by Tony Roberts
She would put her step-mother in her place, that was for sure. She smiled at the thought. The more serious side of the position then made the smile fade. She would have to ensure that her children would be looked after and given positions of honour and be married to husbands of rank and status. The two girls would not lack for anything, if she had her way.
And of the other branches of the family? Already she was thinking of the Koros in terms of branches. Her elder brother, Jorqel, had the seniority, and his three – soon to be four – children would take precedence in rank, but her branch, the Amne branch, would have seniority over what families Argan and Istan would bring forth. If she had her way, she would do everything in her power to advance her children, and being empress would go a long way to ensure that.
For now, the little things. She searched for and found the document she wanted, the list of candidates to command the new recruits for the KIMM. Preparing the imperial seal on Elas’ desk, she calmly wrote Fostan Telekan’s name on the document, examined the script, and, satisfied, affixed the seal. Now it was legal. She passed it to the nearest clerk. “Arrange for this to be copied, one copy to Captain Telekan, one to Captain Lalaas and one to Zofela.”
The clerk bowed. The original would be stored in the imperial records office in the palace.
That done, she picked up another sheet. She studied this one carefully. It was a list of all young noblemen in the city who were applying for positions in the imperial apparatus. A frisson of excitement ran through her. There may be more little ‘interviews’ coming up in return for her favour. She would have to personally meet each candidate and assess which one was the most attractive and prone to such games of bribery. A few exchanges of words usually alerted her to which ones were more easily swayed.
She thought that administration was a little more interesting than it previously seemed.
___
Astiras sat in the saddle and looked over the countryside. It was a relief being out of the poisonous air of Zofela castle and to be relatively free and untainted in the open air. The winter had gone and now the land was springing into life, and it lifted him.
Isbel was still furious at him, and any advance he made was rebuffed firmly and coldly. He cursed the day he gave into that Bragalese witch! Would this continue forever? Couldn’t she forgive him and they could then begin again with a clean start? Then there was the issue of whoever was spreading the rumours within Zofela. He still had no idea and he felt that until Vosgaris returned he wouldn’t know.
The thrice cursed Council had finally gone their own ways, divided as usual, but still the majority supported what he was doing, although the news of his affair had cooled attitudes towards him within his traditional supporters. Just what the opposition wanted, which was why that slitherer Kanzet was eager to keep on mentioning it. Not as if, of course, he hadn’t dallied with some serving wench behind the store rooms! Hypocrite. He needed some good news to cheer them up.
Argan seemed to be obsessed with Istan and his two compatriots. Why couldn’t the damn’ fool child leave Istan alone and concentrate on his own development? Istan was best not to upset as that would take an age to sort out and far too much time and effort. Having said that, Istan had been calmer and more co-operative of late, so hopefully that one was coming round to the sense of behaving in a manner expected of him. Nine was a bit late to start that way but his tutor Gallis had remarked on how much more attentive Istan had been of late.
Argan, then, was still behaving as if his younger brother was having tantrums. Best to speak to him when he got back. He’d also have to discuss with Isbel what to do with that maniac Burnas in Niake. That morning’s post had not helped his mood; Demtro Kalfas had written and advised Burnas was going to decry Astiras’ affair in the temples of the city, and whip up anti-Koros sentiment yet again. Just what he needed now, like a bad dose of genital disease.
It irked him, too, that Isbel had been written to rather than him. He was emperor, therefore he was the one who should be written to. In fact, he was only just beginning to learn that many things went on around him without his knowledge, and the realisation unsettled him. His own wife had for some time had her own network of agents placed in cities and was gathering information about the mood of the people. He literally had not the faintest idea that such things had been going on!
If that was the case, what else? What else….. Amne. He thumped his saddle pommel with feeling. His equine snorted and shifted sideways, so Astiras had to calm the beast. Amne had been playing a stupidly dangerous game, according to Elas’ latest report into the insurrection led by Dragan Purfin – another thing he had been ignorant of until it had been mentioned at the Council – by playing the fake traitor, using her womanly charms to dupe the nobleman. Elas had been extremely annoyed, judging by the tone of his report, and it was a pity this rebel leader had fled. He may end up causing more trouble later.
Amne…. Why did she have to drag the reputation of the Koros through the mud? He conveniently overlooked his activities for the moment. Was she insane? Had it been motherhood that had changed her so? Astiras shook his head slowly.
Then there was the upsetting issue of Teduskis. His long-time right-hand man was no longer there with him, and he glanced to his shield side. Two men sat in the saddle there, both senior guards, but neither an officer. Teduskis had been with him for years, but now it seemed his mind was going and he now needed a nurse to care for him. He had been moved out of the castle only two days ago and placed in his own house, close to the Turslenka Gate in the new district. It was said he would probably die before the end of the year, and it saddened him. It reminded himself of his own advancing years, and the aches and pains he felt were much more frequent and longer lasting now. He could rarely go a night without having to relieve himself, either, and it annoyed him.
Getting old was shit.
