Prince of Wrath

by Tony Roberts

  He smiled at the thought and was still smiling when he entered the room. Lots of people were standing around or walking about, as was usual. Guards stood still, silently watching everyone, again as usual. Fantor-Face was sat not in usual seat, however, but in Argan’s! Argan stood still in surprise, and then annoyance. How dare the horrible boy sit in his seat! He gripped his stick hard and limped over to Istan who had his back to him and so couldn’t see him approaching.

  “Ah, there you are, Argan,” his mother said suddenly.

  Argan ignored her and stepped up to Istan, intent on pulling him off his seat, but his mother intervened, taking him by the upper arm.

  “No, Argan, you’re sitting over where Istan used to sit. I’ve swapped you round.”

  “Why, mother?” Argan asked, still outraged. Istan had turned round and pulled a horrible face at Argan, a mixture of triumph and malice.

  “I’ve decided to, so that’s all there is to it,” she said curtly, and guided the reluctant Argan away from his brother and up to Amne who was already seated and smiled at the upset boy, patting his new place. It was further away from his mother, which in one way he objected to, but in another he didn’t mind.

  “Come on, grump,” Amne said with a good natured smile, “it’s not so bad sitting next to me, is it?”

  “I was sat next to you anyway,” Argan said, not in the least mollified. He was now round the corner of the table, in what he saw as a less honoured position. Was his mother cross with him? Why?

  “Oh, cheer up,” Amne said, helping him up into his seat. “We’ve got those big avian eggs you like and fruits to follow.”

  “Don’t know if I want them, now,” Argan sulked. He was aware of Istan’s triumphant gaze and that was as off-putting as anything.

  “Well if you won’t eat yours I’m sure Istan will have them.”

  Argan looked at Amne aghast. Istan was always having everything of his, from his seat to his food. It was so unfair! And yesterday Fantor-Face kicked him and made him feel so unwell. Now he was being rewarded with his seat. Why were grow-ups like this, so unfair? It seemed the more horrible you were the more the grown-ups made a fuss over you and did more to help you. It only made the horrible people more horrible as they saw the rewards of being like that.

  Amne leaned close to him and whispered in his ear. “You wouldn’t want Fantor-Face taking your breakfast, would you?”

  Argan cheered up and grinned. He looked at Amne and shook his head. He leaned close to her and she bent her head to listen. “If I was old enough I’d marry you, you’re the bestest ever.”

  Amne looked surprised, and her eyes crinkled in amusement. She put her hand to her mouth for a moment. “Oh no,” she said in a low voice, “you could never marry me, we’re related. It’s not allowed! Best not say that out loud, it’d upset people.” She winked at him, though, and that made Argan feel better.

  Isbel cleared her throat and looked at the two. Such unbecoming behaviour at the table. Amne should know better. Amne looked at her and assumed a wounded expression. “Mother, I’m telling Argan why you’ve swapped their places. Argan is clearly upset.” She turned away from Isbel, ending the conversation, a deliberate insult. Isbel’s lips tightened.

  Amne leaned close to Argan again. “Mother feels that Fantor-Face would be better behaved sat next to her. That’s why. Anyway, we can have more fun together, don’t you think?”

  “Yes,” Argan agreed. He did feel much better now, come to think of it, and mother and Fantor-Face could sit next to each other and be grumps or horrible or whatever. Amne and himself would have fun. She was the best sister anyone could have, and he didn’t know why mother didn’t get on with her. Everyone seemed to like Amne, except maybe Elas, which was very strange, since he was going to marry her. Argan thought people got married if they loved each other, or so he’d been told. Elas was a very funny man. Not funny as in fun, funny. No, funny as in strange. He never seemed to smile and was always very serious and was always cross with people, even more than mother. Why Amne was going to marry such a grump her didn’t know. Maybe he should ask Amne.

  Istan tried to grimace again at Argan but it no longer was putting him off and Argan made a show of enjoying his egg when it arrived, which made Istan scowl. Argan put on a tremendous expression of utter bliss at eating his egg, very slowly showing Istan that it was the best thing ever, and his younger brother went red with fury. Istan was so upset at Argan’s enjoyment – even though it was all faked, but he wasn’t old enough to understand that – that he smashed his spoon down onto his own egg so hard that it burst asunder and splashed the table, himself and his mother with yolk. All yellow and dripping.

