by Tony Roberts
“Where?” Isbel was all officious at once. This was a serious accusation.
Pepil gave her the briefest of descriptions. He sank into his chair, waving away the attentions of a clerk. “He should be arrested.”
“Guard!” Isbel snapped. One appeared immediately. “Go summon Commander,” and she gave Pepil an admonishing look, “Vosgaris to me at once.”
Vosgaris was ambling back from getting a new pack when two guards informed him to report to the empress without delay. So in no time he stood before her, the second pack slumped flatly over one shoulder.
“Commander,” Isbel said briskly. “An accusation of assault has been laid against you by the major domo there,” and she nodded over to the pale-looking man. “What do you have to say about that?”
Vosgaris glared at the man. Clearly he had not learned his lesson. “Still spreading vicious rumours about me, are you? I wouldn’t touch him with a ten pace long pike!”
Isbel looked from one to the other. Hatred flowed between the two. She was tempted to leave the two alone in the room to sort it out, but then she would have to detain her lover on a murder charge. She knew full well Vosgaris had hit the nasty little courtier, but was there any proof? Unless Vosgaris admitted it there didn’t seem to be any. “Who witnessed this alleged attack?”
“Alleged? Alleged? Ma’am! He hit me!”
Vosgaris sneered and folded his arms and looked over Isbel’s shoulder. He radiated fury. Isbel desperately wanted to take him and reassure him everything was going to be alright, but Pepil was not having any of it.
“I will inform the emperor! Clearly you have an interest here, your majesty, so your decision will inevitably be coloured by your preference for the Commander”, and he made it sound like an insult.
“Go very carefully, Major Domo,” Isbel said softly. “Remember who I am. You are treading very close to a treasonous statement.”
Pepil went pale. He nonetheless heaved himself up. “I am not going to let this slide past through your favouritism. You are beginning to sound like the Fokis.”
“Sit down!” Isbel snapped, pointing at the courtier. “Guard!”
The guard came back in. “Ma’am?”
“Fetch the emperor. We have a situation here. I request his immediate attention.”
The wait was interminable and the room’s atmosphere could be cut with a knife. Finally Astiras turned up, his face red and furious. “What is going on here? This had better be good!”
Isbel filled him in and Astiras looked from one to the other of the people concerned. His face was set like stone, his eyes even harder, if that was possible. “Striking a member of my Court is a serious offence, Commander. What do you have to say about that?”
“Sire, I deny any allegation this man levels against me.”
Pepil squawked in outrage. “Sire, a loyal and faithful member of your Court is assaulted by this – barbaric brawler in your own imperial residence! What next? If you allow him to go free then who knows what would next happen!”
Astiras swung back to Vosgaris. He was about to speak when Isbel stood up. “Astiras, may I point out that this – creature,” she gave Pepil the benefit of the most chilling look she could muster, “has already lied extensively about me. If you believed him for one moment then both the Commander here and I would not be standing in this room. If he lied about that, then how can you accept yet another act of vindictiveness on behalf of a courtier who speaks of loyalty – yet he kept from you a long list of alleged improper acts by me. If he was right, why then keep them from you for all these years? If not, why does he want to spread untruths about your own wife?”
Pepil went white. Isbel had stuck him in a cleft.
The empress was not about to let him off the hook. She had her revenge in sight. “We still do not know the identity of the man who was helping the Mirrodan plot, but he had to be close. If this man here knew something as secret as the Commander’s so-called affair with me, then why is it he cannot tell us who helped the Mirrodan? Eyes that can see through walls should surely see through hearts!”
Astiras surveyed his wife for a long moment, then he turned to look at the now visibly shaking major domo. “So, Pepil, please tell me the identity of the traitor who helped the Mirrodan in spreading the story of what happened in Turslenka.”
“Sire – I-I do not know!”
