by Tony Roberts
Heads nodded and a murmur rippled across the people. The boy was speaking the truth, something they had not expected.
“My mother, the Empress Isbel, has been saddened by this, and I have seen how upset she has been. And I, their son, have been very disappointed by what has happened.” He turned from side to side to allow as many people to see and hear him. “I know Metila, too, and know her as the woman who saved my life, for when I was last here I was close to death, and yet she saved my life.”
People passed the words on. Some had known of it, others had not.
“I do not approve of what they did, yet I can find it in my heart to forgive them. My mother has forgiven my father, and my father has vowed to never do such a thing again for the hurt he has caused. I can tell you all here today, that my father has not even set eyes on her since returning to this city on this visit.”
Astiras turned to his officers. “For Kastan’s sake – get the troops to cut through the mob to reach my son!”
Thetos put out a restraining hand. “Sire – the crowd are listening to him, not threatening him. Using the troops now may cause them to panic and your son may be trampled in the stampede!”
Astiras sucked his breath through his teeth. The officers waited, the situation on a knife’s edge. The emperor drew in a deep breath and moved down two of the steps and stopped. “Very well – but if anything happens to Argan….”
Argan, meanwhile, was holding out his arms to the people. “I have heard that the people of Turslenka are fair and just, and this is one reason why I and my family are happy for me to come here to live for the next few years. I am honoured to be amongst people who have these traits that I admire.”
Smiles broke out over some faces. A few scowled however, for they recognised he was flattering them. They still wanted blood. A few shouts went up trying to stop him but others around them hissed at them to shut up and listen to what the young prince was saying.
“If your hearts are full of forgiveness, you will do as I have and forgive these two people. Metila is a healer, not a witch. She works good for people, and she has given me life when I nearly lost it, and my father has been reminded just how important his family are. Both have agreed not to let their weaknesses get the better of them again,” he had no idea if this was true, but it seemed the right thing to say. “And he is also mindful of the people whom he rules. He is visiting all the provinces and wishes to know them better. He has trusted me to live amongst you good people of Turslenka, and I would be greatly honoured if I may, as my coat of arms, include the wheel of this fair city within it.” He had just thought of this, as his particular coat of arms had yet to be finalised.
A roar went up from the crowd. Astiras clutched the hilt of his sword and stepped down another step, but then watched in amazement as the voices began calling out in praise of Prince Argan Koros.
Argan beamed. He had pleased the people, and stepped down to them, holding out his hands for the people to touch them. Kerrin stumbled after him, overwhelmed. What had ‘Gan done? He’d never heard him speak like that before! It was incredible! The shouts for Prince Argan rolled over the people and they pressed forward to touch this absurdly young but well-speaking prince.
For a moment it looked like Argan was going to be crushed, but the men nearest him pushed back, shouting to give the prince room. Argan stood in the square and turned full circle. “People of Turslenka, I shall be here for some years, and you will have the chance to see me on many occasions. I would be delighted to speak to any and all of you should the chance come. But now I must return to my father who no doubt will admonish me for being so bold.”
A chuckle spread through the crowd. He had a sense of humour, too. That was good. Too many rulers in the past had none at all, and even less inclination to see their people. “All praise Prince Argan!” they chorused.
Argan slowly made his way through the cheering throng and reached the gates, passing through quickly and was allowed to climb to the waiting group of adults, all standing with their mouths open. Argan noted that the junior officer’s mouth was open wider than the emperor’s which was surely bad manners.
“Father,” Argan bowed formally, feeling as though he was floating.
“Argan,” Astiras’ voice cracked. “You – you –“ he shook his head. “Could have got yourself killed there, you young fool!”
“Father, I was safe amongst those people. They wanted to hear something good.”
Astiras rolled his eyes, but picked his son up and hugged him. Cheers broke out from the soldiers and the crowd followed suit. Argan was overjoyed; he had saved his father from the anger of the crowd, and stopped them from calling out for Metila to be burned. He was put down again and Astiras looked at him, shaking his head in wonder. “How did you do that?”
