Empire of Avarice

by Tony Roberts

  Night had come to Kastan and Isbel made sure both Istan and Argan were in bed asleep, before relaxing and making her way to the council chamber. She often found herself there when she wanted to think. It was as if the ghosts of the past were there to give their support and inspiration just when she needed it the most. The weight of responsibility pressed heavily on her shoulders, but she had managed to cope so far. Astiras was busy raising the apocalypse in Bragal and had left the empire to her to run. What he would say once he’d stopped playing soldiers and turned his attention to the empire again, she wasn’t sure.

  She slowly circled the great table where the map rested. Was it their destiny to recover all the lands lost in more recent times? Or was it to watch as the final acts were carried out on a one mighty empire and preside over its death? The only course of action to save the empire was clearly to build a strong enough army to be able to turn back the foreign invasions, and then to invade them and push the boundaries back. But the problem was how? They needed men and money. They needed able generals, and ones that would not betray the empire.

  Clearly only those connected with the Koros were trustworthy; the other dynasties had proved in the past that they would not hesitate to stab their own people in the back for financial gain. So no army post would go to the other families, unless they were, for example, married to a Koros. Amne’s future husband, whoever he may end up being, would be such a case. It would be some time before Jorqel produced children who would then grow up to be eligible to take up a military command, and even longer for Argan and Istan’s offspring. That was far into the future.

  For now the empire must tread carefully and softly. Regaining Lodria and Bragal would be the immediate territorial gains but any further ones would run the risk of alerting their neighbours that a revival was under way and they may decide that this was not desirable; the Kastanian Empire had gained a list of enemies over the centuries and when they had begun to fall, appeals for help from other nations had been ignored. Nobody cared about Kastania. When territory had become available, those neighbours had argued amongst themselves like children at a dinner party as to what tasty morsel each would have. Nobody even asked Kastan’s emperors for their opinion, or whether they felt it was right to take it. To them, Kastania was a dying animal to be consumed.

  Would they however allow Tybar to take all? Or would they even take the step of allying themselves with Kastan just to repel the tribes? What was certain was that the eastern kingdoms detested the Tybar as much as Kastania did, but they had done nothing to help. In fact, they had inflicted some terrible wounds themselves, Zilcia more than any other. Zilcia had wrested the Talian lands from the empire in the same year as the military disaster against the Tybar, but this was due to their superior military prowess rather than treachery. It was a symptom of the crumbling military power of Kastania that had been exploited fully by the Tybar – somewhat to their own surprise – eleven years ago.

  If Kastania tried to regain all its former lands, it would have a whole array of opponents to overthrow. That was beyond even the strongest power, let alone a weak empire. Isbel worried for the future; she couldn’t see how they could regain their former standing, but who knew in these days how the gods decided these matters? It was all a game to them, laughing from their high places at the puny struggles of man. But surely they would intervene to help the only people who still believed in all of them?

  The fact that no other foreign power had sent a diplomat to Kastan even now, showed just how disregarded they were. She was surprised that no visitor had come. Perhaps they were waiting to see who made the first move on the ailing empire? If only Amne had managed to get through to Mazag; she would surely be there by now. Still no news of any sort from Bragal or Mazag. It was very worrying.

  The door to the chamber opened slowly and more light filtered in from the corridor. Isbel looked up in surprise at the intrusion, and saw it was Vosgaris, a concerned look on his face. “Yes?” the empress asked. “Is there anything wrong?”

  “Oh, no, your majesty,” Vosgaris replied hastily, “I was doing my rounds and the guard said you were in here. I was wondering whether there was anything amiss.”

  “No, Vosgaris, there’s nothing amiss. I’m having some time for reflection. So much to think about.”

  The palace guard captain nodded. He stood by the doorway, unsure whether to leave or stay. “Any news from the emperor, ma’am?”

  “Not for a few days. Sieges are terribly long and not much happens, or so I’m told. Is there anything else?”

  “No, no, ma’am. I was just concerned you were here alone without a guard. Even in the palace it’s not wise to be unescorted.”

