by Tony Roberts
Lalaas shook his head sadly. “It’s not like that, ma’am; I hoped you and I would share many happy times here, which is why I accepted this post in the first place. I’m not stabbing anyone in the back. I take my tasks seriously, and I can’t abandon this post on a moment’s whim. What would happen to me if I resigned this post? I’d be thrown out of Kastan City!”
“Isn’t that what you wanted?” Amne said heatedly, “you said you wanted the outdoor life!”
“Yes ma’am, I did, but I took this post because you wished it, and now this is what I do; I have a responsible post, and an honoured one, and I certainly wouldn’t wish to turn my back on it. How would people view me if I just resigned on a whim? I would be lucky if your father looked at me again!”
Amne curled a contemptuous lip. “Very well, Lalaas, you’ve made your position perfectly clear to me. I shall go to Zofela without you, and have proper men as my escort, not someone too frightened of what others think of them to protect me.” She flounced off, leaving Lalaas sighing with patience in the corridor.
She approached Deran Loshar, the Tybar renegade training the mounted archers in the grounds of the palace, and he was happy to detail fifteen of his men to escort the princess through Bragal to Zofela. Amne thought Loshar a particularly untrustworthy individual with his ready smile, hooked nose and prominent chin, but she disliked the Tybar anyway. She kept her tone neutral towards him, however, since she didn’t wish to antagonise too many people.
By the next morning the preparations had been made and she took her own mount from the stables and rode it at the head of the others, dressed in her riding outfit. The archers each led a pack equine which carried spare clothes and supplies for the journey. They would be riding along the paved roads of Frasia to the border of Bragal, after which they would follow the rough, uncared for tracks of the province to the provincial capital. There were relay stations along the route and, especially in Bragal, small guard stations in which Amne would sleep. All in all it was estimated that the journey would take them fourteen to sixteen days. A rider had been sent the previous day to bring advance notice to the relay stations along the route to expect the princess and make her stay appropriately comfortable and to provide supplies. Amne would not repeat her previous journey four years previously.
Lalaas watched as she rode out, not bothering to look back, and he felt a pang of regret for the distance that had sprung up between them, but he couldn’t see what else he could have done. He waited until the doors from the courtyard had been bolted shut before resuming his morning patrol of the palace. As he passed the main entrance hallway Prince Elas appeared, discussing the day’s schedule with his major domo. He caught sight of Lalaas and hailed him. “Captain, a word with you in my office a moment, if you please.” It wasn’t a request, it was an order.
Lalaas saluted and followed the two along to the room Elas used as his administrative headquarters. A small group of clerks used the next room to produce the orders in writing that Elas made, or collate all letters and messages that came in and pass to the prince those that they could not or would not deal with.
Elas dismissed the major domo with a pile of papers to distribute to the appropriate clerk next door. Lalaas stood before the Prince, staring over his shoulder out of the single window that looked out onto the courtyard. “Captain,” Elas began, “you have, no doubt, been aware of the Princess’ wish to take you to Zofela.”
“Sire. She did express that wish to me.”
Elas put his hands behind his back and walked slowly from one side of the room to the other. “Hmm. I am concerned as to her – attachment to you.”
“Sire, I wish to assure you I have not reciprocated.”
Elas fixed the captain with one of his steely stares. “I am so informed. That is to your credit. I am also aware she shows – affection to other persons, which is something I do not wish her to flaunt. It is not appropriate for anyone, let alone someone of her position and public prominence.”
Lalaas said nothing; what was he to say? A Prince of the empire speaking to him about his wife’s inappropriate behaviour?
“Captain, you are about the closest person to my wife I know of. You are also the commander of the palace guard and the man in charge of security of the capital. I therefore deem it appropriate that you should keep a careful watch on my wife’s activities and report back to me anyone that – submits to her affections. Do you understand me?”
Lalaas stared at Elas. “Sire – you ask me to spy on your own wife?”
