be matched to a
gangly, spotty, buck-toothed moron with the charisma of a castrated rodent.”

Lalaas laughed. “You’re talking in a way I like – but
it’s not what you should do once you’re back with those corpses at Court.”

The princess shook her long golden hair. “I’ll behave at
Court. I just prefer this life. You see, Lalaas, being a princess isn’t the
wonderful life some think it is. Anyway, I’d like to keep in touch with you; if
you think we part at the end of this journey and that’s it, you’ve got another
think coming.”

“Tongues would wag.”

“Mine wags pretty well; think I care for their
nastiness?”

“You ought to; your reputation once damaged would be
hard to repair. But yes, I’d like to keep in touch. I’ll never forget these
times, no matter where I go or what I do in the future.”

Amne smiled, then took his face and pulled him to her,
and kissed him full on the lips. Lalaas was surprised, but didn’t pull away. They
kissed for a long time, and in a way that wasn’t proper to their respective
social stations, and when they did break, she had a flush on her face and he
was breathless. “Just so I can remember fully,” she smiled wickedly.

“By the gods – that’s done my body no end of good, Amne.
You’re a beautiful kisser; where did you learn to kiss like that?”

She smiled again. “That is something I shall keep to
myself.” Then she was serious. “We must pack. Make sure the equines we get are
fit and healthy. Bragal’s winter won’t be kind to us or them.”

“I’ll make sure of that, Amne.” He made his way to the
door. “If your father makes me a noble for my services to you, you’d best watch
out.”

“Oh, would I now?” Amne teased. “And what makes you
think I’d accept you?”

Lalaas chuckled and left. Amne drew in a deep breath and
sat down heavily on the bed. The tears now came, and she wept into her hands,
sobbing deeply. She wanted him so much, and knew that it would never be. Her
father would never make Lalaas a noble, even if she pleaded with him; it simply
wasn’t done.

Astiras had to leave fairly rapidly. The winter was upon
them and he needed to be with his army besieging Zofela in case the Bragalese
rebels surrendered. Winter was a killing time. He also knew his daughter was
returning via Zofela and he had to be there in order to sort out what exactly
had happened. Amne would tell him herself, and any other so-called ‘version’
would be dismissed. He would take Lalaas’ head if Theros’ message was accurate,
but the emperor just couldn’t believe those words. It was too preposterous and
the story didn’t feel right.

He spent his last couple of days with his family. The
war in Bragal was entering its final phase, he told them, and he would be back
within the year. He left one chilly, frosty morning, accompanied by ten of his
bodyguard, the same ones that had come with him from Zofela, watched by the
empress and his two youngest sons out of the palace courtyard. There had been
no announcement of his departure, so no formal procession had been formed up
outside. A few passers-by got an unexpected view of the emperor and bowed in
surprise, and got a salute in acknowledgement, and then he was out of the
Turslenka Gate and rode off eastwards into Frasia.

Isbel held her two sons by the shoulders tightly, saying
nothing. She felt empty inside. Astiras’ presence in the palace these past few
sevendays had made her realise just how much she relied on his strength and
support. Now he was gone, and she would have to once again take up the
administrative reins and hold the empire together while her husband fought to
keep Bragal part of Kastania.

Argan said nothing also. He had sensed his mother’s
sadness and felt sad, too. He’d almost forgotten what his father was like, and
had almost been reduced to a legendary figure, a mighty warrior of fantasy. The
reality of him being there had been a shock, almost. He was greyer and older
than he’d remembered, but had been loud, scary and someone to obey. That he
remembered, but his father was also someone to listen to. He knew a lot, and
told Argan many things during the times they were together. Argan had sat next
to his father and took in all he said. All about how to fight, how to win. Winning
a war was not the same as fighting a war, his father had told him. No matter
how nasty the enemy was, Argan had been told, he had to be nastier. Fight to
win. He was told that, if in his opinion, he was in a battle he could not win,
then he was to get out. Withdraw, was the word he had said. Always, always the
underlying message. Kastania had to be strong, had to come first. Everything
Argan was to do when he had command, when he had control, was to make Kastania
stronger and better, even if it meant he suffered.

The seven-year-old had sat and listened with wide open
eyes. He had even shown his father the fighting figures Mr. Sen had given him
to learn how to use tactics, and Astiras had been delighted at the
understanding Argan had shown at not allowing, for example, spearmen to get at
cavalry. His father’s delight had pleased Argan immensely.