  “Vosgaris, I’m grateful for your concern,” Isbel smiled, “but really, I’m fine. There are guards just outside the room and I’m never far from one. Thank you.”

  The captain nodded, bowed and backed out of the room. Isbel remained looking at the door for a while. She had the impression Vosgaris had wanted to speak to her about something but hadn’t the courage to ask. The young man had done exceedingly well since being thrown into the job, and perhaps in time to come would be one of the most important people of the empire’s apparatus. He was the son of a minor noble and maybe a marriage to Amne could be on his mind. That would have to be discussed on Amne’s return to Kastan, whenever that was.

  Would he be her ideal son-in-law?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The day dawned cloudy and cool, with a mist covering the ground. The two travellers shivered in the morning air and packed their tents and readied themselves to enter Bukrat. They had camped within sight of the town overnight so that they could get there before things really began. A casual enquiry to a fellow traveller the day before had given them the information that a slave market was going to be held in three days’ time. Lalaas needed to find accommodation fast and get a slave collar from a vendor. There wouldn’t be any other reason for them to be in the town if they were not there for the sale, and that would raise undue suspicions against them.

  Amne was very quiet that morning; nerves were getting the better of her. She dutifully packed her belongings, having by now become proficient at such a task. Lalaas had complimented on her ability to pick up knowledge of outdoor craft, and not for the first time he regretted she was high born; she would make him a wonderful wife otherwise.

  They rode slowly towards the muddled collection of buildings that was Bukrat. There was no wall to protect the place. Instead, a loose boundary of farmhouses and animal pens surrounded the living accommodations grouped around the central square where the market was held. The administration building and taverns were there. One building missing was a place of worship. The people here followed no official religion and worshipped what they liked as they saw fit. This place was for buying and selling, and the gods had no place here.

  The administration centre was merely for the local bully to hold control and keep a record of what was sold and bought, and he only remained in charge as long as he kept the slavers and the tribal leaders happy. The tribes got slaves from the slavers, so they supported that business, backing that support up on occasions by force if necessary.

  Men wandered the streets fully armed. Duels and fights were common place, but none were permitted on market day. The bully in charge had his enforcers and they would group together to deal with anyone breaking that unwritten law.

  The first thing they noticed as they neared was the smell. Animal and human ordure filled the air and Amne wrinkled her nose. “Ah,” Lalaas warned her, “tha’s normal yer. Don’ show tha’ thee don’ like it, eh?”

  “Yar,” Amne nodded. “Stinks, though, darlin’,” she said, remembering they were supposed to be man and wife.

  “S’pose t’ be like ‘ome,” Lalaas chuckled, and led Amne past the first of the outer buildings, past a few curious onlookers and into the centre of Bukrat. Most of the buildings were basic one level mud and wood constructions, but a few in the heart were of stouter m
aterials, even stone. These had two storeys and were clearly for the higher echelons of Bukrat society. The streets were unpaved and completely of mud, and in winter it would be a morass. But now in late spring it had been trampled back down from the rutted state it had been and was reasonable.

  They turned a corner and came to a tavern. It depicted a female slave kneeling before a muscled man, posing heroically with a large sword in his hand. Amne looked at Lalaas with a mock tolerant stare. Lalaas grinned and shrugged. “Don’t ge’ any ideas,” Amne muttered as they dismounted.

  “As if I woul’,” Lalaas replied, then grinned. Amne slapped him on the arm. Lalaas pushed the door open and peered inside, taking a few moments to get used to the gloom of the interior. “Oy,” he called out, “any’un ‘ome?”

  “What d’ya want?” a man with a gruff voice answered, coming into the main room from the rear, cleaning a mug. “You visitin’?”

  “Ah,” Lalaas nodded. “Two f’us, wan’in’ room. Can do?”

  “Got equines?”

  “Ah. Four. Go’ stables?”

  The innkeeper came out and squinted at the beasts, then at Amne and his face softened. Even with dirt on her face and her hair unbrushed and dishevelled, she could still turn heads. “Yeah. Stayin’ for the market?”

  “Ah. ‘Ow much fer a room?”

  “A fermin fer a night. Got just one room left. At the back at the top.”

