by Tony Roberts
Thetos finished scribbling. He passed the parchment to his chief clerk, a boring plain man with bad breath and worse body odour who was nonetheless fairly competent at his job. If he hadn’t then Thetos would have had him thrown into the river to clean him up. He leaned forward to look at the eight officers standing before him. “I have been given a description of a man involved in this Slavis rebellion. He is one of the workers in the market hall down the road. He is not to be apprehended, do you understand? You are all however to alert your men to be on the watch for anyone – and I mean anyone, even a canine that sniffs his arse – that comes into contact with him.”
He pointed at the clerk who was even now copying the message onto a new sheet. “I am having copies of my orders made, and you are all to take one sheet so that not even the most retarded of you in-bred privileged idiots can misunderstand them. The description of this man will be included. I want his name, his address, who he knows, who he meets, and by the end of tomorrow I want to know what he shits. I want everything that there is to know about this turd. Questions?”
One of the officers, a slim, pale man with a receding chin, stood straighter. “Sir, are we to enact these immediately, or after we get some sleep?”
“Sleep, man?” Thetos growled. “Last time these eaters of filth attacked one of our buildings it was when you were all snoring your heads off, including those supposed to be on night duty! So I want all squads to have three men posted at all times around the city so that we have someone everywhere. I do not want this one lead we have to slip through our fingers. One of you talentless wonders will be the officer of the watch, and as there are eight watches and there’s eight of you, I’ll leave you to work out what that means.”
“But sir – at night?” one of the others said in dismay. “I need to get at least three watches’ worth of sleep!”
“Then sleep during the day, man. This won’t wait for your precious little head to clear itself from whatever dream you’re having. You’re on the first shift since you’ve shown such enthusiasm.”
Thetos could see they didn’t care for it one little bit. “He’ll be on duty at dawn, so he’ll be coming from whatever cesspit of a home he dwells in. I want all approaches watched. I want men disguised as traders, workers, street cleaners if necessary. Set it up, prove that you’re of some use to me. I want your plans to me before the middle night watch ends; nobody is going to sleep tonight, not even Prince Argan here,” he jerked a thumb at the young man to his right.
The officers all looked at Argan. Argan nodded. Whatever Thetos was planning, he would back him up. After all, if this was the way to trace the rebel leader, then so be it.
“Burn their beds,” Metila said calmly. “No sleep then.”
“Silence, whore,” Thetos snapped.
Metila smirked and straightened, her sandals fitted. “Yes, master.”
Thetos slowly returned his attention to the eight officers. “Take a copy from the scribe there, and make sure you understand what it is you need to do. Prince Argan will be the co-ordinator for this, and he will report directly to me.”
“But – sire, Prince Argan outranks you!” one of the officers protested.
“In this matter he does not. I am governor, and he is yet to come of age. I am his master for the purpose of this exercise. He is perfectly happy with this. Is that not so, sire?”
“Indeed it is.” Argan stood straighter and dared any of the eight to argue. “I am here to learn and for a situation like this I have no experience. We can all learn.”
The eight stood straighter. A command from one of the imperial family was not to be disobeyed, whether they liked it or not.
“Now I’ll be watching you, and so will Prince Argan. Anyone performing well will receive a commendation from me and will be favourably viewed the next time promotion comes round. On the other hand, anyone proving to me that they are as much use as a broken sword will be given the worst jobs I can think of, usually involving cleaning.”
One of the other officers glanced at the young prince. “Sire, where will we bring our reports – to your room or here?”
Argan shook his head. “The Governor has asked I collect your reports, so you will seek me out. Mornings I’m usually in the training yard behind the building, afternoons I’m taking tuition in the main hall across the corridor. Don’t worry about interrupting me; I’ll want your reports straight away, whether they have nothing to say or the opposite.”
Thetos nodded approvingly. “Now get yourselves organised. I want to see efficiency. Go get your copies there and then you are dismissed.”
