Empire of Avarice (79 page)

The three men said nothing, standing with their helmets
under their arms.

“That’s how they came to dominate Bragal. No word from
them of course how they butchered villagers in the first place. No. So, we
burned and slaughtered and drove them south, wiping out whole swathes of the
bastards. They breed like rodents. So we could not leave any of them behind us.
Thanks to the army you now have safe estates, unless the Duras come along and
lay waste to them, of course.” He looked at his armour hanging on a stand by
the door. “So bring that here and I’ll get into it and meet you three fine
gentlemen on the steps of this building. Then you’ll see how I deal with
rebellion.”

The three snapped their heels smartly and marched to the
door, the senior one handing Thetos the armour. When they had gone Metila came
back into the chamber smiling. “You scare them. They frightened like children. They
not army.”

“No, Metila, they are not.”

As he changed out of his day clothes and reached for his
cloth undergarments to wear underneath his armour, Metila looked at his swollen
organ. “You wasting that. Want pleasure?”

“You witch,” Thetos snapped. “No. I’ve more important
things to see to than your carnal needs. Is not a whole night enough?”

“Not for Bragal women! We do it all day. Kastanian
lovers weak.”

Thetos grabbed Metila and slammed her against the wall,
pinning her there. She squirmed and snapped, trying to bite his arm but he had
her held fast. “I am weak?” he asked softly.

“No! You strong. You excite me!”

Thetos laughed and flung her aside. Metila crashed to
the rug and rolled up against a table, springing to her feet. “You save
strength for tonight. I have you then.”

“We’ll see, witch. Now leave me to do my duty.”

“That will be soft when you return!”

“Then that’s a good thing. I want to concentrate on my
tasks rather than think of ravishing you, you slut.”

“I more fun than Turslenka.”

Thetos slid the breastplate on and clipped it to the
back plate, using his hook to snare the metal eye over the hook. He’d done this
many times before. “You’re right there, Metila, but I have a duty to my emperor
and my empire, and I won’t neglect that! You are mine, for me to do with as I
please. I will see to you later.”

Metila smiled, running her tongue over her lips. “Mmmm,
you promise?”

“Yes. Have I ever failed to live up to my promises?”

“No.”

“Then tidy this shit hole up, clean it and I’ll pleasure
you tonight, without you using any potion!”

Metila giggled and went to an alcove where her cleaning
equipment stood. Thetos slid on his greaves and finally picked up his single
gauntlet and as he made his way to the door, picked off its hooks against the
wall his great war sword, a two-handed monster that he could wield one-handed. It
was an intimidating weapon that he usually carried on his back, but today it
served to carry it in his hand.

He passed two guards on his way down to the ground
floor. Frightened looking people watched as he strode slowly past them and he
gave them a smile of encouragement. The hubbub of voices carried to him through
the corridor and windows. Now was the time for him to show all he was the
rightful governor of Makenia and Turslenka. A pox on the weak fools who were
cowed by the mob.

The front doors gaped wide, allowing the winter light to
flow into the building. He walked out into the weak sunlight and saw a
multitude before him, a sea of faces and people, held back by desperate
struggling spearmen. The gates had been forced at the front of the building,
but to be honest they weren’t big enough to stop a determined child. One was
hanging limply off its hinges. A wave of noise rose as he came into view,
mostly coloured with anger. Thetos smiled.

He stood at the top of the steps that led down into the
courtyard in front of the governor’s residence. The streets that led to the
building were thronged with people and smoke rose lazily from a few places. The
mob had already made their mark. Thetos looked up at the pale blue sky. Pity it
wasn’t blowing a blizzard. That would dampen their ardour. He drew in a deep
breath and faced the crowd. “Which of you speaks for you all?”

There came a babble of voices, some trying to answer,
others merely shouting incoherently, which, Thetos reasoned, was probably the
best they could do in normal circumstances.

“How can I answer your grievances if I cannot hear what
they are?”

The crowd muttered and grumbled. Eventually a shabbily
dressed man stepped up to the front, pushing aside a couple of stick-carrying
nondescripts. “I shall speak for the citizens,” he said.

“And who are you?”

“That is unimportant,” the man replied clearly, raising
his voice in order the crowd near him could hear. “It is enough that we have
had enough of your misrule, Koros lackey.” A buzz of agreement rose up from the
crowd.

Thetos chuckled. “You sound like a Duras agent. Are you
an artisan in Turslenka? You don’t look like one. You look as if you’ve
recently come into the city to spread dissent.”

“You’re trying to change the subject – typical of a
tyrant faced with the truth of his foul deeds!”