  Argan almost choked in hysterical laughter. Amne had to pat his back, desperately trying not to join in, but her eyes betrayed her amusement. Isbel was furious, and spent a few moments trying to clear up the unclearable, until two servants waded in, mopping up the worst of the mess. Istan raged, his fists clenched, and it was all too much for him. He burst out crying and pounded his fists on the tabletop, oblivious to his mother’s efforts to stop him. “Istan! Stop it, now!”

  “Horrible Argan! He did this! I hate you!” he bawled across to his brother.

  Argan continued chewing, pulling an exaggerated face of pleasure.

  “Argan, stop that right now, do you hear me?” Isbel was almost hysterical herself. The rest of the diners were all watching with amazement at the tableau.

  It was then that Argan noticed Vosgaris was not there. He swallowed and turned to Amne. “Where’s Vos’gis?”

  Amne shook her head. “I don’t know. It’s his day off, I do know that. Perhaps he’s gone somewhere.”

  Argan’s reply was cut short by Isbel calling two guards to help her take the screaming Istan away back to his room. The attempt to move him provoked an even louder response and he tried to flail out to hit anyone near him, but he was picked up bodily and carried, protesting, out into the hallway beyond.

  The diners breathed in relief. Isbel, red with embarrassment, left in his wake. Argan puffed out his cheeks and surveyed the remnants of Istan’s breakfast, stained in the cloth. “I didn’t know eggs were that messy!”

  “They are if you hit them like that,” Amne observed, slipping a finger of bread into her mouth and looking across at Lalaas. After swallowing she addressed him. “Lalaas, where is Captain Vosgaris?”

  “Ah, ma’am, he’s, uh, indisposed.”

  “Indisposed? In what way, Lalaas?”

  Lalaas looked uncomfortable. “Sleeping, ma’am.”

  “Is there anything wrong with him?”

  “Oh no, I doubt that,” Lalaas said quickly. “It’s his birthday and he’s just resting, taking the day off.”

  “His birthday?” Argan interrupted, “is he having a party?”

  “He’s already had that,” Lalaas said under his breath.

  “What was that, Lalaas, I didn’t quite hear that,” Amne cocked her head.

  “Uh, nothing ma’am. He’s merely exhausted. He’ll be fine tomorrow when he’s back on duty.”

  Amne clearly was not satisfied with that but let it go. She looked at Isbel who had just returned, still flustered over Istan’s outburst. “Did you give Captain Vosgaris the day off, mother?”

  “Of course, Amne. He’s worked very hard and has provided a very good service for us over the past few years. He’s never asked for any time away before, so I could hardly refuse one day’s break.”

  “When did he ask you?” Amne asked, her eyes narrowed. Lalaas looked up at her, alerted by the tone in her voice.

  Isbel sat silently for a moment, then looked at Amne squarely in the eye. “I don’t think this is any of your business, Amne. He rightly came to me, since I run the palace affairs, and I employ him. Only I can authorise his absences, and I certainly do not need to tell people when I let someone have a day off, unless they are directly affected.”

  Amne tapped the tabletop with her fingers, then made a non-committal noise a
nd looked away. Why she was piqued by this she didn’t know. “He’s never mentioned his birthday to anyone before,” she said slowly. “Why this one? Is it anything special? Why is he exhausted? What was he up to last night?”

  Argan’s eyes were wide. So many questions. Amne was looking at Lalaas very intently and he was trying to look anywhere other than at the princess.

  “Well, Lalaas?”

  The hunter looked uncomfortable. “Ma’am – I think that’s Vosgaris’ personal affair, and none of my business.”

  “Meaning its none of mine, too?”

  Lalaas winced at the overly sweet tone of the princess. She was smiling at him in a way that un-nerved him. For the first time he actually began to feel pity for Elas Pelgion.

  “I see I’m not going to get any sense out of you, Lalaas, so I shall go see the Captain myself.”

  Lalaas looked alarmed. “Ma’am – I don’t think that’s wise.”

