by Tony Roberts
Astiras was glad of the lunchtime break. That morning had been a full-on session of poring over paperwork and figures, something he most certainly was not comfortable with. Frendicus and his cohorts helped enormously, and after a while they had thrashed out at least the beginnings of a coherent policy. The emperor had left for his second appointment of the day, facing some searching questions from merchants and traders wanting to know what tax policies and concession would be forthcoming. News that the laws passed by the previous emperor were up for review and likely to be scrapped had raced around the capital, causing much anxiety and outrage.
Astiras had reiterated the position; that the treasury could no longer afford such over generous and foolish fiscal policies and that traders would no longer enjoy tax free privileges. They would have to pay just like the next man. This had caused some loud voices to declare they would take their trade away from the empire, which Astiras had encouraged them to do; he had no place in the empire, he told them, for those who no longer wished to be part of it. Their places would be filled by new, eager people within days.
That had effectively shut them up.
Mentally tired, Astiras slumped in his chair and waited for the servants to place on his platter the meal his stomach was growling for. A beautifully attired servant arrived, platter in hand, and placed it reverently on the table in front of him. Isbel, Amne, Teduskis, Theros and Pepil waited impatiently as the lid was raised and a steaming pile of…… something….. was revealed.
Astiras leaned forward and stared at a pile of thin, pale coloured meats greeted his eyes. Around the edge were small watery pale yellow vegetables. “What in the name of Kastan is this?” he asked the servant.
“Goroch meat, sire, and kelle vegetables.”
“Goroch? You mean those animals that wallow in mud on river banks?”
“Indeed, your majesty. It’s a delicacy. Cut carefully from their loins, this is the prized delicacy of Kastan’s royal households.”
“I’m supposed to eat ugly creatures’ loins.” Astiras looked at his wife. “I don’t want this – what about you?”
Isbel looked at it dubiously. “I don’t think I do. Amne?”
Their daughter’s expression said it all. Only Pepil seemed unmoved. “Your majesty, this is a delicacy often served here. It is tasty!”
“So is charger flesh, or so I’m told, but I’m sure as the sun and moons fly above us I’m not going to eat it. Take this away,” he ordered the servant, “and get the cook to prepare cold meats for now. Tomorrow I want something more acceptable to a standard palate. This – luxury – food is not going to be served here. Any more unusual dishes that are normally served here I need to know about? Insect testicles?”
“Astiras!” Isbel scolded.
Amne smirked and covered her mouth with her hand. Teduskis cleared his throat and leaned back. “In Bragal they favour a dish called kutosh. It’s a kind of stew but made with canine flesh and root vegetables they grow there called moklar. Looks like a charger’s sexual organ but tastes very nice indeed.”
“Do we really have to have such conversations around the dining table?” Isbel demanded.
Astiras looked across the table at Pepil. “Make sure the kitchens cook more standard fayre from now on, Pepil. Give me a menu the night before so I can yes or no it.”
“Yes, sire.”
“Isbel,” Astiras said. “Kutosh is very tasty, I’ve had it. But we won’t serve it here, don’t worry. But Amne,” he turned to his daughter, “you may well savour it when you come with us to Bragal.”
Amne looked at her father with wide eyes. Isbel tutted. “Just make sure that vegetable Teduskis described is – prepared accordingly before you give it to Amne.”
“Moklar?” Astiras asked. He nodded, deliberately not catching Teduskis’ eye. In Bragal it was a deliberate insult to call someone a Moklar. Astiras yawned and cracked his shoulders. “I’ve checked tax records and listened to whining nobility wanting to ingratiate themselves to me this morning. This afternoon I’ve got to look forward to marriage offers. May the gods help me! The sooner a new army is trained up so I can return to Bragal the better! Teduskis, organise posters to be put up around the city inviting men of eligible age to join up. You’d better oversee their training. See if you can get some of the town guard to apply too – we need a core of them to get things moving.”
“Sire. Where will they be housed, these new recruits?”
