Empire of Avarice

by Tony Roberts

  Amne felt smug satisfaction at the respect being shown by this soldier to her father. Familial pride swelled in her bosom. “And the rebels?”

  “Zofela is isolated. It could fall by the spring. I doubt it’ll last much longer than that, if the report I have is accurate, and my men usually are fairly good with those.”

  “Then I must thank you, General, for your hospitality. We shall prepare for our departure in the morning.” She got up and Lalaas allowed her to precede him out of the room. Polak watched her go, wistfully eyeing her bottom swaying as she walked. Ahh, I must make use of my slave girls tonight.

  The two Kastanians returned to their tavern. Amne asked Lalaas to join her in her quarters for a few moments. The door closed and Amne motioned Lalaas to come away from the door. “Those guards may be there because they understand our tongue,” she whispered.

  Lalaas nodded in understanding. He glanced briefly out of the single window but nothing stirred below in the street. “I’ll be glad to leave this place, ma’am,” Lalaas said in a low voice.

  “Amne, remember, when we’re alone,” Amne smiled.

  “Yes, Amne. I don’t think we’ll get many more opportunities to be alone.”

  Amne agreed. “I will have to return to my social world and whatever future awaits me there in Kastan. What about you?”

  “The army. It’s the only guaranteed paid work. I hope the war in Bragal ends soon; it’s not a pleasant conflict. I think the emperor will determine what happens to me, though. If he believes Theros’s lies then I’ll be hanged, drawn and quartered.”

  “He won’t!” Amne said forcefully. “You’ve been more than exemplary in your conduct towards me, no matter what that kivok says!”

  Lalaas grinned.

  “What?” Amme demanded.

  “I can imagine the courtly ladies’ eyes going wide if you use that language at Court. Can you imagine the scene if you greet a Tybar diplomat like that?”

  Amne giggled, her hand to her mouth. “I can still see Polak’s face when I called Theros those names.”

  Lalaas’ smile grew wider. “It shocked me, I must admit. Coming from your mouth, it was such a surprise.”

  “Oh? Such a sweet young thing as I?” she said coquettishly.

  “Amongst many things, yes. I might have expected it from an old back street peasant, but not a beautiful young princess. I had to bite my lip not to laugh.”

  Amne chuckled. “I’ve learned so many things on this journey. Not things my father and step-mother would approve of, but it’s helped me learn things I should know about and never would have learned if I’d been shut away at Court. I intend learning more about the people of Kastania when I get back.”

  “I think you’ll be plunged deep into courtship rituals. They’ll want you married off in no time.”

  Amne pulled a face. “Bah! No doubt I’ll be matched to a gangly, spotty, buck-toothed moron with the charisma of a castrated rodent.”

  Lalaas laughed. “You’re talking in a way I like – but it’s not what you should do once you’re back with those corpses at Court.”

  The princess shook her long golden hair. “I’ll behave at Court. I just prefer this life. You see, Lalaas, being a princess isn’t the wonderful life some think it is. Anyway, I’d like to keep in touch with you; if you think we part at the end of this journey and that’s it, you’ve got another think coming.”

  “Tongues would wag.”

  “Mine wags pretty well; think I care for their nastiness?”

  “You ought to; your reputation once damaged would be hard to repair. But yes, I’d like to keep in touch. I’ll never forget these times, no matter where I go or what I do in the future.”

  Amne smiled, then took his face and pulled him to her, and kissed him full on the lips. Lalaas was surprised, but didn’t pull away. They kissed for a long time, and in a way that wasn’t proper to their respective social stations, and when they did break, she had a flush on her face and he was breathless. “Just so I can remember fully,” she smiled wickedly.

  “By the gods – that’s done my body no end of good, Amne. You’re a beautiful kisser; where did you learn to kiss like that?”

  She smiled again. “That is something I shall keep to myself.” Then she was serious. “We must pack. Make sure the equines we get are fit and healthy. Bragal’s winter won’t be kind to us or them.”

  “I’ll make sure of that, Amne.” He made his way to the door. “If your father makes me a noble for my services to you, you’d best watch out.”