“Father, as you said to me just now – bribery.”
Astiras stared at his son for a moment, then broke out into laughter and slapped Argan heartily on the shoulder, almost knocking him off his feet. Thetos nodded, looking at the young prince with approval. Here was someone who was already showing signs of being a leader, and this could only be good for the future of Kastania.
Later that day, after Astiras and his entourage had bade them all farewell and ridden off accompanied not by jeers, but by cheers, Argan and Kerrin had sat down and reflected on the day’s events. Metila had finally appeared, and sat next to Thetos on the other side of the table. Mr. Sen and Panat Afos made up the group.
“It was a very brave but foolhardy thing for you to do, Prince Argan,” Thetos said, playing with the side of his mug. “As your ward I cannot allow you to put yourself in such danger again. Having said that,” he held up his hand to forestall any reply from Argan, “you did an amazing thing and I for one thank you.”
“I too,” Metila said in a husky, tired voice. There were dark shadows under her eyes and she looked very thin indeed. “I hear they wanted burn me. Not good.”
“I promised them you and father would never be together again,” Argan said firmly.
Metila looked at Thetos and then placed her head against his shoulder. She shut her eyes and smiled.
Thetos ran his one hand down her face and hair. “I think that is all in the past; Metila will not do that with the emperor again. She is a good woman, young Prince, do not judge her for the actions of a Bragalese woman sealing a contract.”
“I know Bragalese people, Governor,” Argan said, looking closely at Metila, “and as you know I have a personal servant of my own who is Bragalese.”
“Ah yes, of course, the girl Sasia. Is she settling in fine?”
“It will take time; she is feeling lonely – she is away from her homeland and has no fellow servants as friends – yet. I was wondering whether Metila here could make her feel more at home? One Bragalese woman to another?”
Thetos looked down at the comfortable Metila, nestled under his arm. “Well, you witch? How about showing your compatriot some hospitality?”
“Mmm… I do. Tomorrow.”
“Good. That’s sorted that then. So – what of your time here then? What are your plans?”
Argan smiled and looked sideways to his tutor. “Mr. Sen will no doubt be keen to make me learn everything he thinks I ought to before I get to my age of seniority, and Panat there will continue to teach me how to fight. But I will also need to know from you, Governor, how to be a governor.”
“Oh, I’m not the best example of that!” Thetos chuckled. “I’m an old grumpy retired warrior. I keep these peasants down with a bark here and a snarl there.”
Metila opened one eye. “You good governor, no lie about yourself.”
“Silence, whore!” Thetos flicked her nose and the woman wrinkled it and then closed her eyes again, smiling. “Well, she may have a point, but you and I are very different people, young Prince, so don’t go copying what I do!”
“Whore?” Kerrin asked, wide-eyed. “Isn’t that women who….?”
“Yes,” Thetos grinned. “One of
my terms of endearment to this slut.”
“Slut?” Kerrin frowned. “That’s a bad name for a woman, is it not?”
Thetos smiled wider. Mr. Sen leaned forward. “Young man, the governor here uses words that I would not think you or Prince Argan here would ever dream of using. If the Governor does not take offence to my words, he is a brash, rude old warrior who uses army speech, language that is certainly not permitted in Court or in normal society.”
“No offence, Tutor,” Thetos said. “People have to get used to me or else they can stick it. I won’t change and I’m Governor here, so I’m number one.”
“Hmm, yes,” Mr. Sen said, non-committedly, and leaned back in his chair. He gave the two boys a stern look, as if trying to pass on some message.
Thetos turned his attention to the badly scarred Panat who had been sitting in silence to this point, contented so it seemed to take the occasional sip from his hot drink. “You must be proud of your son, Afos. A good sign that he will be a dedicated bodyguard to the prince here.”