“Another attack on our marriage, Astiras. Coincidence? Perhaps it was Pepil here all along. Maybe he was the one who passed the information of your affair with Metila,” and Isbel felt a shaft of pleasure ripple through her at being able to mention it to her errant husband once more, “onto our enemies. Finding that his scheme hadn’t worked, he then tries to do it again, this time by passing you a list of falsehoods. He clearly wishes to wreck our marriage. Why, I do not know – but perhaps your interrogators can elicit that?”
Astiras stood straighter. “You know, Pepil, my wife has a very good point. What else is it you know that you’re keeping from us? Being right at the heart of this administration gives you incredible access to all kinds of information.”
“Sire! Please, I am only being faithful to you! I plead for mercy!” Pepil sank to his knees in terror.
Astiras loomed over him. “You kivok! A position of total trust and confidence and you betray me. Guards!”
Two men entered, their uniforms now appearing sinister to Pepil. He gibbered. “I’ll tell you the identity of the person who put the letter under the Empress’s door! It was Istan, your son! He was helping the Mirrodan!”
“Wha-at?” Astiras roared. “You impudent, foul beast!” He waved to the guards to pick up the screaming courtier. “Take him to the dungeons. Get every piece of information out of him possible. Do not spare him.”
Pepil was dragged out, beseeching Astiras to spare him. His voice could be heard echoing down the passageway for quite some time. Isbel sat down, shaken. Istan? Could it be true? Was Pepil merely trying to deflect attention from his own guilt? She looked up as Vosgaris. The look in his eyes told her that he believed the major domo.
“Istan…” she said slowly.
“Bah! Lies, falsehoods spread by a traitor,” Astiras growled. He looked at the goggle-eyed clerks. “Get back to work!” They feverishly bent to their tasks. The emperor stood before Vosgaris, puffing out his chest and looking at him sternly. “Aren’t you supposed to be getting ready to depart, Commander?”
“Sire.” He saluted and marched to the door. As he put his hand on the handle, Astiras spoke his name again. Vosgaris halted, turned and stood smartly to attention.
“I do not want you to set foot in the east again unless I expressly give you permission. Do you understand? This is not a posting, it is a banishment.”
Vosgaris looked puzzled. He glanced at Isbel who was still shocked at Pepil’s admission. He bowed once, then left. The emperor may send him away, but he would still exchange words with Isbel. He would bide his time.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Argan was summoned to Thetos Olskan after nearly all of his morning’s equine training had been completed. He had been standing by the side of his animal, going through the merits of which cut to use with his sword while wheeling in combat with his trainer Kontas Bosua, when Kerrin came up to them with the request.
Argan had excused himself and went straight to the governor’s office. Metila bowed as he arrived, and Argan smiled in return, waving slightly to her. “Sit down sire,” Olskan greeted him, studying a scroll intently. “A hot drink for the prince, Metila.”
“I get,” Metila said, swaying off towards the door.
“And make it quick, you slut.”
“Yes, I quick.” She left.
Argan was uncomfortable about the way Thetos spoke to Metila. He’d witnessed it a few times before, yet Metila seemed devoted to the big, gruff governor. “Governor, does she like being spoken to like that?”
“Who? Oh, Metila. Only from me. Anyone else speaks to her like that would probably get their throat
cut.”
“So why do you speak like that to her?”
Thetos eyed the young prince over the edge of the scroll. “Let’s just say our relationship is a little – unorthodox and complicated. I don’t expect anyone to understand, and as far as I’m concerned I don’t care. Have a read of this,” he said, passing the scroll over.
Argan scanned it. “This is not good. How reliable is this report?”
“I’ve sent someone off to confirm it. This is just what we need now with war with Venn resumed. I’ve put the militia on alert and got the guard doubled at all gatehouses. What else would you suggest we do, sire?”
Argan looked up at him in surprise. “Is this a test, Governor?”
“Oh no – I’m being serious. This is real, and there’s nothing like real situations to test out your ability. This Slavis fellow, whoever he is, is no nobleman, yet he suddenly appears to have gathered a disparate group of followers and is making threatening noises.”