“And what ‘foul deeds’ am I guilty of, Duras?”

The man waved an angry arm in the air. “What does it
matter? We have had enough of your rule – that is sufficient!”

“Of course it matters!” Thetos snapped. “All of you –
tell me if this cretin cannot – what am I guilty of?”

Voices vented forth. Thetos cocked his head. He heard
the inevitable ‘taxes’ and ‘rent’, and also ‘food shortages’.

“Food shortages?” he bellowed. “Then direct your anger
at the Duras, they are responsible for that, blocking the road from Kalkos and
Frasia! As to taxes – how else can we keep up the streets and pay for safety,
buildings, water supply, and all the other things you take for granted? Those
of you who have been here for years – remember what it was under the Duras? Do
you wish for a return to those days?”

There was a dark muttering. The man at the front shouted
in outrage. “The Duras would do a much better job than you have done these past
years! We demand a return to the Duras ruling Turslenka!”

“The seven demons of the underworld you do,” Thetos
said. “That clinches it – you’re a Duras agent. Stirring up the people; what
have you told them? Foul beast – I’ll have you sliced into pieces!”

The man backed into the crowd but they were pressing
hard and he couldn’t make his way far enough. Thetos roared in anger and
bounded down to the courtyard, his sword carving slices in the air. The people
at the front peeled aside in horror, especially when Thetos began raising his
enormous hook at the same time, his face suffused with anger. The man shrieked
as the hook stabbed into his neck and he was pulled back against Thetos. “Stand
back!” the governor roared to the crowd.

The man was forced to his knees, blood running down his
back. Thetos stood above him, his face twisted in fury. “Duras lap-canine! Enjoy
the fate of all enemies of the empire!” and sliced down with his sword, the
edge biting deep into the man’s neck, severing it neatly.

The man’s head rolled wetly onto the ground, making a
sickening hollow sounding thud. The front of the crowd groaned or sucked in
their breath in dismay. Thetos walked at them slowly, his sword dripping blood,
his hook slick with the same fluid. “Now, which of you wishes to dispute my
three year rule has been good for you?”

The first man he locked eyes with swallowed and shook
his head. The second one looked at him with terror and tried to speak but lost
the will to make a sound.

Thetos picked up the dead man’s head. “I don’t know what
this foul agent of evil told you all, but I say I rule Turslenka with authority
from emperor Astiras Koros. If you wish to oppose me, then you oppose him. If
any of you have genuine grievances, then bring them to me and I shall listen. If
I think they are just grievances I shall work hard to correct them. But do not
think I am some cowardly Duras who will run at the first sign of trouble. I
shall meet it head-on and you see what I am like when I am roused. Do so at
your peril!” With that he flung the head deep into the crowd. Screams came from
the people who pushed each other aside in horror as the blood-splattering head
landed with a soggy sound on the cobblestones.

The three officers alongside Thetos looked as aghast as
the mob did. Thetos looked at them in contempt. “Arrest all citizens carrying a
stick.”

The three men hesitated, torn with indecision.

“Do it! If you’re not capable of carrying out your
duties, then I’ll replace you with people who can!”

The senior captain swallowed, then nodded to his
sergeants. The spearmen pushed into the front ranks of the people and grabbed
those wielding clubs and wooden sticks. The scene turned ugly. Thetos grabbed
the second officer by the arm and hauled him up the steps. “Now, you soft
idiot, order the archers up here to shoot on the people who resist. Do it!”

The man mouthed in shock and impotence. Thetos sighed,
slapped the man full across the mouth with his gauntlet and turned his
attention to the archer sergeant. “Sergeant, get your men up here now. Load
up!”

“Sir!” the sergeant slapped a fist to his chest and
barked out commands. The archers came clattering up the stone steps, past the
prone figure of the injured captain, and fitted arrows to their strings.

Thetos filled his lungs again. “Those of you who wish to
die, remain here fighting my men. The rest of you disperse. You have until I
count to twenty!”

The fighting at the bottom of the steps was getting
frantic. Two men were lying bleeding to death with spear wounds in their
chests, and others were pushing hard to escape the jabbing spear points. Eight
men were being wrestled to the ground, furiously trying to pull themselves
free. Thetos loudly began counting down towards zero.

The crowd scattered. Many were citizens who had come out
of curiosity and didn’t want to get involved in violence. Others had come
because it had seemed a fun thing to do, to get at the ruling class for any
reason. Others again had been borne along by the loud radical speeches and
calls by those leading the insurrection, but had no stomach for actual
conflict. Most of them had little or no grievance against the Koros dynasty,
and now someone was fighting back they had no wish to get hurt for what they
clearly saw as someone else’s fight.