Astrias scratched his head. “Unless there’s alternative accommodation, the barracks will have to do to start with. Isn’t there an archery range and stables close by?”
“Yes, sire. We could train up cavalry and archers too.”
“We’ll need them as well as foot sloggers. Get to it. I’ll read your report on your day’s activities tonight.” He winked at the old campaigner.
Teduskis smiled briefly and then stood up. “If you’ll all excuse me, ladies, gentlemen,” and left.
Isbel looked thoughtful. “What are you two cooking up? You look like two naughty students.”
“Oh, nothing, dear.”
“Don’t you ‘nothing, dear’ me! I’m not a foolish home-wife fluttering her eyelashes and waiting for you to return home after a hard day’s work in the taverns! Astiras Koros, I’m empress, and I should have some say in what’s going on! So far I’ve contributed nothing. I’m part of this dynasty as well, so start treating me as such.”
“Not so loud, Isbel,” Astiras frowned. “If you like, you can face these nobles pushing marriage at Amne and the two boys. It’d leave me free to deal with diplomatic matters; I understand a messenger from Pelponia has arrived.”
Isbel was mollified – slightly – and nodded. “I trust you’ll have me present for any official greeting of ambassadors should they turn up?”
“Of course. Pepil will advise should any arrive. What’s the likelihood of this happening? he looked at the major domo.
“Not for a while. There hasn’t been an embassy here for some time. Nobody takes us seriously anymore,” the major domo added gloomily.
“Not at present. They’re more interested in tearing up the carcass,” Astiras growled. “We’ll show them this carcass has life in it yet.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Argan was tired. His tutor, Mr Sen, had talked lots that day. He talked a lot about how much he was going to learn over the next few years. Argan was more interested in the toy figures of soldiers Mr Sen had brought along. The figures were wonderful, being as tall as his hand, and all painted to look like real people. There were lots of them, too many for Argan to count. He could only count up to ten anyway.
Mr Sen did let him play that afternoon after lunch. They’d eaten bread, cheese and drank fruit flavoured water in the tutorial room which Argan had found refreshing. He’d never tasted anything like that before. He wanted lots but it gave him a windy tummy so Mr Sen had stopped him after one particularly big burp.
The figures all had imperial colours and symbols on them. Argan had asked what they were and if they had any names. Mr Sen had picked up one, a man with a sword and a shield. “This is what the imperial infantry used to look like,” he had said with a slight sadness in his voice. “Before the big battle with the Tybar that we lost. After that, they stopped using them.”
“Why? He looks big and strong!”
“Yes he does, doesn’t he? The Tybar use bows and arrows a lot, and these poor fellows were hit by arrows before they could get close to them. We lost most of our infantry that day. And they take a long time to train properly. They’re good fighting other swordsmen, but not much use against people who use cavalry and archers.”
“I’m going to call him Kas. I like Kas.”
“Alright, we’ll call him Kas. An army has to have lots of different sorts of people in it. Like the cavalry, and archers, and spearmen.” Mr Sen had placed all the different types of figures alongside Kas.
Argan picked up the cavalry figure, a heavily armoured man on the back of a charger.
It was gaily coloured and a flag fluttered from a lance sticking up into the air held by the rider. “Who is this?”
“It can be your father, if you like; he’d be like that in a battle.”
“Oh yes! This is father! And Jorqel? What would he be like?”
Mr Sen had smiled. “Much the same,” and he placed a second, slightly different cavalryman next to the first. “Cavalry are the most important part of an army; they can quickly come to help others who may be in trouble, or hit an enemy hard and break their formations up.”
Argan had mimicked a charge and had knocked over one of the figures and then smiled. Mr Sen had thoughtfully picked up a spearman. “But not him.”
“Why not him?”
“He’s a spearman. Cavalry don’t like spearmen; spears hurt chargers a lot, and they stay away from them.”
Argan had studied the spearman for a moment. “Then who can hurt a spearman?”