  Isbel opened her mouth, then decided to say nothing. She was as intrigued by this as Amne, and realised Amne may get some sort of answer.

  “And why not?” Amne asked, fixing the hunter with an intent stare. Argan forgot about his breakfast and gaped at the exchange. There was something really going on here, and Amne was cross, he could tell, even though she was smiling. It was the way her cheeks were slightly red. Argan had noticed this about Amne when she got very cross, her cheeks went red. Not like the way poor Vosgaris’ face did when he spoke to mother or Amne, since he was never cross. No, this was a cross Amne and he didn’t really like it when she was cross.

  “Uh, ma’am, he’s asleep and exhausted. It wouldn’t be….”

  “Exhausted? At this time? Didn’t he sleep last night?”

  Lalaas spread his hands apologetically. “I don’t know, ma’am, I wasn’t with him last night.”

  “So who was?”

  Lalaas shrugged and looked away, taking a sip of his glass of water. This was not a good situation, and everyone else, everyone, was staring at him. The imperial persons, the tutors, the priest, the senior palace officials. Everyone.

  “Lalaas,” Amne said in a slow, sing-song manner that could have cut glass, “I’m asking you a question.”

  Lalaas hung his head. “Ma’am. I cannot say.”

  “You will,” Amne’s voice had dropped to just above a whisper, but it carried clearly to everyone’s ears nonetheless.

  “No, ma’am, I will not,” Lalaas looked up defiantly.

  “You will not defy me, Lalaas, remember your position and who I am.”

  The hunter nodded. He stood up. “I will not. If it means my dismissal from this service, then so be it, but I will not be forced to say something I have vowed I will not. To anyone.”

  “Oh, sit down, Lalaas,” Isbel waved a hand in irritation, “nobody’s going to be so melodramatic. Eat your breakfast. Amne – and I – were just curious as to what Vosgaris has been up to. We shall just have to wonder, won’t we?” she smiled at him.

  Lalaas nodded curtly and sat down, stealing a look at a displeased Amne. He looked away and resumed eating, not looking up.

  Argan felt a pain in his head and groaned. One of his horrible headaches was coming on. He didn’t like them and knew it would probably result in a nose bleed which he hated. There was no reason why they came, and they didn’t come at the same time or every day. They just came at any time.

  Amne looked at him and immediately became concerned. “Oh, Argan – not again!”

  “I don’t like this,” he said, a touch of fear in his voice. “My head hurts.”

  “Mother,” Amne said, pointing towards the boy’s head. “It’s going to happen again.”

  “Oh, no,” Isbel said with dismay. She turned to Pepil who was sitting at the end of the table. “Go fetch the apothecary, at once!”

  Pepil threw his napkin down on the table and levered himself up. “Yes, ma’am.” He left.

  Argan held his head, moaning softly to himself. He felt a queasy emptiness in the stomach. He didn’t want the bleeding to start but experience of what had happened before had taught him what was likely to happen now the headache was here. Amne got a cloth ready and held the boy’s hand, squeezing it gently. Argan smiled, his face slowly turning white.

  Isbel came to sit in the chair vacated by Istan and gripped his other hand. The boy smiled. Having both giving him such close attention was comforting and pleasing, and it made him feel slightly less afraid. Lalaas finished his meal, his attention wandering to the boy opposite him. “Courage, young Prince,” he said, winking. “I must be at my duties. Let me know how it goes, won’t you?”

  Argan nodded and groaned again as a shaft of a particularly sharp pain shot through his head. Suddenly his nose spouted blood, taking everyone by surprise. Gasps of dismay came from the two women and Argan uttered a fearful moan, unable to breathe through his nose. Blood spattered onto the table cloth. Instantly Amne clamped the cloth to his nose and Isbel stroked his hair, trying to soothe the boy.

  “Help me,” he squeaked, shaking. There was a lot more blood than had been on previous occasions. “Mummy, I’m afraid!”

  “Hush,” Isbel said, her own heart racing. She was worried, deeply worried. There was an awful lot of blood this time round. Amne kept the cloth clamped to his nose, squeezing tightly.