Argan swung to his left. “I’ll go to the main hall. They should come to me with their duty roster. I’ll go to bed once that is all sorted.”
“Very good sire. Hopefully tomorrow we’ll have something to go on.”
Metila stood. “I will wait one watch, then bed.”
Thetos looked surprised. “You’ve slept nearly all day!”
“I not say sleep – I say bed,” she smiled salaciously.
Thetos burst out laughing. “Very well, you slut, you want pleasuring? I think I can accommodate you there.”
Argan looked at Kerrin who kept any expression from his face and the two teenagers left. A few moments later the senior officer came to see the prince in the main hall. “Sire, may I speak with you?”
“Yes of course,” Argan said. He was much younger than the officer who he guessed was in his mid-twenties, and he had to look up at the man. Kerrin stood closer to Argan. He wasn’t sure what was on the officer’s mind but he didn’t look happy.
“Sire – the others and I are unhappy at the way we’re being addressed and treated by the governor. He is very disrespectful and, well not to put too much of a fine point on it, rude. And he’s a commoner, whom we find hard to take orders from.”
Argan pursed his lips. This was one of his first decisions to make. He knew he had to sound fair and equitable, but also in control. He nodded slowly. “I understand your concerns – Captain?”
“Captain Durok. House of Durok, Makenian nobility. Grain sellers.”
“Ah, an important trading family.” Argan had been drilled mercilessly by Mr. Sen on the vital role the food growers played in Kastanian society. “Your concerns need two answers as far as I can see. Firstly, the governor is disrespectful, yes. That is not my way. I believe he is distrustful of the competence and effectiveness of you and your fellow officers. I shall have a word with him to moderate his tone and attitude.”
“Thank you, sire, we will be grateful.”
Argan smiled. “Secondly, Governor Olskan is a commoner, but he is in a position of command and has been put there by the wishes of the emperor, therefore you must carry out his wishes. Is that clear?”
“Sire,” Durok saluted.
“Very good, Captain. You may go and don’t concern yourself about not fulfilling your orders to the letter – as long as you have done your very best the outcome does not matter that much.”
Durok bowed. “Sire,” and he left, his steps lighter than before.
Kerrin waited until the door had closed. “’Gan, do you really mean it doesn’t matter? It’s very important finding this man and who he knows, surely!”
“I know, ‘Rin, but I wanted to make him feel at ease. He’s so upset and if he’s like that, he might not be able to do his job right. I just wanted to make him more relaxed.”
“Ah – he did seem more like that when he went out.”
Argan grinned. “Sometimes making people less upset gets better results out of them – at least that’s what Mr. Sen keeps on telling me.”
In the next half watch all the officers came in and voiced their concerns about the job and Argan kept on telling them not to worry – he would be pleased to get their reports no matter if they had nothing to tell. He asked them to present their schedule to him first thing, and to begin it whether or not he agreed with it that very night. If he disagreed he would alter it and it would be adjusted acc
ordingly.
All the main road intersections were to be covered in the market quarter and the main routes through and out of the city. Fifty men would be on duty at any one time, and all members of the garrison, militia and regulars, would be included. With absences and illnesses, there were enough men to cover eight watches.
Argan left the papers on the table and ordered the guards to let nobody in. Then he went to his room. Amal was there, his washed clothes nicely folded and ready to put away. He divested himself of his clothes and she took them ready for the next day’s washing. She led him to the small side room that acted as a washroom. The metal bath had warm water in it and he stepped in, sighing as the warm water coated his skin. She slipped off her clothes and began washing and scrubbing him.
“Busy day tomorrow, Amal,” he said, his eyes shut.
“How so?” she said, concentrating on his lower stomach.
“This agent of Slavis has been seen – we’re going to try to find out who he contacts, and hope it leads us to the man himself.”
“Oh – do you really think you’ll find him? Everyone’s worried he will attack and kill us all.”
