by Tony Roberts
“Oh!” Argan said, his hand to his mouth, “he sounds cross! Let’s go!”
They ran out of the room and Argan saw Vosgaris standing in the corridor, his arms folded, a stern expression on his face. He turned and waved at Kerrin who waved back, then the other boy was running off back to the courtyard.
“I’m disappointed in you, Prince Argan,” Vosgaris said crossly. “Your mother has shouted at me for letting you loose in the palace. I trusted you to remember; you let me down.”
“I’m sorry, Vos’gis, I forgot! Kerrin and I had a great time looking at my book. We weren’t doing anything wrong.”
“Sometimes, Prince Argan, doing nothing wrong isn’t enough. You have to be doing something right. And this afternoon you didn’t. If you make a promise, you must honour it, or you are not someone of your word. People will not trust you if you do not keep your word. You understand me?”
“Yes, I do. I’m sorry!” Argan wrung his hands. His mood had gone from happiness to anxiety in moments. “Are you really in trouble?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so,” Vosgaris looked at Argan sternly, then his face softened. “But not as much as you. Your mother gets very worried when you’re not in my company; she’s worried something might happen to you. Expect to be scolded.”
“Oh dear,” Argan said, his voice catching. “I don’t want to go….. could you say I’ve got a poorly tummy?”
Vosgaris tutted and looked down at the boy. “Now, young Prince, is that the way of a prince of the House of Koros? You mustn’t tell such lies, and you must face up to things even if they scare you. Don’t show them that you’re scared, or don’t want to be there; conduct yourself with dignity, and you will be respected. I’ll be there, too.”
“Alright, Vos’gis,” Argan said, but put his hand in the captain’s and reluctantly went with him towards the large dining room. Vosgaris could feel the boy’s fingers twitching, betraying his nervousness. Two guards by the doors snapped to attention, as much for the presence of Vosgaris as Argan’s, and the officer acknowledged them.
“Now, Prince Argan, take courage and whatever your mother says, listen and accept. I’ll be right behind you.”
“Thank you, Vos’gis,” Argan said in a small voice and let go of the captain’s hand. The door was opened by the guards and Argan went in first.
Isbel breathed out in relief as she caught sight of her son. “Oh, thank the gods you’re safe! You gave us all a fright by going missing! Where in Kastan were you?”
“I was showing Kerrin my books in the classroom, mother.”
Vosgaris stood right behind Argan, at attention and staring into space. He was, though, proud of the six year old speaking so clearly and calmly to his clearly anxious mother.
“Who is Kerrin?” Isbel demanded.
“My friend,” Argan said.
“Friend?” Isbel frowned. “Friend?” She looked at Vosgaris. “Do you know about this, Vosgaris?”
“Your majesty, Kerrin is the six year old son of Prince Argan’s new weapons trainer, Panat Afos. They arrived at the palace this morning.”
“A commoner?”
“Ma’am,” Vosgaris bowed in assent.
“Well, that will not do! Whatever next! Argan, you are not to become friends with a commoner like Kerrin, do you understand?”
Argan looked at his mother in anguish. His eyes welled up and he thought for a moment he would break out and cry, but he caught sight of Istan at the table and he was sure as anything he would not disgrace himself in front of that porcine! So he bowed his head and said in a quiet voice, “yes, mother.”
“Good. Now come sit at the table; you’re late and in enough trouble as it is!”
Argan scurried to his seat and was helped into his seat by the servant. Vosgaris waited until Argan was comfortable before moving towards him. He was stopped by Isbel’s upraised hand. He looked at her in surprise. “Ma’am?”
“Captain; your duties include looking after my son and keeping him in your sight whenever he’s not being taught and outside his room. I should not be put through the strain of wondering where my son is, especially when there’s a Tybar within these very walls. Do you understand?”
“Yes ma’am. It won’t happen again.”
“Not if you value your position here in the palace.” Isbel fixed Vosgaris with an icy glare. The captain looked over her shoulder into infinity. Isbel breathed out long, and then waved him to his position behind her two sons.