The prince read the report again. “It does not say where he is, or what his threats are. Just general points. I’d look at the tax register, and the house census. If he’s in Turslenka he’ll be on those lists.”
“And then what?”
Argan passed the scroll back. He scratched his head, then sniffed his fingers and pulled a face. “I smell of equine. Um, find out about his background, who he is and where he could get money from.”
“What about finding out where these reports came from, sire?”
Argan looked abashed. “Oh yes, that too. I need to learn fast, don’t I?”
“Experience counts for a lot; even those of limited ability learn best from what has happened. Those who don’t soon lose their positions. I’ll keep you informed as to what is going on when I hear the news.”
Metila returned with a tray and three drinks on it. “Klee, best Makenian,” she said. She passed the biggest flask to Thetos, the next biggest to Argan and as she leaned over to put it on the desk on the other side of him, she whispered to him in Bragalese. “I put your favourite stinger syrup droplet in yours, Lakhani.” She straightened and gave him a smile.
Argan winked at her. He had found out she liked that particularly. She smiled again and picked up her drink and sank into her small rough chair by Thetos’ desk. “Thank you Metila,” Argan said and took a sip. Indeed, his drink did contain the sweet tasting syrup droplet he had developed a recent taste for, a local small industry that used the natural extract from stinging insect nests. It was incredibly sweet, smooth and gold coloured. Ever since being given a taste last year, Argan had found it particularly agreeable in his drink or in bigger quantities, spread over his bread. It was expensive so he only used a little. Metila spoiled him.
“You made good time, you whore,” Thetos said sternly.
Metila swayed her upper torso and gave him the benefit of a sultry look, licking her lips.
Argan looked at the governor. “So what will you do if you find out where this Slavis is hiding? Presumably his threats are directed against us?”
“You would think so by the reports, sire. He will enter Turslenka in one year from now and assume power. Well that certainly puts me in his way, and presumably you, too, Young Prince. What we have done to earn his displeasure I do not know.”
“But there’s nothing else in the original message, Governor. Could it be just a madman? Where was the message delivered?”
“Apparently there was no written message, just a verbal statement made somewhere and passed on, and so on until it reached the ears of one of my spies. He heard it, allegedly, in the dockside taverns which is where one usually first hears these sort of rumours. How it got there,” he shrugged.
Argan tutted and looked up at the ceiling. “Perhaps this Slavis does not exist, he is some made up name sent to scare us? Maybe someone just wants to unsettle us.”
“Ah but to what purpose? I am putting my men to use, trying to find out more. In the meantime, we can only wait and carry on with our normal day to day lives. If something does come to my ears, rest assured, sire, I shall immediately let you know.”
Argan nodded. “Well, as you say, until we know something more, we can hardly do any more.” He sipped his drink some more. “Tell me Metila, did you make these drinks yourself?”
The Bragalese woman nodded. “Hot water in pot, always in kitchen on fire. Leaves of plant. Mix, ready fast.”
“It’s very good, this,” Argan nodded. He looked at Thetos. “Having a Bragalese woman – or girl – to look after you is wonderful. I know how lucky you are.”
Thetos agreed. “We are two lucky men, Prince Argan.” He glanced at Metila whose lips twitched briefly.
Argan left the two to themselves shortly afterwards and gauged he had a little time to spare before lunch. He wanted to get out of his smelly clothes so he went to his room and hurriedly threw off his outer garments, puffing out his cheeks as he got down to his undergarments. That was better! It was much warmer here than in Zofela and he got all sweaty. In fact, he got quite sweaty more easily these days. Was it because he was in a warmer place, or was it because he was getting hairier? Under his arms he noticed he was growing hair – and around his – thing. His arms and legs also had hair growing on them. He had noticed the grown-up men had hair, some of them lots and some not so much.
It took a lot more to dry himself, that was certain.
The door opened and Amal entered the room, carrying a bundle of clean clothing. She put it down on the bed and curtseyed to Argan. “Prince Argan, I didn’t know you would be here,” she said in Bragalese.