  “A furmin? Tha’ a lot.”

  The innkeeper shrugged. “Prices go up at market time. Take it or leave it.”

  “Well, if tha’ includes stablin’, then it’s a deal.”

  The innkeeper cursed; he hadn’t thought of the stabling costs. But one look at Amne’s smile was enough to make him forget the slip. “Sure, deal.”

  They spat into their hands and shook on it. Lalaas put four coins into the innkeeper’s palm. “Four nights.” The innkeeper showed them where the stables were, back down the street and through an arched entrance that led to an alleyway, strewn with dung and refuse, and led to an area around the back where stables stood. They weren’t in good condition and the straw was wet, rotted and smelt of urine and faeces. Lalaas shook his head. “Ah’ll ‘ave to clean this up, darlin’,” he said. “Else t’animals ‘ull get sick.”

  They left the beasts tied to a post and went back to the tavern. They were shown their room, a cramped little space big enough for a single bed, washbasin on a stand, a clothes rack and a chest. The single shuttered window looked out onto the yard where the stables were. Amne remained in the room looking out as Lalaas went about making the stables fit for their four equines. He had little in the way of tools to help clear the muck out, so he used a combination of his feet and hands. Once that had been done and the saddles and equipment removed and stored in the cleanest spot he could find, he went off with some coins to buy hay. Prices were high, and the seller offered a buy now pay later scheme if Lalaas couldn’t afford to buy at that moment. It seemed the practice was for buyers to pay after the market with their gains. The added extra was that interest was charged at a rate Lalaas could only describe as being daylight robbery. Thanks to the money he’d taken at the bridge, he was able to afford the extortionate price to feed the four animals.

  That being done he found the slave equipment shop down the road from the square. A collar cost as much as a sevendays’ food, and Lalaas wondered at how they could sustain such prices. It seemed they had turned up at the wrong time. Prices dropped by as much as ten-fold after the market closed.

  Back in the room he looked around and saw there was little space to move around in. Amne was sat on the bed. “Best tie yer ‘air back,” Lalaas advised her. “It seems custom ‘ere fer married women to tie their ‘air as such.”

  Amne found a small length of ribbon in her belongings and fixed her hair back. Lalaas nodded approvingly. “Now all know we’s a couple.”

  Amne smiled, then looked at the collar and her expression became serious. “Can I?” and held out her hand. Lalaas passed it over. It was a simple iron item, with a lock at the back and an eye at the front. The eye was for a rope to be slipped through if that was ever required. The collar had a flat face at the rear for an insignia to be put upon it to denote who owned the wearer. The lock was simple, being a bar and catch type. The key was in the lock. “Barbaric,” Amne commented, looking at it this way and that. “Ah’ll keep it and show father when ah ge’ back.”

  “Yar. ‘E’ull be int’rested.”

  “Wha’ ‘bout tonight?” Amne whispered, leaning forward. “’Oo sleeps where?”

  “You take the bed, Ah’ll take the floor.”

  Amne nodded. There was only so far the masquerade could go, and the bed wasn’t big enough for both of them, even if they wanted to get intimate. “Thanks. Wha’ d’we do now? It’s three days to market an’ we got all we need to. We can’t wait in this room all tha’ time.”

  “Nah,” Lalaas agreed. “Let’s look ‘round the town. C’mon.” They went out, Lalaas locking the door and making sure the box of coins was under the bed. The innkeeper grinned at them as they came past and watched as they went outside, his look lingering on Amne’s rear end longingly. She would fetch a fantastic price at any sale. A fortune, in fact. Shame she was taken.

  Bukrat was a small town. Four roads led into the central square, each curving away in an arc from the square out to the farms and pens on the town’s edge. People were hurrying to and fro, some townsfolk, some visitors. The two played spot the difference for a while, then their interest was taken by the arrival of a slaver and his ‘goods’, a line of miserable looking captives tied together by a long looping chain affixed to their collars. There were men, women and even children, of all shapes, sizes and ages.

  Amne drew in a shocked breath and Lalaas squeezed her warningly on the arm. “Quiet, now, darlin’, we don’ wan’ any trouble, does us?”