A few remained, unsure whether facing determined looking
soldiers was worth it. Thetos got down to five and these, too, decided enough
was enough and fled. Suddenly the square was empty of life, leaving the
detritus of any mob; stones, a sticks and discarded items of clothing and so
forth. Thetos chuckled and gave a signal for the archers to relax. He looked
down at the captain kneeling halfway down the steps. “You’re dismissed. Go find
employment elsewhere other than Turslenka. You are a disgrace to your uniform. I’ll
have you arrested if you return to my city, do you hear?”

The captain staggered to his feet, blood flowing from
smashed lips. “You were going to shoot into the crowd!”

“Was I?” Thetos challenged him. “Who says? I threatened
to, which is different from doing so. It had the effect I wished for. Just because
I say I’m going to do something, it doesn’t mean I’ll actually do it, you fool.
Get out of my sight, you utter moron!”

The man staggered away, hanging his head in shame. The
men gave him a cursory glance, then stood awaiting orders. Thetos dismissed
them, ordering them back to their barracks. He descended to the courtyard once
more and looked at the eight who had been arrested. The senior captain snapped
smartly to attention. “Sir! Eight prisoners who refused to drop their weapons!”

“Very good, Captain. Get from them their names,
addresses, occupations. Then have them clear that mess up out on the square. Won’t
do to have an untidy city, will it?”

“Sir. What shall we do with them after that?”

“If they’re not from Turslenka, off to the mines with
them. I won’t have interlopers coming in here spreading unrest. Those sort of
people are almost certainly Duras agents. If they’re from the city, levy a fine
against them. Have the city council check their rental situation. A quarter
year rental fine should do. If they’re in business, a half year tax fine.”

“Very good sir.”

Thetos nodded and went back up to the building. That had
worked out well. He felt elated. Things had got somewhat boring around town
recently. Perhaps he ought to see if he could raise enough men to go to Kalkos
and sort out the Duras army there? He would write to Astiras and ask what he
wanted doing.

Then he’d see to Metila.

That winter was mild, relatively speaking. No great
blizzards covered the countryside, the army outside Zofela endured only minor
inconveniences due to a frozen ground and icy, chilling wind blowing in off the
plains. The mountain passes were blocked but that was not unusual. The coastal
regions of the Empire remained snow free. Travel was possible on hard, rutted
roads so food could reach the towns and cities from the farmlands on a regular
basis. This, more than any other factor, kept the centres of population fed and
able to carry on, despite the best efforts of the Duras in Makenia and Lombert
Soul in Bathenia.

The rivers froze as was the norm but the ice was not as
thick as it had been in times gone by so people could smash holes in it easily
and get to fish or fresh water. At times there were days when the snows
vanished to be replaced by a cold, sodden wetness that made those outdoors
thoroughly miserable. The rebel forces of Duras and Lombert Soul remained in
their camps, hardly able to feed themselves thanks to the stores in the cities
and the escorted route to Niake from Aconia, and Thetos Olskan’s patrols near
Turslenka. The rebels suffered much more than their enemies.

The rains fell whenever it got too warm to snow, and
Argan spent many days indoors, wistfully pressing his nose against the windows
of his room looking out onto a grey, wet world. His breath misted the glass and
he amused himself by drawing smiling faces and other objects in it until the
mist disappeared. He would breathe over it again to re-draw what had just gone.
He included some unflattering representations of Istan amongst them.

His studies continued regardless, and he had been
promised riding lessons in the Spring. He was looking forward to that, much
more than his stuffy lessons in language, figures and court etiquette. It was
very odd behaving in a way opposite to what one might feel towards someone, but
he was repeatedly told by Mr Sen that as a prince and an important member of
the ruling House he had to show courtesy and a proper attitude to everyone with
whom he spoke. This included the Tybar who were now regarded as trading
partners and not enemies.

“But aren’t we going to take back those lands that they
have taken from us?” he had asked Mr Sen.

“In time, yes, young Prince,” Mr Sen had replied, “but
for now we must treat them as equals, much as it may hurt and annoy us. We must
put aside for now the terrible things they have done to us. We are not strong
enough for a war with anyone.”

“Why?”

