An Empire Of Traitors (Of Hate And Laughter Book 1)

by Enache, Serban Valentin Constantin

  The slave sighed and produced a parchment with the map of the Empire drawn upon it. “It’s very good that you’re prepared to make sacrifices, or more accurately, that you are prepared to sacrifice others.” The man’s words made Amarius chuckle. Nevertheless, Isador continued his thought in the same cautious manner, without joining in the moment’s mirth.

  “But you must not sacrifice the traditional customs of the Old World; traditions in which the lords of the Empire are rooted. Winning the favor of the slavers, and losing the favor of the old and noble families, who are traditionally against slavery, brings you no true gain. The same is valid for winning the aristocrats, and losing the plebs. Or winning the Patriarch, and losing the Matriarch.” Isador pointed on the map to the Northlands. “These lords lack peasants and good cropland, grain reserves, levies, coin, and ultimately, influence. You would do well to secure their allegiance, or indeed, buy it outright. They would be the cheapest of the lot.”

  Amarius paused for a moment, thinking, scratching his clean beard – the beard Isador had shaved not two days ago. The slave had the truth of it, he knew.

  Isador arched his brow and gave a twist of the mouth in reply to his master’s silence, then continued with the advice. “The lords of the Streamlands are loyal to Hagyai Rovines, or so I was told...”

  “Not all of them,” Amarius corrected. “Only house Mandon truly is.”

  “Their liege lord, the lord of Rivermark,” Isador continued. “His vassals will follow him. Of that have no doubt. The most convenient way is through the southern lords. They will not welcome an army in the harbor of Sun’s Helm, to be sure… It all depends on the success or failure of your landing. If someone from inside the capital could weaken their defences, bribe the captains of the fleet, delay their maneuverings, induce the people into riots; mayhaps even counterfeit a few imperial messages. And send some birds west and east with conflicting knowledge and orders… then…” Isador paused, and regarded him with a certain wonder in his eyes. But what was he amazed by? His own cleverness, or the possibility of victory?

  Staring into the slave’s brown eyes, Amarius absorbed that sentiment of wonderment – wit and chance. Such a bold plan could actually work, work beyond the foe’s ability to predict the fortunes of such an ambitious conquest. The wisest of men waged war knowing they would win, not hoping they wouldn’t be defeated. And Amarius knew to prepare himself for the former, and not to hope for the latter.

  Then Isador completed his thought with a grin of satisfaction. “If all this can be achieved, then you’ll be the emperor once more; once more you’ll rule the five realms from the Sun Throne.”

  The man’s prudent voice had a fire inside it. And that fiery sensation spread to him as well; it sank into skin and flesh, coiling around spine and heart. Soronius Mero could see it with his mind’s eye, all of it... the battles, the blood, the glory, corpses clad in sundered armor, blades of ruined edges. And something much sweeter... his brother – in the castle, alone, frightened, naked beneath his crown.

  Chapter X: Birus

  Well before daylight, the warden of the Streamlands was busy at the table of his chambers. Putting words of ink on paper, warnings of treachery and the obligations owed to emperor and Empire. Birus knew his lord uncle was making early preparations for departing the capital. The sable warhorse did not suffer leaving others in charge of his castle for long. War is coming, and loyalties shall be put to the test.

  Birus Mandon hoped that the exile’s slaver backed reach couldn’t go that far as to corrupt the overlords of the Empire’s five realms. For such eventuality was most dreadful to contemplate. Most dreadful and entirely plausible. The letter was meant only for Rogfort’s master, for Edmund Blackway himself. His page, Shandru, was quietly awaiting the command of his liege. Having so many children, the lord of Dewfold had sent the boy to Rivermark, to serve the hawk in whatever capacity required. Out of all the others, Birus liked Shandru the most – for the boy was pertinent and silent.

  “Come here, lad.”

  “My lord?”

  Birus folded the letter, closed it with red wax, and marked it with his lordly seal. “I want you to give this to sir Gareth Ashford. You know who he is. Lord Blackway is preparing his departure; and I trust Ashford to be a man of honor. Tell him the message is of great import, and only for the eyes of his master.”