His age was advancing, and he had so much to do for Kastania. It was in a much better condition than it had been eight years ago, true, but the dangers still existed and the internal structure was still delicate. He desperately wanted to pass onto Jorqel a strong, vital state, something his eldest son could take on with ease. He hated the thought of Jorqel having to fight as hard as he had to save the empire.
Now eight years down the line – what did he have? An estranged wife, arguing sons, a strumpet of a daughter, a dying close friend, scheming councillors, traitors close to him, and hostile neighbours. Fuck. Fucking underworld. He barked out the phrase in frustration.
The guards looked at him, then at one another.
Behind them stood the rest of the bodyguard, all sixty-five of them, along with a long line of engineers and wagons carrying chopped and sawn lengths of wood. He turned and glared at the people watching him. Well, he was in charge, what he said went. He was there to create a system of communications throughout Bragal, and that’s what he would do. The road to Frasia needed watchtowers, and he was here to make sure all did the job correctly.
Two chief engineers were with the wagons, and they had recommended two high points on the road. They were now at one of those, and from the point Astiras was at that moment, anyone could see for leagues in any direction. Ahead rose the mountains that marked the frontier of the provinces, while behind him, in waves of folded land, ran the central plateau of Bragal. Crags of mountains could be seen further away but they were irrelevant.
“Here,” Astiras jabbed a gauntleted hand towards the ground. “Erect it right at this spot.”
“Sire,” the nearest engineer bowed and began snapping out commands. Immediately the hired hands sprang from the wagons and began offloading the wood from half of the wagons.
Astiras dismounted and handed his reins to a guard, and stiffly walked to the edge of the escarpment they were on. The road clung to the edge and wriggled off in both north-west and south-east directions. The escarpment faced west, and was punctuated by huge trees that grew off the top of the cliff. It wasn’t a sheer drop, but a series of natural terr
aces, falling perhaps a thousand paces to the coastal plain below. This was the edge of the plateau, and free of trees on the top, due to previous harvesting and the wind. Wintertime here was harsh.
Down the slope it was more sheltered and rock outcrops vied with thick woodland, giving it all a sharply contrasting vista. Building a watchtower here would allow a long distance view towards Frasia, the coast, across the plateau and along the flat lands due east. A good place.
Three men would be stationed here, and besides the watchtower there would be a small palisade and a guard hut with convenience. The guards would be relieved every four days. It was Astiras’ vision to extend this network throughout the core provinces of the empire, and he had asked Evas Extonos in Niake, Thetos Olskan in Turslenka and Fostan Carras in Slenna to arrange an extensive system in their regions.
It would allow a quick response to any situation, including rebellions, and he would no longer be ignorant of things that went on. He cracked his knuckles and turned to his stand-in sidekick, a swarthy looking individual called Landec. Landec had been there at the capture of Zofela and had served in Astiras’ guard for some time. He was as good as anyone there to act as his personal guard, so he had been picked to take Teduskis’ place, at least on a temporary basis. “Get a camp prepared, we’re staying the night.”
Landec saluted and went off, shouting orders. As the group sprang into action, Astiras breathed in deeply and looked over the countryside once more. He’d been this way many times, nearly always on a military campaign. That’s what he missed the most, he had to admit to himself. Since the rebellion in Bragal had been crushed, he’d rarely used his military prowess, and the life of a ruler in a court bored him.
He chafed at the restrictions and badly wanted to be out and about, but he’d not trusted anyone to carry out the long-term plans he had in mind, not even Isbel. He rubbed his chin. Jorqel had the west under control but he needed someone to do the same to the east and leave him to go round the country doing what he was doing now. Argan was the best bet but he was still four years too young.
Four years….. he was old enough to understand theory. Perhaps a posting to a province to study under a trusted man to learn the job hands-on? He thought on the matter. It would solve the issue of the bickering, and also perhaps provide a way to appease Isbel on another matter. His mind made up, he turned and demanded to know why his dinner hadn’t been prepared.
Two days later he had returned to the fortress and breezed into the office where Frendicus and Pepil held their paperwork. Isbel, as was expected, was there, too. “I’m back,” he said somewhat unnecessarily. “And there’s plenty I want doing.”
Isbel looked up, surprised. “Oh?”
“Who have we got visiting us today?” the emperor barked across to Pepil.
The thin, lined major domo slowly picked up a curling parchment and peered at it. “Two submissions for money to repair or build farm buildings in Bragal, a plea from an aggrieved landowner in Makenia that has been passed up from Governor Olskan and two nobles this afternoon, the Varaz and the Branas.”
“And what do they want?” Astiras demanded to know, throwing himself into his chair.
“Oh, Astiras!” Isbel scolded. “Argan’s Betrothal ceremony!”
“Oh yes, that. Very well, and the Branas?”
“A request for a new licence to sell stone for building materials.”
“Oh, pimping for supporting us, are they?”
Isbel pursed her lips in disapproval. “Astiras, I wish you’d stop using that kind of terminology.”