Vosgaris strode carefully to his spot, and Argan caught his eye. Incredibly, the captain winked quickly at him. Argan smiled slightly and bowed his head so that nobody could see. It made him feel much better. In fact, so much better, he felt daring enough to speak to his mother. “Would the Tybar do anything to me, mother?”
“Let’s not talk about that, Argan. He’s safely under watch in the other part of the palace and very far away from you.”
“What does he look like?”
“Let’s not talk about him, shall we? This is dinner and I don’t want to be put off my food by talking about him.”
Argan sat silently, thinking about what the Tybar might look like. Would he have two heads? Four feet? A canine’s head? Then he forgot about the Tybar as the first course was placed before him, a creamy soup which he particularly liked.
Isbel watched Argan throughout the meal. He was showing signs of disobedience and it was something she was disappointed in. Ever since she had taken over the running of the empire she had found it hard to devote time to her two sons and it was something she regretted. Rousa was having great trouble with Istan who frankly was a handful; he defied her and threw tantrums at every opportunity. Argan, on the other hand, was a different problem. He just didn’t seem to be aware of what he was. As a prince he would have to behave much better and more responsibly. She blamed Vosgaris. Ever since the young captain had taken over the task of escorting Argan around the palace, Argan had become more and more unruly. As for wanting a commoner as a friend! Well, that would have to be stamped out at once.
How she was to bring both sons to heel was a task currently beyond her thinking. But soon she would have to come up with the answer, or Astiras would have two sons unsuitable for the positions he had planned for them. Still, she mused, it was early days yet. They had plenty of tuition to go through before they were supposed to be the finished article. Perhaps they would still be sons she could be proud of.
After the meal she spent some time with both boys but they seemed different from how she remembered them. Istan was petulant and sulky, but that might have been because he was tired. He was soon sent to his room with Rousa, while Argan was distant. There seemed to be a barrier between them, and it saddened her. Was it her fault? Was she a bad mother? She had tried hard to do what was best for them all, and the seizure of power by Astiras two years ago had seemed such a great opportunity to get them a better life.
True, things were better in many ways, but the responsibilities had meant she had little time to be a mother. She missed that. Here were her two sons growing up in front of her very eyes and she had little to do with them.
Argan asked permission to go to his room and Isbel allowed him; she kissed him on the head and he trotted off happily enough, but there was something about his behaviour towards her that disturbed the empress. He just didn’t seem – comfortable around her. It unsettled her. She was feeling unsettled anyway, what with the Tybar diplomat in the palace as well.
She called Vosgaris to her quarters. Pepil stood at his usual position off to her right. His stylus and wax tablet were poised to write whatever was said, recording the administration of the empire for it to be copied by clerks in his offices, within the dusty corridors of the palace, to be preserved for posterity. Perhaps in centuries to come historians would pore over the documents and argue as to what they meant.
Vosgaris bowed and waited patiently, wondering what the empress was going to speak to him about. The fact Pepil was there meant that whatever it was would be offici
al. “Captain,” she began formally. Vosgaris snapped straighter. Whatever she was going to say, it wasn’t going to be to his liking. The fact she had addressed him as ‘Captain’ indicated that.
“Captain, I am concerned that you are not treating your duties as guardian of Prince Argan seriously enough. There have been some – disturbing – developments in his behaviour recently. He’s becoming reluctant to do as he is told and everything I ask him to do he would appear unwilling to carry out. Also he is showing a disturbing tendency to mix with commoners. I’m concerned that you may be instrumental in some of this. What do you have to say about this?”
Vosgaris stood and thought for a moment. His steel helmet was held under his left arm but he wished it was over his face so his expression could run riot without being seen. It was an effort to keep his facial muscles still. “Ma’am, the young Prince is beginning to grow up. He will develop his own personality, and this is perhaps just the start of it. As for my part in this, I do not tell him to defy you; I was just as angry with him at his tardiness for dinner this evening.”
