by Tony Roberts
“Very difficult, indeed,” Dinosi said in a thin, high-pitched voice. “I should rejoice as I stand to be promoted to High Cleric of Kastan in place of Burnas, but this is something that has been blocked by the emperor.”
Vitlis smiled thinly. The ambitious Dinosi clearly didn’t care a damn for his disgraced superior, but the fact he was then prevented from replacing him had caused him to oppose the emperor. The other three men were a mixture of souls. The greying figure of the palace guard, Mercos, waited impatiently for the meeting to progress. Next to him was a portly man, with double chins, a balding head and gold teeth, and wore rich clothes. He was Wylan Grother, a merchant of some standing, and representing the Merchants’ Guild, a loose confederation of businessmen who set the prices for goods coming into and going out of the city. Things had been good for them the last few years; profits had multiplied, and even if some markets had been lost thanks to the advance of the Tybar tribes in the west, at least in the east trade had gone on with the merchants of Venn and Zilcia. Losing territory to those people didn’t matter, and in fact it made things much more lucrative as the tolls on imports into the empire gave them extra money. So it was better if the empire lost more land. They would get richer.
The last man was a dark, small, shadowy creature, preferring to sit in the corner with his back to the wall. He was a senior figure in the Thieves’ Guild, and had an interest in the meeting as he wanted to know what these people planned to do with the emperor and his family; any decision to kill the man would necessarily involve the Thieves’ Guild, as an agent would have to be employed to do the job. Vitlis’ money had already bought his discretion and silence.
“We are here tonight to determine the right course of action against Astiras and the Koros family,” Vitlis began. “All of us have an interest in returning to the previous state of affairs we were all enjoying. The emperor is threatening to undo everything we have worked hard for over the past few years. What is certain is that he has no respect for tradition or the structure of the empire’s hierarchy. This is what happens when soldiers are allowed to take control!” He looked at Mercos. “You helped in that to a large degree, Mercos.”
Mercos shrugged. “It seemed the right decision at the time. I was wrong.”
“Well, we all hope you can assist in the correction of that decision.”
“Of course. My loyalty is to you.”
Vitlis smiled briefly again. What Mercos meant of course was that his loyalty was to Vitlis’ money. Astiras had made the mistake of not paying Mercos any more ‘loyalty’ money after his accession. “What of the Fokis family? Do they back your intention to replace the Koros family at the palace? And which family should we promote to take their place? Do you have ambitions to the throne yourselves? After all,” he said, smiling thinly, “one of your House has taken control of Lodria.”
Vacan inclined his head. “My family back me in every manner.” Following his public humiliation his family had expressed their support for him. “As to the succession, I have taken the liberty of examining the legal documentation held in the judiciary office, and there are two possible candidates. We have the Palanges family or the Kanzet family. They have eligibility from marriage from the old emperor Ronis who died in that terrible battle ten years ago. His daughters married members of both the Palanges and Kanzet families. The senior House are the Palanges, but if they refuse then we can ask the Kanzet. I’m confident one of them at least will accept our offer. As for my family, we are merely demonstrating our opposition to emperors who do not provide us with the right contracts and financial incentives. Lodria will trade with Kastan provided all contracts come through the Fokis family.”
“What of the army?” Wylan Grother, the merchant, asked. “Unless they support the coup, surely it will be doomed? We would have civil war yet again.”
“With Mercos here commanding the palace guard, we already have some support within the palace. And you, Wylan, can grease the right palms to allow the town militia to sit back and do nothing.” Vitlis waved a hand in the air. “That leaves the imperial army. Now, most of them are with the emperor’s son so all we have to worry about are the few who are in the palace. Mercos, can you arrange for our shadowy friend over there,” Vitlis pointed at the thief, “to send in agents to slit their throats at night?”
“It can be arranged, yes.”
“Good. Then once they are all dead, the emperor and his family can be slaughtered at will.”
Mercos cleared his throat. “Can I ask that the daughter, Amne, is spared? I want to have my way with that she-canine.”