“I’m emperor,” he retorted, swinging round to face her, “and I’ll say what I damned well like. Furthermore, I say who does what and how. I’m tired of being a court emperor, and from now on I’m going to be more hands-on, as the saying goes.” He held up his hand as Isbel opened her mouth. “You’re much better at doing the paperwork and keeping these fawning people in check,” he eyed both Pepil and Frendicus who returned his look inscrutably, Astiras couldn’t give a damn what they thought.
He continued, jabbing a finger at his wife. “There are parts of this empire I have not visited and before I get too old to do so, I’m going to rectify that.”
“Your place is here in the Court, and with me,” Isbel protested.
“The Court can function perfectly well without me, as the two years I was besieging this shithole proved. You did a fantastic job and I have every confidence in you. If some arse-crawler wants to speak to me personally they damn well come find me if it’s that important. Otherwise I’m off inspecting my empire,” he pointed at himself, “and to see for myself what needs doing, rather than relying on moaning and griping from the provinces that is suitably watered down by the major domo there into some kind of bland Court-speak.”
“And where is it you’re thinking of going then, dear,” Isbel asked acidly. “Turslenka, by any chance?”
“Oh, how unexpected of you to say that,” Astiras shot back. “As a matter of fact, no. Pelponia this summer, and next year Lodria and Romos. Zipria the year after.”
“What, and no slave girl to warm your bed on those long cold nights?”
“Isbel, shut up. If you want a part in this empire you’ll remember who I am – and I’m not going to take that from even you. Any more of that and I’ll send you to some temple complex somewhere to spend the rest of your days contemplating the gods and praying for a release that will never come.”
Isbel sat in her chair rigidly, her face draining of colour.
Astiras nodded slowly. “I’ve been thinking very carefully these past couple of days and I’ve realised just how much I’ve allowed things to slide. This life is killing me. Time we all did what we’re suited to. I’m the emperor, not some puppet wheeled out by the Court to talk nonsense whenever it suits the Court or the visitors. You do the paperwork; I’ll run the empire my way, just as I did eight years ago.”
“What if Venn decide to invade again?”
“The army is here. The castellan knows his stuff, the watchtowers I’ve set up should give us plenty of warning, and if anyone looks as if they’re going to attack, we should have enough notice for me to get back here in time.”
“You’re still going to have to visit Turslenka,” Isbel finally said in a strained voice. “The road to Pelponia goes via that city.”
“I’m well aware of that,” Astiras snapped. “It can’t be helped. I shall be taking Argan with me as far as that place, along with his entourage.”
“What? Why?”
“In our chamber, now,” Astiras commanded, and without waiting for Isbel, went to the door and hauled it open, glaring at her. Isbel followed, wondering what was going on. In the chamber Astiras shut the door and faced the empress. “I’m tired of the bickering between the two boys, and it’s showing no sign of abating. Argan is twelve now and old enough to take up an interest in running a province, so I’m going to assign him to Thetos to learn how to do it. He’ll be there until he’s old enough to take command at sixteen. What he does then depends on the situation at that time, and what I think he’s best suited to.”
“But – but our son!” she complained. “I won’t see him!”
“You can always visit Turslenka, and exchange pleasantries with Metila.”
“Ooh sometimes Astiras, I could ….. could….”
“Well go on then,” he said. “Get it out and done with; I’m tired of you and your snide remarks. Either we have a marriage or we end it here, today. I’m no rug that you can walk on for the rest of your life. If you want to stay with me, then begin by being less of a bitter rebuffed victim. You’re the only one who’s made you that way – I still want you but you’ve dismissed yourself from my presence in private. We’ve reached the breaking point; put up or get out.”
Isbel clenched her fists and jaw. She didn’t know what to say or where to start.
“I’m not holding back Argan’s development just because you’re still clinging hold of him by some emotional umbilical cord.
Istan’s staying here because Bragal will need a strong firm man to be governor when we leave. Argan is not the man for this place.”
Isbel shook in fury, then drew her hand back and slapped Astiras full across the face. She said nothing, just stood there, breathing heavily.
He rubbed his face slowly, then smiled ruefully. “As you will, Isbel. One day you will come to understand why I’m doing this; clearly you’re overwrought what with our difficulties, but something has to be done or I’m ending it. I’m not living with and putting up with a wife who treats me like a plague carrier. You have until tomorrow morning. If you still cannot decide, I shall do that for you and arrange for your transportation to a temple complex in Pelponia or Zipria. The further away from us all the better.”
He waited for a response. When she didn’t make any, he shrugged. “Very well. I shall leave Zofela in six or seven days with Argan, and I’ll want someone here to run the imperial administration. If you’re not here, I’ll send for Elas; he can take over here while Amne runs Frasia. She’s not incapable.”
“You beast,” Isbel finally said, her face red. “You unspeakable beast! Don’t you have any feelings towards your family? How can you send a boy away from his parents to a strange place and ask him to take on an adult’s responsibility?”
“He’s not a child, Isbel, he’s growing up, and he’s very intelligent. He has a sense of duty and that will give him a good standing. He’ll have Mr. Sen in the background, and Panat Afos. He’s not going to be alone, as you say, and Thetos is a good man; he’ll show Argan the range of skills needed to be a governor – in fact I’d say our boy will end up a better one!”