  “Right away, my lord,” the boy nodded, impatient to carry out his errand.

  Even before dawn, the castle servants were already at work. The emperor’s celebrations were not yet over; tournaments were to be held, feasts to be renewed and continued. Words and whispers to be exchanged in the bright noise of the court, or in the shady alcoves surrounding it. With Verwick’s knowledge of insidious betrayal, the lord of Rivermark saw everything differently. To his mind, a great scheme was being wrought in the light of day, as well as in the dark of night. In his unpretentious lordly attire, Birus Mandon stepped out of his chambers with purpose at heart. He had questions to raise, tongues to pull, compliments to serve... And an old friend to visit.

  After Blackway’s departure, the courtyard was left more quiet, less animated in assiduous souls. Some of the guards and menials took notice of him, the warden of the Streamlands – alone... without the company of bodyguards. Whatever the treachery, the hawk was not afraid of blatant daggers. At least not this early, and here of all places. The master at arms took notice of him, as well.

  “Good morrow to you, lord.”

  “Good morrow, sir,” Birus replied.

  Sima Dragan, also known as Sima the lightning storm, had been Castle Spire’s master at arms for a good four years now. The man had earned his reputation as a fierce fighter by winning all the melees he had ever entered. For four straight years no one had bested him in hand to hand combat. Emperor Hagyai himself had named him the lightning storm, on account of his martial prowess. Clad in his red plate armor, he seemed a worthy foe to the hawk’s mind. I would enjoy a friendly sparring with the man.

  Under that pretext, Birus wanted to exchange words with him; inquire on rumors and faces. But after seeing his household knight, Raymon Rorck, emerging from the stables and stretching his arms – the hawk decided to pursue the conversation with Sima Dragan some other time. Thus, he approached his wayward knight. “I’ve missed you in the late hours of the feast, sir Raymon.” After measuring him from head to toe, Birus Mandon understood all that he required. “The brothel wenches kept you busy, it seems. But what of my encounter with the lord chancellor? You kept it secret, I trust.”

  “Of course, my liege. My vice is not wine, but woman. Drink may stir undesired words on the tongue, but a woman’s soft breast does not. I am no fool as to spread tales of intrigue, especially tales concerning my master’s business.”

  The hawk smiled, mirthless in his gaze. “My good sir, I’ve been made aware of treacherous gambits; evil plots are brewing within the Empire and from without. As such, our purpose has changed. We are not in the Southlands as mere guests, not anymore. Go and assemble my retinue; we depart Castle Spire at once. For I am not without tale-spinners of mine own inside the capital. Though the Crown’s jewel of pride and commerce, the city of Sun’s Helm is a headless whore with stretched legs. And we are to know the slut in proper fashion.”

  Sir Raymon inclined his head, a faint smile arching at a corner of his lip, and then left to carry out the order. The harbor was the best place to start off with. And even though Birus Mandon wasn’t concerned with screaming daggers in broad daylight, it made every sense to augment his forces. Sellswords were no bannermen; but they were savages with iron and steel... an advantage to any side willing to pay them enough coin.

  While he waited in the courtyard, the hawk became aware of another warden. Kalafar Sodomis is leaving as well. Let’s see if I can have a word with the young ram; for he was most reserved at the emperor’s banquet. With a few strides, he caught up with the lord of Weiyenor and his men. Then Sima Dragan caught up with them.

 
“Leaving the capital already, lord Kalafar? You’ll miss the chance to see my splendid performance in this afternoon’s melee.”

  “I’ve seen you once before, Sima. You’re truly deserving of your name – the lightning storm. Few men move so swiftly and freely while clad in armor. But alas, my time in the capital is at an end.” The young ram shook hands with Sima, then with him. “Lord Mandon,” he greeted warmly.

  “Lord Sodomis,” Birus replied with a slight nod. “I presume you’re not fond of this weather. The Southlands are too hot, too dry, and too dusty for my taste. But then again, the northern realm is no better choice either.”