Panat nodded, his one eye sparkling with pride. “I have tried to teach my son what is expected of him; the duty of a bodyguard is based on total dedication and self-sacrifice. I will admit I was very concerned for his welfare – and of the prince’s – when they both walked out into the crowd, but as we saw we had nothing to worry about.”
Kerrin heard his father’s words but he remembered the terror he felt. Would this be the way it would be with ‘Gan? His friend seemed to take everything in his stride, dangerous or not. He guessed the prince saw it as his duty to confront danger head-on. If that was the case, then he, Kerrin, would have to learn to deal with the gut-wrenching fear he felt. He hoped to the gods he could become braver, for what good was a bodyguard who felt so afraid of danger?
After the meal had finished, Argan retired to his room. Kerrin accompanied him, his mind full of conflicting thoughts. Amal was there and showed that she, too, had been frightened for the safety of Argan. She didn’t mention Kerrin, but then the bodyguard meant nothing really to her, save that he was Argan’s constant companion. Kerrin on his part hardly spoke to her and she had the impression he didn’t really approve of her. Why that was she didn’t know, but if Argan was happy to have the serious-looking Kerrin with him, so be it. She could put up with his disapproval; what he thought didn’t matter or make any difference to her being Argan’s personal servant.
When the three were together Argan insisted on speaking Bragalese. Kerrin had learned the language, in a rudimentary manner, but rarely spoke unless he had to. Amal thought he resented having to learn a language he didn’t really see as being important.
“We were fine, Amal,” Argan smiled, putting a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “I didn’t think the people were cross at me or Kerrin; and they don’t hurt children here. So it seemed to me that the one person they would listen to was a prince of the imperial family who was under age.”
“Weren’t you scared, though?” she asked. When they were alone Argan also had insisted she drop the ‘sire’ and so on. “I mean, there were so many of them!”
“Well, maybe a little. What about you, ‘Rin?”
Kerrin nodded. He still had the little shakes around his body when he thought about it. “I thought we were going to die.”
“But you came with me anyway, ‘Rin, and that shows you are a good friend to me. I wouldn’t want anyone else there with me. When we go into battle when we’re grown up, you’ll be the best to have with me.”
Kerrin smiled, but the thought terrified him. The noise and danger of a battle. Why did he feel like this so much? It hadn’t been like that – not until the battle outside Zofela, when the Venn had been defeated. Seeing that had made him realise just how dangerous and bloody a battle was. It was different when being told about it in a room. Seeing one first-hand was a rude shock.
He just hoped he wouldn’t disgrace himself when the moment came. That was another fear eating away at his mind. A bodyguard was meant to be strong and fearless, and he felt anything other than that!
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Demtro, the governor is asking for you,” Clora woke the merchant from a particularly erotic dream involving expensive wispy items of clothing and a sensual Clora. “He needs you urgently.”
“Uhh,” Demtro groaned and opened both eyes, blinking. “What watch is it?”
“First after dawn,” Clora said laying on him, her smiling face almost touching his. “A messenger is downstairs; he knocked as I was making breakfast.”
“Oh, in the name of the pits of all the underworlds!” Demtro groaned. “Can’t he wait until I’ve finished dreaming about disrobing you?”
Clora giggled. “You do that anyway! Why dream? Shall I tell the messenger he has to wait until you get your carnal marital rights?”
“Not a bad idea,” Demtro pondered on it, then groaned again and gently eased Clora aside. “Go make a hot drink; I suspect the governor won’t want to be kept waiting too long. Breakfast will have to wait today, I’m afraid.” He sat on the edge of the bed, his hair wild and unkempt. “I look like I’ve been raped by an army of women. Think it’ll catch on as a new trend?”
Clora walked to the door of the bedroom. “It would look good on certain people, but it’s just not you, darling.” She wiggled her behind provocatively, smiled again, then vanished out of the door.