Argan huffed. “He won’t kill us Amal, that’s scared talk. He’ll fail, and we’ll take care of him.” He stopped, aware that yet again, his moklar was swelling. It always did this at the most embarrassing moments. Why it did that he didn’t know, but it was growing and sticking out of the water. “Agh, silly thing,” he muttered, eyeing it in dismay.
Amal smirked. “You men, always thinking of that,” she said. “I never touched it!”
“I know, and I wasn’t thinking of that,” he said. “In fact, I don’t really know what that is! Everyone seems to know except me. It does it at any time, I don’t even know when it will happen. It’s so annoying!”
She clucked her tongue. “Metila tells me that its part of you growing up – its practicing. At least that’s what she tells me about normal men. I suppose you’re the same as them?”
“Well I haven’t got the markings of the imperial flag on it,” he said acidly, then they both laughed. “Honestly Amal – I might be eating at lunchtime and then it goes – up. I can’t stand up it’s that hard!”
Amal doubled up laughing.
“Growing up can be a pain at times,” Argan observed. “It does it if you do touch it, yes, but it does this anyway. I’ll wash it – silly thing.”
She tutted and put a wet finger to his nose. “I’m washing you so that means even that. Anyway, its hard now so it doesn’t matter, does it?”
“I suppose not,” Argan agreed. “It doesn’t bother you?”
“Not as much as it seems to bother you, Argan.” She wet the cloth she had and applied it to his loins. She rubbed gently, not wishing to hurt him there. It did seem much harder than before and his breathing was becoming ragged. She looked at him and his eyes were glazing over. “Argan?”
“Oh, Amal – ohh!” he cried out and suddenly something happened that surprised both of them. They looked in amazement for a moment, then at each other. “What – what happened?” he asked, going red.
“Oh – I think – at least I seem to remember Metila telling me – that’s what happens at the end of having sex. Did that hurt?”
“No,” he shook his head, “I quite enjoyed it. Ugh, what is this stuff?”
Amal wiped it up, fascinated. “I’ll throw this cloth away after cleaning you up.” She observed him growing softer. “Yes, it does seem to sort that problem out,” she noted.
“Mmm, yes. That’s never happened before. You think it’s another sign I’m growing into a man?”
“Yes, I think so. Here, let me dry you.” She dried him as he stepped out of the bath. After being dried properly he slipped on a pair of light short leggings, cut away at the thigh to enable him to use them as night wear. It was getting colder now and he put on a light shirt and got into bed.
She disposed of the water and cloth and joined him, snuggling up to him, a big smile on her face. He put an arm round her and cradled her against his chest. “You’ll protect me, won’t you, Argan?”
“Yes, I won’t let anybody hurt you, my little Amal,” he said without thinking about what he was saying.
Amal looked at him and kissed him. “I like you saying that,” she said.
“What – ‘little Amal’? Hmmm, I never even thought about what I was saying. You like it? Good, I’ll say that then. I suppose I’m growing much taller than you now. My fifteenth birthday is next sevenday. Yours is just after, isn’t it?”
“What we celebrate as it, yes. I still can’t remember when it really was.”
He lay there thinking for a while, and Amal looked at him, wondering what it was that was on his mind. Finally she asked, not being able to contain her curiosity any longer. He gave her a serious look. “I don’t think we ought to repeat what happened this evening again. At least until we’re old enough.”
“Oh? Why is that? I thought you said you enjoyed it.”
He nodded, then hugged her briefly. “No – what I mean is that I’m troubled by it. We’re not of the age yet, and I don’t want to get into a habit of doing things I shouldn’t. As a prince I really should be an example to people, and doing things like this at our age isn’t good in Kastanian society.”
She looked into his eyes, the low light of the bedside lamp making it hard to see him clearly. “If you wish it, then that is how it’ll be, but don’t go worrying too much, my lord. It is something private between us.”