  The young ram shook his head, a keen smile splitting his face. “I prefer the northern sun; it’s much easier on the skin, and it doesn’t make you sweat. What of you, lord Mandon? They say streamlanders can’t stay away from their home soil too long; else they become estranged. Or do you have business in the capital?”

  That question felt like prying. Before he could answer some vagueness in a discreet manner, Sima Dragan answered for him. “Mayhaps the good lord is searching for a beautiful young lady’s heart to conquer. Rivermark needs an heir, I’m sure. And our glorious realm has no short supply of beauties.”

  “I can vouch for that,” said Kalafar with a grin. “The emperor has dispensed with the notion of traditional alliance two times, already. First by marrying a courtier, and now by betrothing his son to an Aharo girl. Unlike others, I don’t care much for tradition; I embrace the new with open arms. I am to wed the lady Juni Mayflower of Redgarden. To me she is a heavenly being trapped in human form, a celestial being I must possess.”

  “Unlike an ordinary vassal,” said Birus, “a warden enjoys more liberties. Though I do not share the same view against political marriage, I respect your decision, good lord Sodomis. And I wish you good health and many children.”

  “Home of stone to you,” the master at arms said, shaking the ram’s hand. “The southern ladies are always the best of choice. Tanned skin, perfumed flesh, and black of hair. And of course, both the knowledge and desire for pleasure.” Kalafar and Sima Dragan exchanged a laugh, nodding in agreement.

  Birus, on the other hand, managed only a faint smile of sorts. He needed to steal a moment alone with the young Sodomis; and so he did. “Please excuse me, master Sima, but I need to have a word with his lordship… in confidence…”

  The master at arms bowed his head. “Just remember to come in time at the melee, lord Birus. It be a great shame to miss out on my performance. I trust that any streamlander would welcome to see those western black knights yield to my martial talents.”

  “Indeed, sir. I will.”

  The master at arms turned on his heel and went about his business.

  The hawk considered the young ram for a short moment. The liege lord of the Winterlands was just a boy – a boy with handsome features, average height, and with the tanned skin of his zjialaan ancestors from the Lowlands. After several generations of the ram’s rule over the north, and taking spouses of white skin, the blood of Sodomis spawned the princes and princesses of Weiyenor with a colour like that of a potter’s good brown earth. And from what Birus knew of the histories of the great houses, only the Sodomis men passed on the family’s skin trait, not so the women.

  “My good lord,” he said carefully, “how fare the people of your realm?”

  “They have better lives than they did a hundred years ago,” Kalafar replied with a smirk – his head tilted to one side. “My father was a man of honor and vision. He was quite diligent, and had many plans for our realm as well as the Empire. A great misfortune that the gods saw fit to take him so early in his years.”

  Birus nodded in a solemn manner, but said nothing. During the office of Jorghel Sodomis he had been occupied with the mastering of martial skills, and not so much with matters of state like taxes, farming, and commerce. All those things were left in the care of his lord steward; and he had received no word of complaint or injustice from his vassals, nor from the smallfolk, with regard to the Crown’s interests.

  “You asked how life is,” the ram continued. “Let’s just say that the northern houses don’t squander their fortunes on the many trifles of easy life. The realms south of Corhag’s Fasthold are rich and prosperous. If only our lands were warm and so easy to tame as yours.”

  “Each must make do with what life has made him fit to bear,” Birus replied with as much consideration as he could muster. Trying hard not to let his words come out as a lecture on fairness and chance. “Your house has been warden of the north for centuries. I’m sure you’ll follow in the great footsteps of your fathers.”

  Kalafar chuckled at that. “Lord Mandon, your words do me great honor, but not everyone thinks as you do. Many nobles still call us strangers, outsiders, outlanders, queer-skins, undeserving of our titles and holdings. More so in the capital it seems. I am not deaf to idle and rude banter, to eyes and lips of mockery. I didn’t enjoy the company at the emperor’s feast, and it certainly did not enjoy me.”

  “You are a lord of the Empire,” Birus replied frowning, “with equal rights and no lesser honor. You are thus not by anyone’s charity, but by merit. Emperor Marcus Octavius Mero himself made your great ancestor warden of the Northlands, as reward for his valuable service in war times. Loyalty is truly a great virtue, and valour only makes it greater.”