  Lalaas stood helplessly opposite, wondering whether he should stay or go. His eyes met Amne’s, who indicated with a slight movement of her head that he ought to leave. Lalaas bowed and backed away, wondering what would happen to the boy. As he reached the archway to leave, the apothecary arrived, breathless.

  He was a middle-aged white-haired man with a bushy grey beard, and a receding hair line. “Oh dear, oh dear,” he said, approaching the blood-spattered prince. “This is a fearful mess. We’ll have to sort this out, won’t we?” He smiled at Argan who was shaking.

  The other diners left one by one until only Isbel, Amne and the apothecary were there with Argan. The bleeding took a little while to stop, and Argan was fairly listless by then. He was picked up by Amne who carried him up to his room and put to bed. It was an effort but the princess was determined to do it. Argan wasn’t yet too heavy for her.

  Isbel looked at the white-faced boy sleeping and sighed. She shut the door, leaving one guard seated in the room with express instructions to fetch help should anything happen. She confronted the apothecary outside the room, Amne standing next to her. “Well, surgeon,” she said, “what have you to say about my son?”

  The apothecary looked worried. He fiddled with his hands, staring at the door to the boy’s room. “not good, I’m afraid, your majesty. He has an ailment beyond my capabilities to heal. It is one of those things that either clears up, given time, or…..”

  “Or what?”

  “Ma’am. Please understand this is something I do not say lightly.” He looked at both concerned women. “Either it cures itself, or within half a year I fear the boy may die.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The three riders came to a halt at the entrance to the secret grotto. Men appeared, brandishing bows and spears. Lord Duras was in no mood to play games, however. He leaped from his beast and waved peremptorily to the guard officer. “Take me to Lombert Soul at once!”

  “Lord Duras, my master is busy – he did not advise me you were to visit him today.”

  “I don’t care what he told you, fool. Either let me see him or he’ll be destroyed by the damned Koros. I have some urgent business and information that he needs to learn of. Now!”

  The officer waved to the guards to open the gate and Duras and his two sons walked quickly through it into the narrow passageway through the rock to Lombert Soul’s quarters. The rebel leader was surprised but stood nonetheless to receive his guests. Duras glanced over to the corner of the room where one addition had been made to the room since he had been there last. A wooden cage rested with a solitary figure sat in it. Sannia Nicate.

  Giving her a cursory look, Lord Duras switched his attention b
ack to Lombert Soul. “That thrice damned bastard Jorqel Koros raided my estates yesterday and seized my wife and daughter, and ransacked the place.”

  “What did he learn?” Soul’s eyes narrowed. “Who informed him you were involved?”

  “I don’t know,” Duras growled. “I ordered all records to be burned, and as far as I know they were. What I fear is that he’ll find out where she is,” he said pointing to the woman in the cage, “and demand she be released in return for my wife and daughter.”

  “And if he does?”

  Duras bared his teeth. “Then I will have to insist the exchange is made. You will have to act faster than we planned.”

  “My men are not ready. We need another thirty days at least.”

  “You will have to act now! I have sent word to my nephew in Makenia to begin his move, so you’ll have to act. With both Nikos and you raising havoc in two different regions, the Koros will be helpless to intervene. I shall ride onto Niake and pressurise that coward Extonos to hand over Niake to you. Once in charge of that city you’ll have the perfect base to strike out northwards. I, in the meantime, will ride north to Slenna and with a group of loyal men will take the town once that foul beast Koros marches out with his army. By then you will be in control of Niake and when Slenna falls to me, he’ll have nowhere to go except across the sea to Kastan City.”

  Lombert Soul sucked on his teeth. The plan was as had been originally agreed, but his men were still not battle ready. “How soon will the Koros army march south?”

  “They won’t do so for some time; I believe the prince will attend his sister’s wedding so we have some time. You can continue to train your men around Niake. My nephew will raise all kinds of trouble in Makenia and with the actions here of your men, the Koros will not be able to decide which to confront. They will not have the men available, especially in the east. They need most of their men to garrison Bragal.” Lord Duras thumped Soul’s desk. “Ha! They believe they have won a great victory, but taking Bragal will end up being a poisoned chalice, something that will suck the life out of their ability to raise an army to face our forces.”