“I know it sounds extremely – unorthodox, but believe me I am concerned, very concerned, that some inappropriate incident that may reflect poorly on the image of the ruling House. I understand if you feel uncomfortable about this, given the closeness between the two of you, but I must try to keep her somewhat wayward activities under control. If you feel unable to accept this task then I shall of course have another do it, but they may not have the discretion and – how can I put this? – wellbeing of my wife at heart.”
“Sire, what you ask of me fills me with an uncomfortable feeling, but I shall do as you ask. It won’t be a task that I shall take to with any great enthusiasm but as you rightly point out sire, I am in the best place to carry this out.” Lalaas looked at the Prince without any pleasure.
Elas nodded curtly. “She is a volatile woman and given to passionate outbursts. You are the only man amongst those here who appears to be able to cope with that, and to be able to continue to liaise with her despite your refusal to give in to her advances. It is a great position of trust I put you in, Captain. Please do not let me down.”
“I always do my best to fulfil any task I am given, sire.”
Elas grunted, then nodded. “So I am led to believe. The empire would be a better place if it were served by more like you. You may resume your duties, Captain.”
Lalaas saluted and left, puffing out his cheeks mightily once he was outside in the passageway. To spy on Amne? What a poisoned chalice! He wondered what Elas would do with any unfortunate who did succumb to Amne’s amorous intentions, then decided it was best not to think about it. Elas was a very cold character and he suspected that whatever it was wouldn’t be that pleasant.
He grumbled under his breath and made his way to his own office, a smaller room closer to the entrance hall. There, he ran the guard roster, the overseeing of appointments and the security of the palace. He also received reports from the spies in the streets of Kastan City, and the comings and goings of the rival House personnel. The Fokis in particular he wanted to keep an eye on, following their bungled attempt on Amne’s life at her wedding. They had gone to ground and seemingly fled the capital to their estates, but he was convinced one or two remained in the capital, if only to keep close to the pulse of the empire.
Pieces of parchment, notes, scribbled messages, statements from witnesses. All were collected and any pattern that emerged examined and pored over in great detail. There was no sniff of rebellion at the moment, at least in the capital, and for that he was grateful. That had been a worry following Astiras’ removal of his Court to Zofela, but the councils the emperor held out in Bragal needed the heads of the various Houses to give them legitimacy, and if any plots were being planned, then they may well be down in Bragal. That wasn’t his concern.
Amne’s request that he find the Fokis responsible for the attempt on her life had come to naught; all he found now were empty buildings, or ones maintained by their retainers who had no idea when their masters or mistresses would return. They were not privy to the comings and goings of their paymasters, quite reasonably. Not even Lalaas’ spy network could uncover the whereabouts of any Fokis in the capital.
He placed the papers in a drawer and picked up the next sheet passed him by his lieutenant, Fendal, a thickset, dark haired man with a strong jaw and stout arms that looked as if they could rip statues apart. Fendal had been one of the lesser officers under Vosgaris but when his predecessor had taken most of the guard with him to Zofela, Lalaa
s had promoted some of those who were left and recruited men from the unemployed ranks of former soldiers to take their place as ordinary soldiers. That way many of the soldiers and officers under him were loyal to him rather than Vosgaris. It helped run things much more smoothly whenever he gave orders. Even though he had been unused to giving orders at first, he had grown into the role and his professionalism and competence had earned him the respect of both those below him, and from Prince Elas who recognised in Lalaas a man who could carry out orders faithfully and honourably. Lalaas was not one who took bribes or who had factional loyalties; he was not from any of the Houses, and Elas found that a huge comfort. Lalaas would treat all Houses equally.
Amne, meanwhile, rode along the new wide main road of Frasia. It had been one of the first contracts carried out by her father, and certainly helped in getting traffic through the province faster. It was cambered from the centre down to the sides, and rainwater drains ran along either side, all faced with stone. Unlike most of the roads in the empire, this road was paved with hard stone, and the shoes of the equines made a loud clopping sound as the sixteen trotted along eastwards.