“Your personal wants are secondary to the job in hand, Mercos. All the Koros family must die, even the two youngest children.”
“I’ll kill her myself, but only after having her. That’s the terms for my help.”
Vitlis sighed and glanced at Vacan who shrugged. “Very well, Mercos, you can satisfy your – carnal needs – but you must take care of her immediately afterwards.”
“And Prince Jorqel?” Wyland asked. “He won’t be so easy – and if he finds out his father has been murdered he’ll go berserk and march on Kastan.”
Vitlis nodded at the thief once more. “Our friend here will arrange for an agent of his to infiltrate the camp and get close to Jorqel, then eliminate him on a pre-arranged date to coincide with the coup here. We will have to make sure a successor is ready to step into the vacant throne the moment Astiras dies.”
“And the replacement must agree to the tax exemptions and trading privileges we’ve had in the past.” Wyland held Vitlis’ gaze.
Vitlis nodded. “Your companies will trade with Lodria on favourable terms, naturally.”
“And I must be appointed High Cleric the day following the accession,” Dinosi said. “And if so, the Temple will give the new emperor its support.”
The meeting went on until the small hours but the essential points had already been covered. The visitors all collected their coats and cloaks, and stepped out cautiously into the night air. It still had a slight bite to it but the warmer days heralded the coming of summer. Vitlis sat in his study and thought long and hard on the plans, going through them again and again, rejecting the parts that were impossible, and formalising the details.
The visitors went their separate ways; Vacan and Wyland by carriage, Dinosi through the streets confidently to the temple on the hill close to the palace, the thief via the alleyways like a wraith, and Mercos, alone, towards the palace. His head was covered with a hood and the poor street lighting cast deep shadows so he was hidden even more from view. But eyes followed him nonetheless and he was just about to enter the palace gates when two men stepped across his path. “That’s far enough, friend,” one growled deeply. “You’re coming with us.”
“What?” Mercos began to protest. His hand grabbed the hilt of his sword but a third man had stepped up from behind and pressed a dagger into his back. “One wrong move or a shout and you’re dead,” the third man hissed in a voice Mercos thought sounded vaguely familiar.
Mercos however didn’t recognise any of the men for their faces were covered in cloth so that only their eyes were visible, and they, too, wore hoods so that these eyes were in shadows. Mercos’ sword was removed and he was taken forcefully by the arm away from the palace and along the main street to the next turning, then he was whisked off the street and down a long narrow alley until the black yawning mouth of a set of double doors greeted them.
Mercos was thrust rudely into the opening and he stumbled to a halt, trying to see in the near darkness.
The doors closed behind them and one of the men scratched a tinderbox – Mercos knew what they sounded like – and suddenly there was light. The closeness of the three men to him intimidated the palace guard captain, and he tried to shrink away from them. It was as much the menace and feeling of intent coming from them that made him afraid as anything else.
“Right my friend,” the third man who Mercos took to be the leader said, “you’re going to tell
us what was said at this meeting you’ve been to and who else was there.” He dragged off his face cloth and Mercos felt an icy chill run down his spine. It was Teduskis. “Being silent will do you no good at all. It will only mean more pain and suffering to you.”
“You think you can treat me, the captain of the guard, like this?” Mercos blustered.
“Yes,” Teduskis said. “Your replacement is already being considered. Let’s get one thing clear, Mercos. You’re a dead man. How you die is up to how co-operative you are. My two colleagues here aren’t averse to the sight of blood; they’ve veterans of the Bragal campaigns, so they’ve seen more suffering and pain than you can ever imagine.”
Mercos stared from one dark shadowy form to the other, and felt no pity or sympathy towards him. Teduskis was speaking the truth. Mercos’s bowels turned to ice and his legs began shaking. He opened his mouth to shout but no sound came, for Teduskis had been waiting for such a move and his hand clamped over Mercos’ mouth and dragged him down to the rough floorboards of the workshop, for that was what it was. The smell of sawdust came to Mercos as he frantically breathed through his nose and the rough feel of wood chippings against his face added to his discomfort.