Demtro grunted in amusement, then reached for his shirt, hanging on the wooden stand by his bedside. “Damned nuisance, wonder what that weathervane wants now?” he muttered to himself. He heard Clora speak downstairs, then a faint clanging as she busied herself in the kitchen. He smiled. Married life with Clora was what he had wished for. She had gradually changed from the nervous, grateful ex-whore into a confident, loving wife, someone he adored and enjoyed the company of. Not merely for the gratuitous love making, but to be with and share his life.
He was rich, successful, favoured by the ruling dynasty, and had a settled domestic life. The only thing he’d change was to have children, but so far they had not been successful. One miscarriage two years ago, but nothing since. Clora had been heartbroken for a little while but Demtro had eased her through her crisis and she was back to her old self. Or, rather, new self.
He tugged on his leggings, tight black stretchy things that were the current fashion, and he despised them. However, someone such as he had to wear the newest trends as it was he who sold them to needy men and women who absolutely had to have the latest clothing, no matter how ridiculous it may seem to outsiders. The rich had to be up to date.
One long sleeved outer garment later he was ready. A quick look in the mirror and he grimaced. He still looked like a refugee from a shipwreck. Ah well, he mused, needs must. He couldn’t keep the governor’s messenger waiting. He went down to the reception room, or what he called the reception room, and found a slim, youthful looking man in the garb of the Niake Militia waiting, somewhat impatiently, judging by his body language. Demtro had become good at assessing someone’s mood from their posture or general demeanour.
“Good morning, I understand you have come from the governor on a matter of urgency? At least I assume it is given I have been roused from my sleep. It’s my day off.”
“My apologies, sir,” the messenger did not sound in the slightest apologetic. “But I was ordered to present you with this as soon as I could.” He thrust out a sealed folded sheet of parchment which Demtro took hesitantly. The seal was Evas’ alright, and the paper was of sufficient quality not to have come from any other source. He ripped it open and scanned the message. His mouth turned down. “Present my compliments to the governor,” he said, slapping the message shut and sliding it into his jacket. “Inform him I shall present myself at his office as soon as I have dressed properly.”
“But the governor said I was to escort you to his office, sir.”
“I’m grown up enough to know the way thank you. Go.”
“But, sir…”
“I said go. I wish to s
pend a few moments with my wife and I do not want anyone intruding on that.”
The messenger snapped his mouth shut and bowed briefly, stiffly. Demtro showed him out and closed the door slowly. He made his way back to the kitchen where Clora was sat at the table, a steaming mug of klee before her and a second where Demtro normally sat.
“Trouble, darling?” she asked.
“What else? That hopeless fence-sitter Extonos has got another crisis and needs my help.” He sat down and slid his hands round the mug before him. He snorted. “Crisis! Extonos’ idea of a crisis is deciding how many sweeteners to put in his klee. Moron.”
Clora smiled. “So what is this crisis you’ve been asked to sort out?”
“Burnas, that pimple-arsed pain. He’s going to keep his promise to denounce the emperor from his pulpit as an adulterer and betrayer of the sacred sanctity of marriage.”
“But he is, isn’t he?”
“Well of course, but you simply don’t go telling the truth about rulers and the ruling elite or you end up neck-deep in shit,” he grumbled, taking a sip of klee. “You merely keep on telling them they’re the greatest thing since the orgasm and all will be well.”
“Oh, Demtro,” Clora scolded him, “don’t be such a sycophant. Surely the people need to be told about the truth of things?”
“Those who do are always branded trouble makers and become outlawed. Who makes the laws? The very same people you denounce, so they merely make you out to be the bad guy and use the full weight of their administration to back them up. Look, Clora, you and I are where we are only because we support the Koros. If we suddenly jump ship and start supporting idiots like Burnas then we’ll lose all this, the house, my position, my licence, everything!”
“Demtro, I don’t want you to start lying to cover up injustice!”
“Oh, Clora, I’m not going to do anything like that – all I’m going to do is to try to stop Burnas from raising all kinds of grief here. Niake has got a history of rioting and it wouldn’t take much for another to start, and who knows what would get destroyed this time round?”