  “Oh, would I now?” Amne teased. “And what makes you think I’d accept you?”

  Lalaas chuckled and left. Amne drew in a deep breath and sat down heavily on the bed. The tears now came, and she wept into her hands, sobbing deeply. She wanted him so much, and knew that it would never be. Her father would never make Lalaas a noble, even if she pleaded with him; it simply wasn’t done.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Astiras had to leave fairly rapidly. The winter was upon them and he needed to be with his army besieging Zofela in case the Bragalese rebels surrendered. Winter was a killing time. He also knew his daughter was returning via Zofela and he had to be there in order to sort out what exactly had happened. Amne would tell him herself, and any other so-called ‘version’ would be dismissed. He would take Lalaas’ head if Theros’ message was accurate, but the emperor just couldn’t believe those words. It was too preposterous and the story didn’t feel right.

  He spent his last couple of days with his family. The war in Bragal was entering its final phase, he told them, and he would be back within the year. He left one chilly, frosty morning, accompanied by ten of his bodyguard, the same ones that had come with him from Zofela, watched by the empress and his two youngest sons out of the palace courtyard. There had been no announcement of his departure, so no formal procession had been formed up outside. A few passers-by got an unexpected view of the emperor and bowed in surprise, and got a salute in acknowledgement, and then he was out of the Turslenka Gate and rode off eastwards into Frasia.

  Isbel held her two sons by the shoulders tightly, saying nothing. She felt empty inside. Astiras’ presence in the palace these past few sevendays had made her realise just how much she relied on his strength and support. Now he was gone, and she would have to once again take up the administrative reins and hold the empire together while her husband fought to keep Bragal part of Kastania.

  Argan said nothing also. He had sensed his mother’s sadness and felt sad, too. He’d almost forgotten what his father was like, and had almost been reduced to a legendary figure, a mighty warrior of fantasy. The reality of him being there had been a shock, almost. He was greyer and older than he’d remembered, but had been loud, scary and someone to obey. That he remembered, but his father was also someone to listen to. He knew a lot, and told Argan many things during the times they were together. Argan had sat next to his father and took in all he said. All about how to fight, how to win. Winning a war was not the same as fighting a war, his father had told him. No matter how nasty the enemy was, Argan had been told, he had to be nastier. Fight to win. He was told that, if in his opinion, he was in a battle he could not win, then he was to get out. Withdraw, was the word he had said. Always, always the underlying message. Kastania had to be strong, had to come first. Everything Argan was to do when he had command, when he had control, was to make Kastania stronger and better, even if it meant he suffered.

  The seven-year-old had sat and listened with wide open eyes. He had even shown his father the fighting figures Mr. Sen had given him to learn how to use tactics, and Astiras had been delighted at the understanding Argan had shown at not allowing, for example, spearmen to get at cavalry. His father’s delight had pleased Argan immensely.

  Argan was sad, yes, to see his father go. He had the feeling that the emperor was very happy with him, and Argan wanted to keep on pleasing him. He vowed to keep on practicing his swordsmanship lessons with Panat Afos, no matter how many times hi
s knuckles became bruised and cut. His tutor had sternly told him to bear the pain, for pain was a way of life to a soldier, and a general, which was what Argan was destined to be. He must not show anyone what pain he was in. A general must inspire his troops.

  Istan, on the other hand, snuffled as his father vanished from view. Astiras had made special efforts to see his youngest son, to try to instil in him a discipline that he felt was missing. Gallis had given the emperor a brief resume of Istan’s progress and it was painful to hear. Istan resisted and rejected anything he was being taught, and had become, if anything, even more spiteful. In the end Astiras had sat him down and spoken to him very sternly, one on one, with nobody else present. Istan had tried to block his ears but each time a hand came up to his ears it got a slap, until the bawling Istan had tired of the whole thing and sat there, head bowed eyes screwed shut, screaming. That had provoked another slap, this time to the leg.