Mr Sen had paused, then fished for and unrolled a scroll
that had drawn in ink a map of the Empire, or rather one that had been the
Empire before the current disasters. He had weighed it down and Argan had
eagerly looked at it, always excited by a map. He loved them. A manicured
finger pointed to the west. “Young Prince, here are lands we regard as ours,
but now are in the hands of the Tybar. Izaras, Tobralus, Amria, Kaprenia. Big
provinces, populous, rich in resources. The Empire’s strength lay here. Here is
where we got most of our recruits for the army, but now it is no longer ours,
we have a smaller pool of people to pick from. We have also lost the revenue in
taxes and trade we used to get so we can no longer afford a big army. With a
smaller army our strength is much reduced. If we turned on the Tybar, we would
have to use all our armed forces to even have a hope of capturing one region,
and that would leave the east wide open.”

He had then swept a hand to the right. “Here is Bragal;
your father hopes to end the war there soon. But beyond is Mazag. Yes, allies
today, but tomorrow? They are ambitious and look upon us with greed and envy. They
also know we are weak. There is little to stop them should they decide to
attack.”

Argan had frowned. “So why don’t they, then?”

Mr Sen had pointed further east. “Venn, and Zilcia. They
have taken provinces from us recently and view us as ripe for the picking. But
our weakness is also our saviour, for they are too greedy to want anyone else
to take what they see as theirs, and so they watch one another like jealous
children. If one makes a move the others would move to stop them. Certainly
Mazag would fight Venn or Zilcia if either of those made a move on us, and so
far both Venn and Zilcia have not, so I understand, made any agreement between
them to co-operate. So they sit and watch and wait.”

“For what?”

“How the Bragal war ends up. I would assume if we emerge
victorious it will alarm them, for it might point to us re-emerging as a force
to be taken seriously. If, however, Bragal wins then Mazag will invade Bragal
which will leave Venn or Zilcia free to attack us through Epros here to the
east.”

“So – if father loses we will be attacked?”

Mr Sen had nodded gravely. “It is all about opportunity
and making sure of getting the biggest slice. Everyone knows no one kingdom
will get everything, but once the attack begins it is down to who moves the
quickest and who takes the most. I would say that Mazag will only be able to
take Bragal, for they would face the stiffest resistance. Venn has the best
chance of taking the most – they would almost certainly conquer Makenia and
blockade Kastan City from both land and sea, and eventually starve us out here
and we would surrender, in time.”

“And the rest?” Argan had asked, his face ashen.

Mr Sen had glanced at the map again. “Pelponia would be
isolated and Zilcia most likely would take it and the fortress of Kornith. As
for the west – well, unless the Tybar fall asleep, they will capture Niake and
Slenna. And then that’s the end of everything. Zipria off to the west may carry
on for a while but I can see someone sometime landing on that island to take it
in the fullness of time.”

Argan had stared hard at the map. “So – so father must
win! He must, Mr Sen!”

“Oh, fear not, young Prince, I believe he will. He knows
that. Defeat is unthinkable. Fortunately for us Mazag would prefer a Kastanian
victory. They see Kastania as weak and prefer a weak neighbour rather than a
newly independent and fiercely nationalistic one. Venn and Zilcia probably
watch to see how our army fares before making a decision, but they will come,
mark my words. One day.”

Argan still remembered those words and looked out onto
the rain, wondering what his father was doing. Was he still fighting? Was he
winning? Amne had told him of the awful conditions at Zofela, and the piteous
state of the Bragalese defences. She was certain it would have to surrender by
the spring. Nobody was listening anymore to their cries for help. All those who
had campaigned within Kastan for Bragalese independence were gone, either
arrested or dead. No support for Bragal was permitted.

Argan sighed and turned away, and looked around his
room. It was cold. Perhaps a nice warm soup would cheer him up. He left his
room and the guard outside stepped into line, following him. Ever since
Vosgaris had fallen down some stairs, so he said, he had allowed a guard to
escort him around rather than himself. Argan thought about that. Perhaps
Vosgaris was worried he’d fall down more steps and not be able to guard Argan
properly. Vosgaris’ bumps and bruises had taken a few days to clear up. Mother
had been cross at him. Maybe she thought Vosgaris had been a clumsy fantor.

Vosgaris seemed happier since then, though. Argan didn’t
know why, and he realised grown-ups were very strange people. He decided to go
get Kerrin and they could share a bowl of soup in the kitchen. Kerrin was studying
equines, and their behaviour. It seemed Kerrin was being taught the role of a
bodyguard; his father had said since he himself had been a bodyguard, so his
son should be too. Argan wanted Kerrin to be his bodyguard. They were good
friends and he thought Kerrin would be a much better bodyguard if they were
friends.

