Empire of Avarice (44 page)

Amne pressed her lips together in irritation. “Sooner
we’re gone from ‘ere the better, ah say!”

“Agreed,” Lalaas said heavily. They left the tavern and
walked through the busy streets. Now auction was approaching the number of
people in Bukrat increased, and many had come to inspect the slaves and assess
which ones would be worth bidding on. One or two of the bigger buyers did
secret deals with the slavers so that the auction would be fixed in their
favour; the ‘price’ would be way above anyone else’s limit, and then the slaves
would be sold at the pre-agreed price, often way below that quoted, to the
buyer. It was always going on and the best slaves went to the bigger organisations.

The two took their time walking past the wooden cages. There
seemed hundreds of people in them. Amne wondered just where they were coming
from and how it was that people could afford to buy so many. There were
prisoners of all sorts; male, female, young, old, tall, short, dark skinned,
light skinned, fair haired, dark haired.

“Want a girl or boy slave, good sir?” a bald-headed man
asked, standing in front of them suddenly.

“Ah, lookin’ fer a household slave, cleanin’ an all,”
Lalaas said.

“Ah, then a female slave is just your thing, good sir,”
the slaver beamed, showing gaps in his tombstone teeth. He observed Amne and
ran a professional eye over, noting the way she stiffened in outrage at his
obvious interest. “Your wife, sir?”

“Ah, tha’ she is.”

“Does she not clean the house?”

Lalaas squeezed Amne’s arm in warning. He could feel her
trembling in rage. “We ‘ave an’mals to muck ou’, too.”

“I see. The lady does not like that, I can tell. So, a
female slave might not be the best. A male slave, on the other hand, would be
perfect for that!” and he led them on to the next cage where a disheartened
group of males sat, staring at nothing. “Here, look them over and point out to
me if you see one that attracts your attention. Perhaps we can – ah – come to
an arrangement without the need to go through the bother of an auction?” the
slaver smiled widely, then turned as another interested person caught his
attention.

Amne leaned close to Lalaas. “This is all ‘orrible – ‘ow
can people do this?”

“Bus’ness, dear,” Lalaas muttered, making sure the
slaver wasn’t in earshot. “If there’s money to be made, then they’ll do it.”

They looked at the pathetic group of males again. There
were perhaps fifteen packed in it, and suddenly one was looking at them in amazement
and scuttling forward, his eyes wide. “Princess! Princess! It’s me, Theros!”

Lalaas and Amne gaped in shock, then horror. Their cover
was in danger of being blown.

____

Preparations for the ball in Slenna had gone smoothly. After
such a long time being under siege and facing the horrors of having their
homes, possessions and even their lives taken from them, the relief at how
quickly and painlessly the change back to imperial rule had given the people
there the enthusiasm to do their part. Every street had been swept clean and
houses had been tidied up, and now bunting hung along every street, made up of
strips of cloth or brightly coloured plants and flowers, and two separate
parties had been planned; one for Jorqel and the ruling elite, and the other
for the townsfolk.

Jorqel had announced that he would open the town party
and attend the first part, until the late afternoon when it was expected the
drinking would start to take effect and his presence would be needed up in the
castle to get ready for the ruling elite’s party which was to be held at night.
This would be strictly for the nobility and their families.

Gavan made himself as scarce as he possibly could during
this time. Formal functions were not for the likes of him; he was a soldier,
not a courtier. He set about inspecting the town walls and the castle, noting
the weaknesses and places that were in ruins or in bad repair. He also took it
upon himself to check the town’s military facilities, and this didn’t take him
too long. There were none. Slenna was bereft of any substantial public
buildings. It appeared they had all been allowed to fall into ruin over the
past few decades and nobody had bothered to keep up repairs. It seemed the only
construction of any note was the castle.

He approached Jorqel about the matter the evening after
his inspection. Jorqel wasn’t surprised. But he had the long term view. “We
won’t be able to change too much any time soon, Gavan. There isn’t the money to
build much, and we’ve got to contribute towards the imperial treasury. We need
to get the food supply right most of all, then put what money we do have into
improving the town defences. This castle needs rebuilding. It’s a real mess, if
you haven’t noticed.”

“I have, sire. It wouldn’t stop an attack from washer-women.”

“My feelings exactly. So what do we do if a whole
regiment of Tybar tribesmen suddenly appear on the western horizon? Hide behind
these parchment walls or ride out to do battle?”