One of the men was kneeling on his back, preventing him from getting up, and his hands were being bound behind him. A gag was roughly forced between his teeth and his tongue felt the coarse, filthy fabric of some workshop rag.
He was dragged up and slammed into a creaking chair. Mercos rolled his eyes in a plea, but the tall, dark, sinister figures in front of him were having none of it. Teduskis was in the background, idly examining the tools of the woodman’s workshop. It was one of the palace workshops, located around the rear of the palace, out of the way of the streets that people inhabited, so any noise would not be investigated.
“Now,” Teduskis said pleasantly, sitting on the edge of a bench. “Shall we begin?”
Jorqel was awakened in the dead of night by his bodyguard, Gavan. The bodyguard called his name repeatedly, getting louder, until Jorqel’s mind registered it. He groaned and rolled over, opening one eye. His bodyguard was sat a few feet away, unarmoured, unarmed. He looked as though he’d been woken only a few moments ago. “Yes, Gavan, what is it? The scouts have found a village of unmarried young maidens ready for our arrival?”
“Not quite, sir,” Gavan grinned, his teeth visible in the gloom of the tent. The only light was a single torch flickering by the entrance of the tent. Two guards could be seen standing ready, armed to the teeth. “A messenger has arrived in camp; he has a message for you from Kastan.”
“Ah!” Jorqel was instantly on his feet. He was dressed in a simple white shirt and thin leggings. “Bring him in.”
“You’re not dressed, sir,” Gavan pointed out mildly.
“I don’t care if I’m stark naked, Gavan. Get the man in here now. I trust he’s been fed and watered?”
“Not as far as I know, sir. I’ll find out.”
“And if not, then get the camp cook to knock something up for him. Something edible, that is.”
Gavan paused in getting out of his chair, grinned again, and nodded. He left. Jorqel grumbled. He hated his sleep being disturbed. He fumbled around and got a candle lit from his flint and steel. By the time he’d done that Gavan had returned and the messenger, looking tired and sweaty, was presented to him. The messenger bowed.
“Welcome to camp, my good man,” Jorqel said, standing expectantly. He hoped to all the heavens that this was from his father and that all had gone to plan. “I believe you have a message for me?”
“Yes, your majesty.”
Your majesty! Jorqel looked at Gavan and smiled. Gavan looked back in pleasure, then knelt on one knee and bowed. “Up, Gavan. Me being a prince makes no difference to our relationship.”
Gavan stood up and nodded. He looked proud. As well he might. Now he was a member of the royal guard to the heir to the throne.
The messenger presented the letter, sealed with wax. Jorqel angled the letter so he could see it better in the light. The seal had the idiom of a bar with two circles next to each other in the middle. The Imperial Seal. “Have you ridden far?” he asked the messenger.
“Sire. From Niake. I come with the compliments and professed loyalty of my master, Evas Extonos, governor of Niake.”
“You have been treated well here in camp?”
“So far, yes sire. Although I am thirsty and my charger needs feeding and grooming.”
Jorqel looked at Gavan. “I thought that had been arranged, Gavan.”
“Consider it done, sire.” Gavan left and clapped one of the guards on duty by the tent flap on the shoulder. The guard took it with a smile. Jorqel suppressed a grin himself. The whole camp would know in a few moments and they’d all be in good spirits. Good. He looked again at the messenger. “Be seated.”
As the messenger sat, resting in relief, Jorqel opened the letter and scanned the writing. It was his father’s handwriting alright. ‘Son,’ it began, ‘good news indeed. We have deposed the old emperor and I am now ruler. You are heir. Things are confused and chaotic and will be a few days before we know what is what and who is who. Be wary. There will be those who will be consumed with avarice and desire your position.’ Jorqel nodded to himself. ‘Your immediate concerns are to ensure the army is fit to march instantly north to Lodria and bring the province back under imperial control. You are to take the provincial capital Slenna and install yourself as governor. Your rear will be safe as it is in the capable hands of Evas Extonos.’