Argan was sad, yes, to see his father go. He had the
feeling that the emperor was very happy with him, and Argan wanted to keep on
pleasing him. He vowed to keep on practicing his swordsmanship lessons with
Panat Afos, no matter how many times his knuckles became bruised and cut. His
tutor had sternly told him to bear the pain, for pain was a way of life to a
soldier, and a general, which was what Argan was destined to be. He must not
show anyone what pain he was in. A general must inspire his troops.

Istan, on the other hand, snuffled as his father
vanished from view. Astiras had made special efforts to see his youngest son,
to try to instil in him a discipline that he felt was missing. Gallis had given
the emperor a brief resume of Istan’s progress and it was painful to hear. Istan
resisted and rejected anything he was being taught, and had become, if
anything, even more spiteful. In the end Astiras had sat him down and spoken to
him very sternly, one on one, with nobody else present. Istan had tried to
block his ears but each time a hand came up to his ears it got a slap, until
the bawling Istan had tired of the whole thing and sat there, head bowed eyes
screwed shut, screaming. That had provoked another slap, this time to the leg.

Astiras had then out-yelled Istan. That, more than
anything, had reduced the four-year-old to a quivering silence. It had been
then that Astiras had told him that he was not going to be a prince if he
carried on behaving that way. He told him Argan would get all the rewards, all
the favours, and all the best things because he was behaving the way a prince should,
and Istan was not.

For the first time, Istan sat dumbly and listened to his
father. Astiras had spoken in a low voice, but one that carried itself into
Istan’s brain. He was to act and behave in a way that he, the emperor, wished
him to. If Istan did not wish to obey his father, then he would not get any
more favours from him and Argan would get them all.

From that moment on, Gallis had reported a huge
improvement in Istan’s attitude. Astiras had been relieved. He’d been at his
wit’s end until Isbel had pointed out the sibling rivalry, and the idea had
then taken root in presenting Istan with the choice of either allowing his
brother to get everything, or to do as he was told and get his share.

So Istan had come to respect his father, if only because
his father was not going to let Argan have his share. Of course, Istan regarded
everything that Argan got as his share, too. If he had his way, Argan would get
nothing.

Argan slipped away from his mother’s touch. He wanted to
see Kerrin, his friend. Kerrin and he often practiced their swordsmanship away
from the courtyard, and often each ended up with bumps and bruises, but they
laughed it off. Argan had passed onto Kerrin the words of wisdom he’d been
given by his father and Panat about not crying, so they were often seen by
perplexed palace staff hopping about clutching their hurt hands laughing
hysterically through the pain.

Vosgaris had initially tried to stop them, but finally
had conceded defeat and managed to get the palace workshop to make the two boys
cloth-padded gloves. He reasoned that eventually the two would have to fight
wearing iron gauntlets, so wearing hand protection now would serve both to stop
them getting hurt more than necessary and get them used to wearing such attire.

Today, though, they weren’t going to play ‘warriors’, as
they had come to call it. Kerrin wanted to know all about the map room. Argan
had told his friend a few days before what he’d seen and Kerrin had wanted to
know more, but Astiras had taken up Argan’s free time in the last sevenday or
so. But now the emperor had gone Argan wanted to see Kerrin and tell him all
about it.

Vosgaris was standing behind the empress and Argan
bumped into him. Vosgaris noted that Argan’s head now reached his stomach,
whereas until recently it had been his hips. The boy was beginning to grow. “Whoa,
young prince, what’s the hurry?”

Isbel turned, still holding onto Istan. “Argan?”

“Ah, I’ve got to go see Kerrin, mother.”

“Not now, Argan, you’ve got to dress up and see some
people who have arrived.”

“Awww, do I have to?”

Isbel laughed softly. Boys. “Yes, you have to. Some
important people have come all the way just to see us. So you must go and dress
in your best outfit. The dress-master will have put on your bed what you are to
wear. Be in the costume hall in one watch’s time. Captain, see to it that he is
there. Promptly.”

“Ma’am,” Vosgaris thumped his chest and waved Argan to
precede him into the palace. “I’ll wait outside your room, young prince.”

“Who is it, mother?” Argan asked over his shoulder.

“Ah. Surprise.” Isbel tapped the side of her nose, then
pushed Istan ahead of her into the waiting hands of Gallis.

Istan turned, curiosity written all over his face. “What
about me, mummy?”

“Not today, Istan. One day, yes. When you’re seven, like
Argan is. You’ve got to do more learning with Mr. Gallis here.”

Istan pouted. “It’s not fair! Argan gets all the best
things!”