Kerrin put away the big book with the pictures of war
equines in it happily enough when Argan appeared. Although they were followed
by the guard, the two boys were soon giggling between themselves at private
jokes and observations that usually involved animal parts. The guard walked
about ten paces behind, his volgar over his shoulder, very much relaxed at the
duty he had pulled. It was better than standing in the cold and wet outside by
a doorway that very few people used, and it often was boring as well as hard. The
guard sergeant then often bellowed at the poor unfortunate guard to clean
themselves and their equipment up and get all the wet off it as rust was not
permitted.

Not that being a palace guard was bad; the food was
good, the position looked up to – although not always with fondness – by the
other military units, and they carried the fearsome palace polearm, the volgar.
It was a status symbol, a weapon that was designed to unseat a rider from his
equine and to slice open the hardest armour. Best of all the pay was good. It
would be no good for the palace guard to be poorly paid, for that would leave
them open to bribery by almost anyone. Of course, the late unlamented Captain
Mercos had been amongst the most corrupt of corrupt people, but he had rarely
passed any of his ill-gotten lucre down to his men.

However these days no palace guard unit ever went to
war; they were there purely to guard the palace and the emperor when he was there.
Their numbers had declined, too, for they were expensive and the empire these
days was hard-strapped for money.

Argan had little idea of all this, for he was more
interested in the sweet pastries the cooks were making. He and Kerrin were
practically drooling at the sight of the trays of the baked things coming out
of the ovens. Argan smiled and walked confidently up to the senior cook who
curtseyed at the sight of him, surprise in her eyes. “Why, Prince Argan! It’s
an honour to see you here. Is there anything wrong?”

“Oh, no, Reena,” Argan recalled her name; he had been
told it was important for someone like him to remember names because it was
rude not to. He wondered how he could possibly remember all the people’s names,
but he would try his hardest. “Kerrin and I just love your sweet pastries and we
each wanted to try one out!”

Reena wondered whether that was proper, given that
dinner would be served shortly, but she could hardly refuse a prince of the
ruling dynasty. Besides, the two boys were standing so happily before her, big,
wide grins on their faces and their eyes like freshly-landed aquatic beasts,
popping wide staring at the pastries. She wrapped two in serving paper and
handed them to the boys who thanked her, then ran off through the kitchen and
out the back.

The guard suddenly realised the boys were out of his
sight and stumbled hurriedly through the kitchen to the back exit, but by the
time he’d clumsily got to the doorway, the boys were gone. Putting his hand to
his head in dismay, he ran down the narrow passageway and stared out of the
left hand turning, the way out to the servant’s courtyard, but the boys were
nowhere to be seen. The other way led to the servant’s quarters, and there were
dozens and dozens of those, all linked by narrow passageways and corridors. A
state of near panic gripped the guard, and he plunged into the labyrinth,
calling out to the two boys. If it became known he’d lost the two boys, he
would be severely disciplined.

A few paces away Argan and Kerrin giggled behind their
hands and waited until the guard had gone deep into the servants’ quarters
before emerging from the little alcove they’d hidden in and ran out into the
servants’ courtyard. It was wet and cold but they didn’t care. A small ladder
stood against the wall, a means of access to the roof from the rear of the
palace for the workmen. The ladder was in poor repair, having not been used for
some time, and it wasn’t secured properly against the wall. Some of the wooden
rungs were missing but the two boys athletically clambered up past these and up
onto the sloping roof of the servant’s wing, an annexe of the palace that ran
at right angles from the main palace building and at a lower height.

Following the wooden plank walkway put there for the
purpose of allowing the long dead workmen to traverse the roof, they climbed up
and then down as they passed the apex of the annexe roof. The higher buildings
of the palace proper hemmed the boys in on three sides while the fourth, the
side they had just crossed, hid them from the ground so that here they were
unseen from any place. Kerrin had discovered this one day during a game of
exploring, and had told Argan about it. Since then the two boys had often
sneaked onto the roof when they could but this was the first time they had
actually slipped away from a guard to get to their hiding place.

The roof was smoothly tiled and the slope ended in a
gutter that ran against the vertically rising wall of the main palace. There
was no ladder here, but there were broken off brackets where one had once been
before, in some time long past, it had either been taken away or had fallen
into such disrepair that it had eventually rotted.

They two boys sat against the vertical wall with their
legs out straight, crossing the gutter and their feet lay on the slope of the
roof they had just crossed. They got their sweet pastries out of their pockets
and began to eat them. Although it was drizzling and it was cold, they were
happy enough in their secret hiding place. Argan had a cloth cap on that kept
his head relatively warm while Kerrin had a small wide brimmed tin helmet his
father had made him to practice his swordsmanship in, and he’d taken to wearing
it whenever he was out. It was an old militia foot soldier’s style of helmet
that had largely gone out of fashion in the last fifty years or so.