  “I appreciate the sentiment, lord Mandon; but do not exaggerate the kindness of histories, for they are seldom kind in truth. The emperor gave that title to my family, who spilled as much blood as any other noble house in the Empire’s conquests. But what did he bestow? Rich holdings and lands with so fertile a soil as an Aharo womb? No. He bestowed a vast barrenness of ice and snow. A most fitting reward for a noble house of foreign blood. But Octavius Mero did have a sense of humor, I’ll give him that.”

  Kalafar Sodomis chuckled briefly. “Huh, to name a red-skin as warden over prideful whites.” The young ram bowed stiffly and turned on his heel. He returned to his party, mounted his black steed and departed Castle Spire, banners and all.

  The lord of Weiyenor’s words had left the hawk pondering the notion. He could very well understand such troubles – the silent enmity of peers. But alas, the prestige of house Sodomis was not his concern. And from the small talk he had had with the young warden, Birus discerned no plotter’s scent about him. The stubbornness of his ambitions, whatever they may be, is not the stubbornness of a turncloak.

  Afterwards, the hawk and his party were ready to travel. He took sir Raymon Rorck, his page Shandru, and several household guards; then made for the city’s docks. The lord of Rivermark was no stranger to echoes from beyond the Empire’s borders. The fall of Laraven and the victorious slave rebellion had brought respite and liberty to mercenary groups. And while on the way to Adara’s Palace... Birus Mandon scoured the city streets for any outlandish element of warrior-build. Unfamiliar tongues and unfamiliar features of foreigners leaped to his sight and ears; but one particular man from within the crowds caught his attention.

  For a stranger, he does speak Galinthean well. Birus gestured to his men to stop and dismount. His retinue of knights obeyed without question, quick to flank their lord and sire to ensure his safety. They approached the man in question, the strange sellsword who spoke their tongue so well.

  The outlander donned light armor, brown breeches, black boots, and an iron gardbrace in the shape of a skull. The man’s right ear was only half. It looked as if it had been savaged by some animal. His skin was olive, his beard clean-shaved; and a scimitar hung from his left hip. He was sunk to his haunches, extending a few meager coppers to a beggar child. When he became aware of their presence, he rose to his feet and regarded them like a peer. “Narak al Zull of the Mounted Arrows,” he greeted. “How can I be of service?”

  “I’ve heard of your name and deeds,” Birus said with narrowed eyes. “The Mounted Arrows have quite a reputation, even in this part of the world. You and your men follow a strict code o
f laws regarding warfare, yes? Tell me of these particular tenets, and then we’ll talk business.”

  The outlander nodded. “’Tis true. Principles of honor and justice... where they can be spared without ill consequence. Each time one finds himself on the field of battle, conditions change. And there is no letter of principle to be applied indiscriminately of circumstance.” Al Zull gave them a thin knowing smile.

  “The servants of the warrior god are no zealots, or slaves to superstition. Like with all of our employers before you, we only ask for honorable combat and fair recompense. We do not kill women and children, nor cripples or elders; nor do we kill soldiers who have yielded. And we do not partake in massacres during the sacking of villages and cities. We just take what supplies are needed, what treasures are hidden – no bloodshed. Or if it cannot be avoided, as little bloodshed as possible. We are not savage beasts, at least... not after a battle. We don’t rape the daughters and wives of farmers. For brothels and taverns provide all the necessary distraction one needs.”

  Birus Mandon was stunned by the conditions of this al Zull character. He had never, ever, encountered a mercenary who spoke so bluntly, so eloquently, and with such moral conviction. “How is it that your men can follow such tenets? Most of the mercenaries I’ve encountered in my years loved nothing more than killing, raping, and plundering. They lived for it.”

  Narak al Zull shook his head. “The code of moral laws is not of my making. Those laws are observed by any true warrior. They belong to the god of fire, the god of struggle, courage, battle, and honor. They belong to the warrior god Allahr – the lord of hosts, the master of iron, bronze, and steel. Though free, we are always his servants.”