Isbel held Istan’s look. “Now don’t you ‘it’s not fair’
me, Istan! You’re doing exactly the same as Argan when he was four. If you were
seven then you’d be dressing up. Now go along with Mr. Gallis here and learn
some more. Clever boys get the best things and you can only become clever by
learning."

“Yes, mummy,” Istan sulked and shot the back of Argan a
vicious look. Isbel didn’t catch it but knew he’d directed something unfriendly
at his older brother. She stayed for a moment to gather her thoughts, then
turned to her handmaiden. Time to freshen up herself. She was going to have to
look her best for this visit. This was part of the inevitability of being the
ruling House of Kastan. All the other Houses wanted to be part of it so they
all sought to tie themselves by marriage, thus becoming an extended part of the
ruling House.

Isbel had received countless requests for noble families
to visit the palace, offering marriage contracts to Jorqel, Amne, and even
Argan and Istan. The Koros could only make so many excuses, and while Jorqel
was quite clearly making his own moves over in Lodria, and Amne was currently
away on a foreign matter, attention had turned to the two youngest members of
the dynasty. As the boys’ mother, Isbel had carefully scanned through every
request. The ones to Istan had all been rejected on the grounds the boy was too
young as yet, but Argan was another matter. At seven he was beginning to
develop and understand more, and his tutoring had moulded him into the socially
acceptable person he now was. Therefore Isbel had finally begun to accept visit
requests, and had broached the subject with Astiras.

The emperor had shrugged and nodded, and announced the
date of leaving for Zofela as precisely the morning the first visit was due. Isbel
had not been amused but Astiras had countered her objections by saying he was
perfectly happy that his wife could handle such affairs without his clumsy
presence, and Isbel had conceded that point. Best the intimidating emperor was
away doing what he did best; fighting a war.

The family visiting the palace this morning was the
Bathenian dynasty of Varaz. They had estates to the west of Niake just where
the countryside began to rise up from the coastal plains, and they were eager
to secure ties to the Koros as their estates would be amongst the first to burn
should the Tybar invade. They felt with ties to the ruling House they would be
better protected.

Lord Varaz, the head of the family, was visiting with
his wife Mara, and their five year old daughter Velka. With only two years
difference between Velka and the Prince, they felt there was a possibility of a
marriage agreement. They had already turned up, eager to get on with meeting
the Empress and young Argan, and they had been shown to visitors’ quarters
close to the costume hall.

Argan found his clothes waiting, as he’d been told they
would be, and changed quickly. He knew he had to dress smartly, and he had to
be checked by the dress-master, one of the servants well versed in costume and
fashion. He was a thin man with a receding hairline and a sharp nose. Argan
thought he looked like an avian hunter. He stood smartly as the dress-master
examined him critically before a long mirror. Argan had often stood before this
mirror, a silver-backed reflector that had curly metal bits surrounding it,
making it look as if there were dead wrigglers stuck behind it. Argan had tried
to look behind it to see if that were so, but the mirror was fixed to the wall
so his quest was frustrated. He’d also raised an arm, scratched his head, stuck
out his tongue and picked his nose in front of it, fascinated at what his image
did. He knew he was not supposed to pick his nose but did it anyway sometimes
when he was alone.

There were so many things he was supposed to do or not
supposed to do. Sometimes it got confusing, but he was pleased he remembered
most of the important things. His mother was very strict as to how he behaved,
telling him he was representing not only Kastan but his family, and whatever he
did would reflect – he thought that was what she said – on the rest of them. He
didn’t care about Istan. If it only reflected on him, then Argan would poo in
the corridor. But he didn’t want his mother or father – or Jorqel and Amne – to
be thought of badly, so he would behave.

After a few irritating tucks and corrections from the
dress-master, Argan was declared fit to attend the costume hall and was shown
out into the marbled corridor. Two guards were waiting with Vosgaris, much to
Argan’s surprise. Their volgars shiny and bright. Were the volgars sweating
again? Were they nervous? Argan was unsettled; there was something very
different about the whole thing, and he hadn’t been told what it was properly. He
felt a little scared.

Vosgaris grinned, sensing Argan’s disquiet. “You look
very smart, young Prince. Your mother will be very impressed.”

“Where is she, Vos’gis?”

“Ah. She’s getting ready.”

“Why does it take her a long time to get ready?”

Vosgaris looked at the dress-master. He flicked his
fingers to dismiss the flunky. He didn’t like the sneering superior attitude of
the man. Typical palace staff, who thought his waste products were coated in
gold. As the servant strode off, his back stiff with disapproval, Vosgaris
leaned down to whisper in Argan’s ear. “Women take longer because they have to
make themselves look good; they want to be as beautiful as they possibly can.”