  “It’s awful,” she replied, momentarily forgetting her accent. Then she remembered. “Yeah, bu’ it’s shockin’ seein’ these poor souls like this.”

  “Big slave trade further south in the Great Plains,” Lalaas commented, “this is just the tail end of it. We’re on the edge of the slave area.”

  “We must see these folk,” Amne insisted, “find ou’ where they’re from.”

  “Migh’ be dang’rous; tha’ slaver there looks fierce.” Lalaas nodded at the slaver who had led the line of about thirty slaves into the street ahead of them. There were a number of mercenary guards standing alongside, watching their charges, but they were superfluous; any fight that may have been in the shabbily dressed prisoners had been knocked out of them.

  “Wha’s gonna happen now to them?” Amne asked, staring.

  “Pen them in, I think. There’s pens at the back of tha’ inn there; I thought it were for animals, bu’ it may be for them. Then they’ll be cleaned up, dressed in clean tidy clothes and presen’ed on auction day to the likes of us.”

  Amne had tears in her eyes. “It’s too awful fer words; those poor people!”

  “Amne, best ye stop those tears; we’re buyers an’ we don’ care ‘bout these folk, remember?”

  Amne nodded, turning away. The slaver was shouting at the owner of the tavern, demanding he allow his pens to be opened for his property. The guards, all disreputable looking fellows, stood idly by watching everyone. Anyone passing by hurried up until they were past. The smell of unwashed bodies was quite strong and Lalaas and Amne walked away, not wanting to attract any undue attention.

  They passed another ramshackle building and in the doorway two men were busy disrobing a struggling woman, readying to rape her. Both were wearing swords and were clearly mercenary guards from another slave train who had recently arrived and had decided to release some of their pent-up feelings on a hapless passer-by. Amne tugged on Lalaas’ arm. “Stop them! Do somethin’!”

  “It’s no’ our bus’ness, Amne – want us to ge’ inta trouble? This sorta thing goes on all the time ‘ere.”

  Am
ne fumed. This was not her idea of visiting a town. She stepped up to the nearest man, the one standing back while his comrade had first go, and pulled his arm. “Stop that! Don’ be so disgustin’!”

  “Get lost, whore!” the man snarled and backhanded her across the face. “You’ll be next otherwise!” he continued as she fell with a cry. Lalaas growled and dragged his sword out, advancing on the guard.

  The man looked on in surprise as Lalaas raised his weapon above his head. “What?” he managed to say before the edge of the blade cut his throat. The man gurgled obscenely and collapsed against the wall of the building, clutching uselessly at his fountaining wound. His comrade turned round in surprise. He took in the scene in a flash and stood up, fumbling for his sword but it was caught up in his pants which were around his ankles.

  Lalaas rammed the point of his sword through the man’s side, skewering him, and then jerked the blade free and watched dispassionately as the second man curled up into a foetal ball and whimpered as his lifeblood seeped onto the hungry dry ground. The woman lying in the doorway remained there, shaking, sobbing, her clothing ripped and torn. Amne got to her feet, unsteadily, and Lalaas offered a helping hand. Amne glared at him, shook him off and went to the sobbing woman. Lalaas sighed and stepped back, glancing up and down the street. People had noticed the incident, but ignored it. Clearly this sort of thing went on most of the time. “C’mon, Amne, let’s ge’ goin’.”

  “Ah’m no’ leavin’ her,” Amne snapped, her face red from the blow and with anger. “She needs ‘elp.”

  “Well bring her wiv ye. We can’t stay ‘ere.”

  Amne helped the sobbing woman up and they walked unsteadily away along the street. Some people looked at them in curiosity, then passed by. They reached a wider part of the street and a water trough provided a convenient means to clean the woman up. She nodded her thanks to Amne. “Lucky we go’ t’ yer before they did anythin’ to hurt ye,” Amne said as she wiped the woman’s scratched neck. The men hadn’t been gentle in ripping her dress apart to get at her breasts. They all knew what Amne had meant. The act of rape hadn’t actually taken place, but only because of Amne’s intervention.