Mr Sen had smiled and tapped both Kas and a figure of an archer on the heads. “Either of these.”
Argan had then played a battle, and Mr Sen had sat back and watched. When Argan had tried to attack a spear unit with his cavalry, Mr Sen had tutted and shaken his head, so Argan had switched to his archers and Mr Sen had smiled. Then an odd thing had happened. Mr Sen had put a new cavalry unit on the table, one with red markings. “What is that?” Argan had asked.
“Baddies. The enemy cavalry is going to ride down your archers. What are you going to do?”
“Uh! Oh… father!” Argan had placed the charger and rider to block the enemy cavalry.
“Very good, Argan. You may play with them a little more for that. Then we must stop as you’re getting tired.”
After a while Mr Sen had put the figures away. Argan felt sad; he’d loved playing with them. But he’d been told that they would be there the following day, but only if he studied the book that would be given to him to read, and Mr Sen would ask questions about it. Argan didn’t know what book it was. He hoped it would have nice pictures of riders and archers in it. He really liked them. Mr Sen had told him that one day Argan might be like that, a rider on a charger. It made Argan feel very happy instead of sad.
He was tired when it came to dinner. His father and mother commented on it. Argan didn’t feel like talking much; his head was full of soldiers and warriors. “Mr Sen, have you done too much with young Argan here?” Isbel asked.
“Only given him military figures to play with and learn the fundamentals of warfare. He enjoyed himself hugely.” The tutor smiled and nodded.
Astiras looked at Argan who nodded in return. “I liked you, father!”
“Me?” Astiras looked in confusion at Sen.
“He named the figure of a rider on a charger after you, sire.”
“Ah. And how did it go, Argan?”
“Good! I like the soldiers. Mr Sen said if I learned tomorrow from a book then I could play with them again!”
The adults smiled and waited for the arrival of drinks. Isbel studied Mr Sen. “How is he doing?”
“Very well, your majesty. Certainly has an instinctive grasp of tactics. You may have a budding tactical genius there, ma’am.”
Astiras looked like he’d just had the cream. Isbel smiled with pride too, but not because of his military grasp. Rather, it was because it was her son who was excelling at something. Amne tousled Argan’s head. “There you are, Argan,” she said proudly, “you’re a clever boy!”
Argan smiled. Isbel spoke to Amne. “And your day, Amne? How was that?”
Amne sighed loudly. “Lots of facts and what have you! Who to be aware of and who’s likely to be friendly, or unfriendly. Being a diplomat is like being an actor or actress.”
“Yes,” Astrias agreed. “Falsehoods and deceit. But always remember, Amne, that the empire comes first. It’s been poorly served of late and we all suffer as a result. A diplomat may not have the same status as a warrior, and may not have the visible effect on an opponent a soldier does, but he can influence relations between nations just as much.”
“Wise words, your majesty,” Theros said. “Your daughter has a natural charm and with the knowledge I and my staff can give her, I feel she will do a wonderful job in Mazag.”
Amne blushed and looked down. The silence was broken by the arrival of the servants with the after dinner drinks. It wasn’t long before the diners broke up and went their various ways. Argan was tucked into bed and Amne went to her room to enjoy a quiet period; her head was spinning with what she’d learned that day.
Isbel and Astiras sat in the library and sipped their drinks. “Our children would appear to be a clever bunch,” Astiras said.
“I’m glad Argan is showing promise,” Isbel said with relief. Astiras guessed it was because Jorqel and Amne were not her children. Astiras’ first wife had died in child birth when Amne had been born, and he’d remarried a decade later, just as news of the disaster against the Tybar had come. Fortunately Astiras had been serving in the east and had avoided the debacle, but the civil wars that had followed had involved him as Astiras backed the existing regime against those who had rebelled after the defeat. After the emperor’s capture and death at the hands of the rebels, Astiras had gone into hiding until a counter-rebellion had broken out.