“Either way we die, sire.”

Jorqel nodded. “So we rebuild the castle. I want a
bigger, more robust one. In wood for now, but maybe in a couple of years we can
do it in stone. Get a design drawn up and bring it to me for approval.”

“Yes, sire.” Gavan paused, then spoke again. “Tell me,
sire, what noble families are coming to the ball next sevenday?”

“Why do you ask, Gavan? Got an eye on any eligible
daughter?”

“The gods preserve me! I’ll need to know numbers for
security, sire.”

Jorqel chuckled. “I’m teasing you. So far we’ve had nine
replies. We’ve even had one from Romos.”

“Romos? Isn’t that run by pirates, sire?”

“Yes, but it is claimed by the empire and was formerly
ours, so the nobility there are certainly Kastanian. The pirates be damned;
they can rule it for now but one day we shall return and reclaim it. Maybe I’ll
do it myself. We’ve had replies from the Grathen, Murdok, Nicate, Kolos,
Sendrel, Cantreli, Hemminnon, Duras and Kibatos families.”

“Duras?” Gavan scowled. “I wouldn’t trust them for a
moment.”

“Fear not, my friend. Unless the daughter is a goddess,
I won’t even consider her.”

“And if she is?”

Jorqel smiled rakishly. “My choice of a bride, not
yours. I shall consider every good attribute in the noble daughter and make a
careful and well-judged decision.”

“Nothing to do with the size of her…” Gavan mimed taking
hold of two large objects in his hands in front of him.

“A prince does not consider such superficial
distractions,” Jorqel said loftily. Both stared at each other for a moment,
then broke into raucous laughter. “Now go, you rogue,” Jorqel pushed his bodyguard
away, “you’re giving me un-princely thoughts.”

Gavan left the chamber, chuckling, and Jorqel returned
his attention to the financial reports on his desk. They were worrying reading.
What the sum needed to bring Slenna and Lodria back up to anything like a
standard expected of an imperial province and town was way beyond what was
available at the present time. Jorqel was just beginning to understand the
financial problems the empire was beset by. The rebellion here hadn’t helped
and what money had been around had been spent on the armed forces. Now that was
gone.

They would have to get the tithe sorted out really fast,
and that meant sending out officials to all the farms and homesteads throughout
Lodria. Jorqel hadn’t the money to pay for clerks, so he would send his men out
on patrol and get them to count heads, animals and areas of land. That way a
tax could be levied fairly. What records there had been were of little use;
they were hopelessly out of date and had been allowed to rot so that they were
only half legible.

“Not an easy task, is it, lord?” a soft, mocking voice
suddenly came close to Jorqel’s side. The prince shot out of his chair,
grabbing for his sword. He saw a single figure, sat comfortably in the chair by
the arrow slit that looked out over Slenna, a slim, shadowy man dressed in dark
clothing. He seemed to be unarmed, and the shout for the guards he was about to
make died in Jorqel’s throat. Instead, he slid the sword back and came round
the table to face the man. “Who in the name of the gods are you? And how did
you get in here without the guards noticing?”

“Whom I am, you should be able to guess,” the man said
easily. “As to how I got in here, that is my job.”

Jorqel stared at him for a moment, then clicked his
fingers. “Kiros Louk!”

Louk bowed his head. “I should kneel I know, but a man
of my profession has no master except the one who pays him. We have no national
loyalties.”

“A professional spy. But surely you are Kastanian!”

“Indeed, in fact a native of Turslenka, but these past
few years has taught me that nobody deserves to be my emperor. I chose a
different path.”

“I should have you arrested as a traitor, in that case,”
Jorqel said calmly.

“Is that what you wish?”

Jorqel pondered for a moment. “Nnnnnnooooo. You could be
a useful man to have around. In fact, I can only assume you’re still here
because you think you and I can work together.”

Louk beamed, his even white teeth flashing in his
suntanned face. Jorqel wondered if the man was of Talian descent; they often
had such features. “Young prince, it has been said you’re more of a thinker
than your father, and you’ve just proved that to me. Your father did contract
me just after he seized power to make sure you had the best intelligence from
within Slenna, and that contract expired the moment you took the gates. Now,
I’m just an out of work agent, looking for my next contract.”

“So I have my father to thank indirectly for the
information you gave me? I think he could have asked you to break the gates or
the walls or even carried out other acts of destruction. That would have helped
me better.”