  Astiras had then out-yelled Istan. That, more than anything, had reduced the four-year-old to a quivering silence. It had been then that Astiras had told him that he was not going to be a prince if he carried on behaving that way. He told him Argan would get all the rewards, all the favours, and all the best things because he was behaving the way a prince should, and Istan was not.

  For the first time, Istan sat dumbly and listened to his father. Astiras had spoken in a low voice, but one that carried itself into Istan’s brain. He was to act and behave in a way that he, the emperor, wished him to. If Istan did not wish to obey his father, then he would not get any more favours from him and Argan would get them all.

  From that moment on, Gallis had reported a huge improvement in Istan’s attitude. Astiras had been relieved. He’d been at his wit’s end until Isbel had pointed out the sibling rivalry, and the idea had then taken root in presenting Istan with the choice of either allowing his brother to get everything, or to do as he was told and get his share.

  So Istan had come to respect his father, if only because his father was not going to let Argan have his share. Of course, Istan regarded everything that Argan got as his share, too. If he had his way, Argan would get nothing.

  Argan slipped away from his mother’s touch. He wanted to see Kerrin, his friend. Kerrin and he often practiced their swordsmanship away from the courtyard, and often each ended up with bumps and bruises, but they laughed it off. Argan had passed onto Kerrin the words of wisdom he’d been given by his father and Panat about not crying, so they were often seen by perplexed palace staff hopping about clutching their hurt hands laughing hysterically through the pain.

  Vosgaris had initially tried to stop them, but finally had conceded defeat and managed to get the palace workshop to make the two boys cloth-padded gloves. He reasoned that eventually the two would have to fight wearing iron gauntlets, so wearing hand protection now would serve both to stop them getting hurt more than necessary and get them used to wearing such attire.

  Today, though, they weren’t going to play ‘warriors’, as they had come to call it. Kerrin wanted to know all about the map room. Argan had told his friend a few days before what he’d seen and Kerrin had wanted to know more, but Astiras had taken up Argan’s free time in the last sevenday or so. But now the emperor had gone Argan wanted to see Kerrin and tell him all about it.

  Vosgaris was standing behind the empress and Argan bumped into him. Vosgaris noted that Argan’s head now reached his stomach, whereas until recently it had been his hips. The boy was beginning to grow. “Whoa, young prince, what’s the hurry?”

  Isbel turned, still holding onto Istan. “Argan?”

  “Ah, I’ve got to go see Kerrin, mother.”

  “Not now, Argan, you’ve got to dress up and see some people who have arrived.”

  “Awww, do I have to?”

  Isbel laughed softly. Boys. “Yes, you have to. Some important people have come all the way just to see us. So you must go and dress in your best outfit. The dress-master will have put on your bed what you are to wear. Be in the costume hall in one watch’s time. Captain, see to it that he is there. Promptly.”

  “Ma’am,” Vosgaris thumped his chest and waved Argan to precede him into the palace. “I’ll wait outside your room, young prince.”

  “Who is it, mother?” Argan asked over his shoulder.

  “Ah. Surprise.” Isbel tapped the side of her nose, then pushed Istan ahead of her into the waiting hands of Gallis.

  Istan turned, curiosity written all over his face. “What about me, mummy?”

  “Not today, Istan. One day, yes. When you’re seven, like Argan is. You’ve got to do more learning with Mr. Gallis here.”

  Istan pouted. “It’s not fair! Argan gets all the best things!”

  Isbel held Istan’s look. “Now don’t you ‘it’s not fair’ me, Istan! You’re doing exactly the same as Argan when he was four. If you were seven then you’d be dressing up. Now go along with Mr. Gallis here and learn some more. Clever boys get the best things and you can only become clever by learning."

  “Yes, mummy,” Istan sulked and shot the back of Argan a vicious look. Isbel didn’t catch it but knew he’d directed something unfriendly at his older brother. She stayed for a moment to gather her thoughts, then turned to her handmaiden. Time to freshen up herself. She was going to have to look her best for this visit. This was part of the inevitability of being the ruling House of Kastan. All the other Houses wanted to be part of it so they all sought to tie themselves by marriage, thus becoming an extended part of the ruling House.