Jorqel angled the parchment more to read the last few lines. They were words of encouragement from his father and messages of good luck from his mother and sister. He folded the message and placed it on his bedside table. “Thank you,” he said to the messenger. “Now go with the guard and you will be taken to a place where you can rest and eat, and then sleep. On the morrow you will be given a reply to send back to Kastan via Niake. Now you may go.”
The messenger bowed low again and backed away. Jorqel sat down on his low bunk and allowed his thoughts to race around his head for a few moments. He chuckled to himself. Prince! It was more than he had hardly dared to believe for such a long time, ever since his father had proved they had a claim to the throne in the midst of the civil wars. Thanks to the bloody nature of those wars, rival after rival had been eliminated by one faction or other, and so it had come down to just their family, the Koros, and the late emperor’s. His father’s intention to get rid of the ruling emperor had excited and horrified him in equal measures, and Jorqel had taken the army away from Kastan so that the intrigues and corruption surrounding the court could not affect them. It had also opened the way to the palace.
Gavan reappeared. “He’s comfortable, my lord. We have orders?”
“Yes, Gavan. Lodria! We’re to take Slenna. The army must be ready to march at first light.”
Gavan scratched his jaw. “Aye, they’ll be ready. I think first, sire, that they wish to rejoice your elevation to heir to the throne of Kastania. I would dress before going outside.”
Jorqel smiled again. “Of course. I’ll be a few moments.”
Gavan bowed and backed out of the tent. He stood by the exit, breathing in deeply. This was just what the men needed. A fight. Too long sitting around waiting made the men soft and restless. They needed a war or a fight to keep the edge to their skills, and to keep their tempers under control. It had been too long now since their last battle. The Bragal War had been long and tough, yes, but since they’d been withdrawn a few sevendays ago they’d done nothing but march north, then west, then throw their guts up on the sea crossing to Bathenia and the disembarkation at the port of Aconia. Another march north and they’d been at this camp for around ten days.
Now they’d rested they were getting bored. The order to march north to Lodria had come at the right time. Also they could celebrate their commander being made prince. That would give them the perfect excuse to crack open a few casks of ale.
Prince Jorqel threw open the tent flap behind him and strode out. To his surprise the entire army was standing there in a huge half circle waiting for him. Many were holding torches. A huge cheer rose up from their throats as the new prince emerged from behind Gavan. Jorqel stopped, surprised, then smiled and opened his arms wide to accept the acclamation. He turned slowly from one end of the half circle to the other, nodding at the company captains who were shouting as loud as any of the men.
Finally he waved at them to cease and stepped forward one pace. Filling his lungs, he spoke to them. “Friends, colleagues. We have rested long enough here and recovered from the wounds received on the campaign in Bragal. Now we have a new emperor, my father, and he has been swift in commanding me to take you all on a new campaign, one to the north. The traitors in Lodria are to be dealt with, and our objective is the town-fortress of Slenna. That is our prize. The reward for taking Slenna will be that we become the new garrison and Lodria will be our province to patrol and pacify. The people are not to be treated harshly, for they will be future citizens of the empire and we must show them we are just and fair.
“But to those who oppose us and raise arms against us, we will show them that the valour and strength of imperial soldiers are not things of the past; you will show everyone, including the new emperor, that imperial forces are again something to fear and respect!”
The soldiers raised their arms and shouted in agreement. Jorqel raised his arms again, once more, and drew in a deep breath before shouting the final line of his speech. “To Slenna, and victory!”
The men roared in response and stamped their feet in delight. Jorqel clapped a hand on Gavan’s shoulder. “Get the men to pack up once they have toasted our forthcoming campaign. I want to be away at first light. No point in trying to go back to sleep now – we’re all too excited for that.”
Gavan nodded. He stepped forward to accept a cup full of ale to toast the new prince, and then had it refilled to toast the start of a new campaign, as was the tradition. Jorqel joined in for that one. Then they filled their cups for the third and last time, and poured the alcohol onto the ground as a libation to the gods. They had great need for good luck and favour from the gods now.