“Amal, I was called away from my morning’s lessons to talk to the governor. As it was still before lunch I thought I’d change clothing.”
“Here, let me help,” she said, and picked up his dirty jacket and hose and put them on the bed. “I shall wash these later.” She went to his clothes chest and looked in. “Here, a wormspun vinefruit coloured shirt and hose of white. You’re in the classroom this afternoon, yes?”
“Yes, Amal.”
She smiled and put his shirt over his head and slid it down, checking it was fitting correctly. “You haven’t grown out of this one yet, Argan.” Argan had insisted she call him that in private – he didn’t think they should be so formal when alone. “Although I think you will come the winter.”
“Oh, how can I afford to keep buying clothes if I’m constantly growing? I hope I don’t end up as big as Mr. Sen!”
She put a hand to her mouth in amusement. “No – he’s too fond of food and does no exercise. You’re training to be a warrior prince, and you don’t eat as much as him. I’ve noticed he sneaks back for seconds after you go.”
“Really? Goodness – how can he keep on putting all that food into his tummy? Has he asked you not to tell anyone?”
“Well, yes, but the secret’s safe with you, isn’t it? I mean, you won’t be telling anyone, will you?”
Argan shook his head. “No, the secret’s safe – shared with you, and all the kitchen staff, I bet.”
Amal giggled and nodded. “So no, you won’t end up as big as him. You’re still getting taller – look, these hose are nearly too short for you,” she held the garment in front of him.
Argan slipped them on and looked at his ankles. They were nearly all exposed. “Last time I wear these, then. I had better write to mother and ask for more funds to buy more clothes.”
“And when you do please take me with you to buy them – your choice of colours is not good. I have a female eye and know what colours match, and what colours suit you. Some of them do not, and it isn’t good to look off-colour.”
“Really?” Argan looked surprised. “What colours don’t suit me?”
“That bright yellow one you got last year, remember that? I called it the grainstalk field.”
Argan laughed. “Oh yes, that one. Alright, I will take you – it’s about time you went outside anyway. You’re stuck in here all the time and you should see what’s out there.”
; She curtseyed again, picked up the dirty clothing and went to the door. “I’ll be in the kitchen in a moment. I’ll see you there.”
Argan sat on the bed and nodded. Alone, he thought for a moment about the girl. She was more confident these days, and no longer seemed the shy, worried girl she used to be. Was that part of her growing up? Metila was very confident and so sure of herself. Would Amal end up like that? He was not entirely sure that growing up was a good thing; people changed, or so it seemed to him. Even Kerrin had changed. He had got much sadder and more serious since his father had died, and not much seemed to make him pleased these days.
He wondered if he appeared to have changed to the others. If so, did that really worry him? What was there to worry about? He felt the same, he still saw things the same way, and thought the same way about things. Yes, his voice had gone deeper like a man’s and he was growing taller and getting hairy, but that happened to everyone. He wondered, though, why some men’s hair then fell out. Was it because it grew so fast it shot out of their heads? He would have to ask someone about that.
Huffing with exasperation, he got up and eyed his ankles again. Silly growing, it meant his clothes didn’t last long these days, and he really liked some of them. “Well, might as well go to lunch,” he muttered to himself and made for the door.
____
Amne arrived at Zofela a few days later. To her it was a surprise; the stonework was bathed in the sun’s rays and it was such a contrast to the shocking sight she’d seen those years ago with Lalaas. Father had certainly transformed the place. She sat on the board of her wagon and held her daughters close. “Look,” she said, pointing up at the crenellations, “Zofela is looking like a fortress, isn’t it?”
“Is grandfather in there?” Kola asked, squinting in the bright light. “It looks very grand!”
“Yes, it certainly does, doesn’t it? We shall have a very comfortable room to stay in, don’t you think?”
“With a big bed?”
Amne laughed and squeezed Kola’s shoulder. “We’ll see.”