Isbel regarded the sweating young officer before her. She was frustrated and needed someone to take it out on. Vosgaris was a convenient target. “Captain, you show a far too lax attitude. You’re far too familiar with my son, and may I add, the men under your command too. We need a reliable, efficient palace guard, and I fear your style may not be what is needed here. You are not to address my son in any other manner than one his position demands, and you are to be formal and courteous towards him. I will not permit any other attitude, do you understand me?”
“Perfectly, ma’am.”
The empress sat and stared at him for a moment, wondering whether he was intending to follow her wishes or not; his tone had been dull and listless, as if he intensely disliked what he had been told and was not intending to obey. “Captain, your position is not secure here. Remember that.”
Vosgaris snapped his heels together and said nothing, staring above her shoulder, beyond the smirking Pepil. Damned court sycophant! The major domo was assiduously writing down the minutes of the meeting with relish. Vosgaris looked higher, up at the decorative ceiling. He enjoyed his post at the palace; it gave him status and a purpose, and despite the misguided opinions of the empress and the smarmy arse-licking Pepil, he wished to stay. “Ma’am, may I say something off the record?”
“You most certainly may not, Captain. Whatever you have to say, it will be recorded.”
“Very well, ma’am. Your son Argan is a delightful boy; he would be someone I would be proud to call my own son. But I fear you may hinder his progress in growing up to be a fine young man.”
Isbel sat still, dissecting Vosgaris’ words. Her lips tightened. “Have you finished, Captain?”
Vosgaris bowed.
“You may go. I shall think on what you have said. Good night.”
After the door had closed behind the captain, Isbel sighed and turned back to her desk and the papers that lay upon it. “Damned man,” she muttered.
“You were too lenient towards him, ma’am,” Pepil said smoothly.
“Pepil, if I wanted your opinion, I’d ask for it.”
“Of course, ma’am,” Pepil bowed low.
“Now go and ensure that all of today’s work is recorded by your good offices.”
Pepil bowed again and backed out. Isbel glanced over at the door, now guarded by two of Vosgaris’ men. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Pepil asked me what sort of sycophant I would prefer him to be, she thought acidly. Then, yawning, she picked up the topmost sheet of parchment. A report from Slenna, from Jorqel. He was holding a celebration ball to mark the recapture of the town for the empire, and also in the hope he would find a wife. Isbel smiled tiredly. At least Jorqel knew his duty.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
That very same night, across the Aester Sea, far to the north-west of Kastan, the lights burned brightly in Slenna. All over the town lanterns and torches burned in the night sky, illuminating what seemed every street. Flags fluttered in the summer air and people danced in the streets or in the town square, an area located in the centre of Slenna which in reality was just a big space where the three main streets met rather than a planned and built square. It wasn’t even four-sided, so it could be argued that it wasn’t strictly a square, but everyone described it as such, so that was what it was known as.
Sellers of wines, breads, fruit and other drinks and foods were doing a roaring trade. Freshly slaughtered animals, bought by Prince Jorqel and given free to the townsfolk, were being roasted for general consumption, and anyone who had come in from the surrounding countryside was welcome to feast. It was a celebration and everyone was included.
The castle was particularly well lit, and huge banners depicting the Koros family crest, the imperial symbols and the town coat of arms hung over the battlements. Guards were much in evidence and Jorqel had arranged a regular change in the roster so that every guard could partake in at least some of the festivities.
Children ran laughing and shouting around, chasing each other or a wayward fowl that had broken loose from a cage or had been deliberately let out to cause confusion. People danced to folk tunes played by minstrels and the noise could be heard well outside the town walls.
Within the castle there was another celebration, one a little more restrained than the carefree one enjoyed by the ordinary townsfolk. Here, the nobility were arriving and being shown into the single large chamber on the first floor of the keep that had been cleared and turned into a great banqueting hall. The middle of the room was now dominated by a long table, with fifty chairs arranged around it. It was a tight fit but the carpenters had done a fine job. Jorqel had said the old castle was going to be torn down, as he had plans to build a bigger and better Slenna, so the fact they had sawn through some of the wooden walls was of no importance.