The trouble was that the original cause had died and Astiras found each faction was now more interested in putting its candidate on the throne than looking to the defence of the empire. As a result province after province had either been gobbled up by their neighbours or had declared independence, and then been eaten up by its neighbour. Astiras had been too busy to start a family until the last few years. It was only after he had been made governor of Bragal, had he thought himself settled enough to do so.
Shortly after Argan’s birth the Bragal independence war had broken out and he’d been fully occupied with that. Isbel and young Argan had been moved to Kastan with the rest of the household for their safety until Astiras realised his power base had been undermined and his family may be in danger from the emperor’s faction. Astiras had returned to Kastan during the winter seasons and Istan had been born in Kastan City just before Astiras had returned to Bragal to help shore up a deteriorating situation.
The conspiracy Teduskis had discovered over the past few days was made up of those who had supported the previous emperor, and they saw the Koros as dangerous rivals. That reminded Astiras. He reached into his pocket and pulled out Teduskis’ report. He rustled the paper open and read it in the candlelight, peering closely to read the words. Isbel leaned over. “What is it?”
“The thieves’ guild – they deny being involved in any way with the conspiracy. Damned liars. Teduskis warned them, but I think once they’ve taken a contract they’ll see it through. Jorqel had best be warned again. You’ll write to him?”
“Yes, of course.” Even though not her natural son, she regarded him as her own. “What about the danger to the rest of us?”
“Still there, I’d say. We need Mercos’ replacement as soon as possible. This Vosgaris fellow wants to think on it further. He’d be the ideal replacement.”
“It would put us in favour with the Taboz family too,” Isbel commented. “We need allies. What about the other conspirators?”
“Gone into hiding, as I suspected. How did the afternoon session go with the nobles?”
Isbel chuckled. The number of enquiries as to the eligibility of their two sons dropped once it was known they would not consider any proposals until Argan and Istan were twelve. Many of the nobility had no idea of the youthfulness of the boys. That had left the suitors for Amne’s hand. There were five families in particular which wanted to secure an alliance with the Koros, and Isbel had spent all afternoon speaking with them. At the end of it, all had left with the understanding that Amne was busy with matters of state but she would begin to look for a husband when this was finished. The five families would at that time be contacted, to see if their sons were still interested. Of course, Isbel had told them, Amne might choose
an entirely different suitor.
Astiras had some interesting news. It seemed the first outbreak of open rebellion to the Koros regime had begun in far off Pelponia. The local garrison had been divided in their loyalties and half had revolted while the other half had stayed loyal, including the commander, Anthes. The rebels had clashed briefly with the loyalists before fleeing to the districts surrounding the main city, Kornith, and inciting the populace there to join them. It looked like a stand-off at present.
“What are you going to do?” Isbel asked.
“Tell Anthes to crush them. We need to show everyone we’re not to be defied. I can’t send anyone up there to help him, so he’ll have to cope on his own.”
“What if they fail?”
“They can’t. They’d better not!” Astiras hoped it could be sorted out quickly. If not, then their grip on the throne could loosen and their future might be bleak indeed.
____
The Fokis family owned many properties in and around Kastan. One of these was a textile factory that employed fifty people in one of the eastern suburbs of the capital, sited outside the city walls. Wormspun textiles were produced here and it made the Fokis family very rich indeed. The workforce lived very close by and as dark fell they made their way home after a hard day’s labour. Now it was empty the building could be used for other purposes, and the family often held meetings or partook in illegal gambling sessions here, always fixed so that they ended up even richer after each such session.
But this night they were holding a meeting with representatives of other families. All had a common cause; to oppose the Koros family. Private mercenary guards patrolled outside or stood sentinel within the building to make sure nobody unwelcome happened by or attended the meeting.
The most senior Fokis family member there was Cledin, a thirty-something year old with a hard icy stare and a firm mouth that hardly ever smiled. He was a serious man with ambitions to rise high in the imperial apparatus, but the recent coup had put a stop to that, so he was more than happy to host the meeting in what was one of his businesses. It had been the suggestion of his father, who was now in hiding.