“Yes I know but my conscience doesn’t let me do things I shouldn’t. Please, Amal, at least until you have had your Growing Through time, and I’m a year older. Then what we do is our business as we will both be adults.”
“I understand. I will be your pleasure slave and I will promise to pleasure you the best I can.”
Argan stroked her soft cheek. “You’re no slave, Amal.”
“You are my master and what you will I shall obey.”
“You shouldn’t have a master just because you’re a woman and a Bragalese one at that.”
She looked over his face before replying. “I would have a master whether I was with you or not. If I had grown up in Bragal and lived a normal life, then I would have probably been the wife of a peasant who would have wanted me to clean out his house, his children and his animals while he enjoyed himself with other women, or fought someone or stole from them.”
“You are very insulting of Bragalese men; if a Kastanian said that other Kastanians would tell him off.”
“I know, but I’m right. I know. I’d rather be the slave of a prince of Kastania rather than the wife of a Bragalese porcine. I have a warm bed, food in my tummy, a roof, safety, comfort, love. It makes me happy. It makes me more than happy to be your slave. Don’t moan about slavery this and slavery that. I want to be here like this. Women like Metila and I are very lucky, and we don’t want that to change.”
Argan kissed her hair and held her tight, enjoying the feel of her against him, her body warmth, her scent, the intimacy of this girl who had declared her love for him. He didn’t know what it would mean for him in the future, but he didn’t want this to end.
____
The next morning Argan was up and about early. He hadn’t been able to sleep that well, even with the girl sleeping alongside him. It wasn’t Amal who had disturbed him, it was the worry and excitement of the hunt for the spy of Slavis. He worried that his first piece of action would end in failure, and he would lose the respect of both Thetos and himself regarding his own abilities as a leader.
Amal said nothing. She merely went about her duties, kissing him tenderly on the lips before she went about preparing the food from the kitchen. A letter had arrived from Zofela and Argan read it at breakfast. It was from his mother. She asked the usual mundane questions about him and how was he coping. Then she made a point of telling him she was concerned about him having Sasia (she still called her that) as his personal servant. She stated she felt it was inappropriate for
a prominent member of Kastanian society to have a female servant that close to him.
Argan snorted. Mother was being over concerned. He wasn’t going to tell her that they now slept together every night; she would be horrified and would no doubt send down a regiment of soldiers to keep the two of them apart, maybe standing guard all round Argan’s bed. All very silly, of course. He sighed. What to do? Sooner or later his mother would find out. Then what? What would happen when he got to sixteen? Could his mother still command him to do as she bid? He supposed she could, as an empress ranked second in the empire. Or was it third? Did the heir outrank an empress? He would have to find that out – imagine not knowing that!
He would have to write back to her. He absently ate his breakfast, drawing a concerned look from Amal who was serving all those sitting at the tables. She saw that he was staring intently at a letter. Was it trouble? She hoped not. Nothing really upset her master; he always seemed to laugh off or at least smile at any trouble. He was quite sensible and level-headed. She would ask him later – in an indirect way, for the personal post of the imperial family was not any of her concern.
Argan folded his letter and stood up. Kerrin was already waiting for him. Argan signalled to him to wait by the door. He smiled to Amal and then caught up with his bodyguard. Amal breathed out. It didn’t seem too bad then if he was smiling at her.
“The Hall, ‘Rin. I want to see the plans of the officers before we go on with another long sword practice lesson.” There were two guards at the door and they assured the prince nobody had gone in all night. Reassured, Argan led Kerrin into the room and stood in confusion.
The tables were bare. There were no papers or parchments or scrolls at all on them. There was however one noticeable feature that caught their eyes. One of the windows was wide open.
Somebody had been in, after all.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
His return to Niake had been uneventful, but Vosgaris was eager to resume work as soon as possible. He knew the eyes of the Koros were upon him, Astiras and Isbel from Zofela, for differing reasons, Amne from Kastan City, for obvious ones, and Jorqel to the north, for more important ones.