A dais had been constructed at one end for Jorqel and the highest ranked visitors, and a smaller, top table had been placed there so they could look down on the rest. Kastanian society was ranked according to prestige and honours, and a family could rise – or fall – depending on their achievements and also how they aligned themselves with other influential families.
Gavan had excused himself and had gone to inspect the security of the castle which was virtually impossible, given that parts of it had been ripped out of the ground to accommodate the huge number of equines and carriages arriving from Lodria’s far flung parts. Every noble family with estates in the province had sent a representative, and those with eligible daughters of the age to marry the heir to the throne of the empire had tried to outdo each other in dressing the women concerned.
The responsibility of meeting and greeting the hopeful arrivals fell to the castellan, a middle-aged man with the name of Fostan Carras, a survivor of the rebellion who had refused to fight the imperial force and as a result had kept his head. Alfan Fokis had thought highly enough of him to keep him in his post despite his sympathies, and Carras had shown Jorqel, since Slenna’s recapture, that he was good at his job. He knew the castle inside out and although was horrified at the mutilation of the walls, he knew that whatever was built afterwards would surpass what was here before. Any residence of the heir to the Kastanian throne must be grand enough to house him, and Slenna at that moment was sadly lacking.
Jorqel was dressed in his finest. He had demanded to be dressed in the best quality cloth from Slenna’s clothiers and they had risen to the task. The prince had promised the clothiers that in the new Slenna they would have a shop in the best street, a place any merchant would sell their soul for.
Along the inside walls of the banqueting hall, smaller banners of Kastania, Slenna and the Koros hung in colourful competition, highlighted by the dozens of candles flickering in wall brackets or from circular iron holders suspended from the ceiling. Each new arrival was presented with a goblet and invited to partake of the drink of their choice. They were arrayed to the left of the entrance opening, the door having been re
moved as it had been in the way of the rearrangements. All made their way to the prince to be greeted and make his acquaintance, and to show off any daughter in an attempt to catch his eye.
Jorqel was the centre of attention, as expected, and he had an array of young unmarried women hanging onto his every word clustered around him. Any young man would have happily given their right arm to be in his place. Each girl was beautifully made up, her hair brushed, combed and either plaited or tied into fashionable shapes, complimented by ribbons, clasps and gem stones. Each had a long dress that reached the wooden floor, gathered around her waist to make it look as narrow as possible. Necks were left open as far down as decency permitted so that necklaces of incredible quality and value could be fully appreciated. Matching earrings dangled and dazzled, as did smiles that evening.
Jorqel didn’t mind being the focus of all the attention; he knew he would have to get used to it in the future, and he was smart enough to know this was expected of him. It wasn’t just him on show tonight; it was the new regime of the Koros. He had spoken to many people already that evening, and had been courteous and kind to all. Nobody would be treated differently, that night, not even the Duras family, a name that to him stood for treachery and shared the responsibility for the current state of Kastania.
He had seen seven of the potential brides and spoken to each. It wasn’t just their beauty he was interested in. If he were to spend the rest of his life with one of them, then it would have to be with someone he liked, rather than a stunner who was an absolute she-canine. He knew that he was attractive to women; he had never lacked attention from women, even before he had become a prince, so he knew there would be no lack of women to choose from once the time came to marry. The only thing he found wearisome was the silly giggling of two of the girls. They seemed to spend all their time doing in his presence.
They were hanging not only onto his every word, but also his arms, and come what may were not going to be prized away. Jorqel thought that he might have to ask his personal surgeon to perform some sort of amputation before bedtime. Helane Grathan and Zana Sendral were the two concerned, both dark haired and made up so much that he was willing to believe their preparation had begun the sevenday previously. It was difficult to see whether they were truly smooth skinned and attractive underneath the plastered-on make-up, but it must be of good quality because so far it hadn’t cracked, despite their repeated giggling.