  Isbel had received countless requests for noble families to visit the palace, offering marriage contracts to Jorqel, Amne, and even Argan and Istan. The Koros could only make so many excuses, and while Jorqel was quite clearly making his own moves over in Lodria, and Amne was currently away on a foreign matter, attention had turned to the two youngest members of the dynasty. As the boys’ mother, Isbel had carefully scanned through every request. The ones to Istan had all been rejected on the grounds the boy was too young as yet, but Argan was another matter. At seven he was beginning to develop and understand more, and his tutoring had moulded him into the socially acceptable person he now was. Therefore Isbel had finally begun to accept visit requests, and had broached the subject with Astiras.

  The emperor had shrugged and nodded, and announced the date of leaving for Zofela as precisely the morning the first visit was due. Isbel had not been amused but Astiras had countered her objections by saying he was perfectly happy that his wife could handle such affairs without his clumsy presence, and Isbel had conceded that point. Best the intimidating emperor was away doing what he did best; fighting a war.

  The family visiting the palace this morning was the Bathenian dynasty of Varaz. They had estates to the west of Niake just where the countryside began to rise up from the coastal plains, and they were eager to secure ties to the Koros as their estates would be amongst the first to burn should the Tybar invade. They felt with ties to the ruling House they would be better protected.

  Lord Varaz, the head of the family, was visiting with his wife Mara, and their five year old daughter Velka. With only two years difference between Velka and the Prince, they felt there was a possibility of a marriage agreement. They had already turned up, eager to get on with meeting the Empress and young Argan, and they had been shown to visitors’ quarters close to the costume hall.

  Argan found his clothes waiting, as he’d been told they would be, and changed quickly. He knew he had to dress smartly, and he had to be checked by the dress-master, one of the servants well versed in costume and fashion. He was a thin man with a receding hairline and a sharp nose. Argan thought he looked like an avian hunter. He stood smartly as the dress-master examined him critically before a long mirror. Argan had often stood before this mirror, a silver-backed reflector that had curly metal bits surrounding it, making it look as if there were dead wrigglers stuck behind it. Argan had tried to look behind it to see if that were so, but the mirror was fixed to the wall so his quest was frustrat
ed. He’d also raised an arm, scratched his head, stuck out his tongue and picked his nose in front of it, fascinated at what his image did. He knew he was not supposed to pick his nose but did it anyway sometimes when he was alone.

  There were so many things he was supposed to do or not supposed to do. Sometimes it got confusing, but he was pleased he remembered most of the important things. His mother was very strict as to how he behaved, telling him he was representing not only Kastan but his family, and whatever he did would reflect – he thought that was what she said – on the rest of them. He didn’t care about Istan. If it only reflected on him, then Argan would poo in the corridor. But he didn’t want his mother or father – or Jorqel and Amne – to be thought of badly, so he would behave.

  After a few irritating tucks and corrections from the dress-master, Argan was declared fit to attend the costume hall and was shown out into the marbled corridor. Two guards were waiting with Vosgaris, much to Argan’s surprise. Their volgars shiny and bright. Were the volgars sweating again? Were they nervous? Argan was unsettled; there was something very different about the whole thing, and he hadn’t been told what it was properly. He felt a little scared.

  Vosgaris grinned, sensing Argan’s disquiet. “You look very smart, young Prince. Your mother will be very impressed.”

  “Where is she, Vos’gis?”

  “Ah. She’s getting ready.”

  “Why does it take her a long time to get ready?”

  Vosgaris looked at the dress-master. He flicked his fingers to dismiss the flunky. He didn’t like the sneering superior attitude of the man. Typical palace staff, who thought his waste products were coated in gold. As the servant strode off, his back stiff with disapproval, Vosgaris leaned down to whisper in Argan’s ear. “Women take longer because they have to make themselves look good; they want to be as beautiful as they possibly can.”

  “Is mother beautiful?”

  Vosgaris winked at Argan. “Lots of people think so. Your father certainly does.”