With her were the youthful Kastanian Imperial Mounted Militia, eager, bright-faced people younger than her. They were proud of their already victorious history; rescuing Amne and Lalaas at the farm and taking part in the battle that vanquished Lombert Soul. Now these had been selected to accompany her to Zofela and to guard her with their lives. Impressionable and confident, they saw this as another indicator that they were favoured by the Koros. They had endured jibes and low comments about their calling, but now they felt they had justified their choice not to go into the infantry or navy.
Their commander, Deran Loshar, had emphasised their importance and necessity in modern warfare, and listed the battles that the Tybar had won using the mobile hit-and-run tactics of mounted archers over less flexible opposition. Their pride in their unit had been forged with their two triumphs and their flag carried the honour of victory at Gamrap, the name and the classic crossed swords at the bottom of the flag that had in black an equine’s head, a bow and arrow and the castle moniker of Kastan City.
Leading the fifteen-man contingent was a young officer, Commander Telekan, wiry, brown-haired, compact and with an air of confidence that had made him one of the choices to lead a squadron. Telekan felt very honoured to escort one of the imperial family and set about his task with enthusiasm, making sure each of the other riders knew their places and followed the expected etiquette. Scouts were sent ahead and off to the left and right, on rotation, so that none were away too long.
They passed the first of the relay stations, a collection of three buildings that straddled the road and a corralled area for spare equines. Two guards waved as they rode past, then bowed as they realised that one of the two flags being carried was that of the imperial family. Amne smiled and rode on, sometimes at the head of the column, sometimes in the middle and at others at the rear. She wished to see for herself the skill and competence of the riders, to compare them to the Mazag riders she had ridden with on her previous visit to Bragal. While they were not as adept in the saddle, they were comfortable enough and she felt reasonably happy amongst their ranks. The other factor that had lightened her mood was that of being away from the stifling atmosphere of the palace. Already she was regretting her words to Lalaas and made a mental note to write a letter to him that evening before she went to sleep. The relay station would deliver it, she knew. She had best send a letter to her husband, too, to avoid any possible problems.
Frasia was a gently rolling country, made up of large farms of pastureland. It was the food basket of the kingdom and supplied both Kastan City and Turslenka with much of the meat that was to be found for sale in the markets there. In the distance hills loomed, purple smudges on the horizon, and here and there small stands of woodland could be seen, a remnant of the larger forests that once existed before the farms came.
The fork in the road approached close to the evening and here stood the second relay station, a larger one, made of five buildings. Two corrals could be seen, and one of the buildings was a small version of the watchtowers that were being thrown up in Bragal. Amne pointed at the station to Telekan. “We stay here tonight, Commander.”
“Ma’am,” the young officer thumped his chest and indicated to three of his men to circle wide and make sure there were no unpleasant surprises in the vicinity.
The five men at the station had been forewarned of the visit and all came out to stand to attention, led by a sergeant. They bowed as Amne arrived and dismounted, handing her reins to one of the young archers. “We are honoured, your majesty,” the sergeant said deferentially.
“Thank you, Sergeant. I require sleeping quarters for the night, and will be sending messages back to Kastan City. The men here have tents and sleeping equipment so they shall spend the night out under the stars,” she looked up at the deepening blue of the sky. There were no stars visible yet but they would appear fairly soon.
“Very good ma’am. A room has been prepared already, along with a bath. We have been heating water.”
Amne looked at the soldier in surprise. “Really? That is impressive. I had no idea that this was part of the accommodation at these places.”
“The emperor arranged it at the larger stations such as this one, ma’am. There are no servants, I regret, but once the tub is sufficiently full you shall be advised.”
Amne thanked the man and was shown to her room. The building was a standard sleeping hut, made to accommodate six in separate rooms, but for Amne nobody else would be permitted to stay there. The bath was being filled by a relay of the garrison from a burning fire outside, utilising a large kettle. The bath itself was of bronze and would allow Amne to sit comfortably in it. She silently thanked her father for such planning.
The next day, after a good night’s sleep, they resumed their journey, taking the right hand fork and riding south. The day was cloudy and a wind was blowing in off the distant Balq Sea, a sign of autumn. Amne recalled the winter in Bragal and shivered in memory. This time it would not be so bad – at least she fervently hoped so. Her plans for Bragal were not long, a stay of perhaps five days before the return leg. She preferred to ride in the open, and she cared not that she may travel two or three times as long as her intended stay. Here at least she felt free.
Marriage to Elas was a prison.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
The shouts of drunken men filled the tavern, and roars of approval rose as one man received a solid blow to the jaw and was sent staggering back towards the door. Another hefty punch to the stomach was followed by one last full-blooded swing into the face and the luckless recipient crashed to the ground, accompanied by cheers, jeers and laughter.
The winner smiled in triumph and dragged the loser out of the door and left him, bloodied and battered, in the street outside. The patrons of the saloon resumed their conversations before the fight had started, the fisticuffs already a thing of memory.
Most of them were rough, tough seamen, pirates and cutthroats. A few, though, were different. One or two were dockers, big men with huge hands and arms, and able to take care of themselves. They were natives of the town and to them it mattered not whether they worked on merchant vessels or pirate warships, as long as they were paid. A few others sat quietly in corners, drinking by themselves, not wishing to associate with the raucous sailors and dockside vermin. Occasionally one may be picked upon by someone bored with their company, or because they had drunk too much and wanted to beat someone up, and someone quiet was probably a safer bet than one who made lots of noise.
Kiros Louk sat at the back of the room, his back to the wall. His hood was up over his head and he sipped his ale slowly, observing without making it obvious. Kiros had been in Romos for the entire winter, spring and summer, and had become a figure people were used to seeing around the docks and inns. He worked on the wharves as a stevedore, fetching and carrying cargo or equipment, and was paid a pal
try coin. Only the poor or otherwise unemployable took that kind of job and were looked down upon by the rest. Kiros took it so to give him a cover for his spying activities.
Over the year he’d amassed quite a detailed picture of the pirate organisation in the island. He knew how many ships they had, who captained them, roughly how many crew each ship had, what the garrison was comprised of and who commanded them all from the small wooden fort sat on the edge of the timber walled town.
He had been surprised when the Duras appeared, and now there were four of them, all housed in the fort, surrounded by a small retinue of guards. The pirate commander was wary of them but tolerated their presence because they were, like him, enemies of the Koros, and they added a bit of political kudos with their presence there. Lord Duras had tried to swing some weight around but the pirate commander, Volkanos, had slapped him down, pointing out, quite rightly, that he had three hundred men to Lord Duras’ eleven and who would decide matters in a fight? Kiros grunted to himself; two louts, street brawlers, bullies. It always came down to who had the bigger fists. From what he could understand, Volkanos had been a minor captain in the imperial fleet when the revolt had come, eight years or so previously. Fed up with the constant civil war and deposition of one emperor after another, the fleet had sailed into Romos harbour, hung those officers and men still loyal to the empire, then had taken control of Romos, executing the imperial governor and his loyal troops. Many of the troops had gone over to the rebels as they had been given no pay for some time.
Kiros had been picked on by one aggressive fool once, a brawler of a sailor, and Kiros had sat at his table ignoring the drunken braggart’s loud, spitting promises of what he was going to do to the man. Like all bullies, he had taken Kiros’ silence for cowardice and fear, and had reached out to pull the quiet man up by the throat. Kiros had made one swift movement and the brawler had staggered back, his throat slit and spurting blood, before collapsing to the stained wooden floor to drain his lifeblood away.