Louk spread his hands wide apologetically. “I only
follow the wishes of my paymaster; no mention was made of damaging gates or
walls.”

“But you could have used your initiative.”

Louk shook his head. “I suffered through hunger as much
as anyone in Slenna while you were besieging it. I could do little else other
than survive and pass you information about the garrison. If you had asked me
to do something else then I might have done so. You must understand a contract
between someone like yourself and someone like me has to be specific, in order
for me to assess the risk and request an appropriate fee.”

“And what fee would you judge is appropriate if I asked
you to travel around Lodria and see if there are any people who wish to carry
on the rebellion?”

Louk put a finger to his lips for a moment. “A year’s
contract, would you say?”

“Sounds about right, Louk.”

“Then I ask for a fee of two hundred furims.”

Jorqel looked shocked. “Two hundred? For a nice soft
journey around the province?”

Louk splayed his fingers. “I may have to infiltrate the
homes of nobility. If rebellion is thought of, it will be amongst them, not the
peasantry. It’s an annual fee, too. I must be able to live, to buy food and so
on, so two hundred is a reasonable request.”

Jorqel drummed his fingers on the table top. “I’ll
consider it. In the meantime, where are you to be found?”

“I don’t usually tell anyone that, lord,” Louk smiled. “I
have my professional reputation to uphold. I shall return at the end of the
festivities. If you do not have the money then I shall depart and look for
another who may hire my services.”

The prince grunted. “I really should have you thrown
into jail. I don’t know if I can trust you.”

The spy spread his hands wide. “You may, but where in
Slenna can you find a place that can hold me? There are no proper holding
facilities, unless you count the stocks. And I can assure you, if you leave me
in those overnight, by morning I shall be long gone.”

“Get out, you rogue,” Jorqel snapped. I will not see you
again until after the celebrations. If I do see you around this place before
then, I will use the stocks on you!”

Louk got to his feet, bowed mockingly, and then went
over to the open window and climbed through the narrow gap. Jorqel gasped, for
the drop outside was thirty feet at least, a killing drop. He swiftly made his
way to it and peered out. The dark made seeing difficult but he could see
nobody, either looking down, or after twisting his head, up. Where had Louk
gone? Had he sprouted wings? The prince’s mind rejected such things, for surely
nobody could do that!

The atmosphere in the throne room was charged with a
multitude of emotions that morning. Empress Isbel sat nervously on the throne
specially made for her, the one to the left of the emperor’s. Alongside stood
her advisors and courtiers, and scribes stood to one side ready to record the
events. The room before her was full to bursting point, with only the red
carpeted central aisle free. Here, standing every twenty paces or so, were
members of the palace guard, decked out in their finest ceremonial armour and
all holding newly polished volgars, their tips sharpened.

Isbel glanced left and right. The licking of lips and
sweating of brows betrayed the tension all of them felt. For eleven years the
name Tybar had stood for terror and destruction. Eleven years of continual
disasters and the loss of province after province, bringing the Tybar Horde
ever closer with every defeat. Refugees had come east, bringing with them tales
of atrocities at the hand of the inhuman Tybar, of burning temples, raping of
women, slaughtering of men. Children had been taken away, their futures
unknown. Nobody had ever seen the lost generation again.

And now one of these feared people was here, in the
palace of Kastan. No wonder people had come to the palace in curiosity. Vosgaris
had informed the empress that very morning that crowds were gathering in the
square outside, full of people wanting to see their first Tybar.

For a decade now mothers had send naughty children to
bed telling them that if they didn’t behave, then ‘the nasty Tybar will come to
get you’. It had resulted in a whole generation of Kastanian children growing
up in fear of the mysterious pitiless people on their western border.

For her part, there was this churning in her stomach. She
didn’t want to speak to this man, this diplomat who had spent the night in one
of the palace chambers, guarded by two soldiers. The major domo, Pepil, stood
by the door, his staff of office in his hand, waiting to announce the arrival
of the man. The Tybar was at that moment waiting in the next chamber, waiting
to be permitted entrance. Isbel fought to bring her breathing under control. She
had to project calm, control, authority. She felt anything but. Slowly, almost
reluctantly, she nodded across the room to Pepil who turned and opened the door
and spoke briefly through the slight opening. Then the doors opened and Pepil
rapped the floor loudly and spoke clear to all. “I present to your highness the
honourable Kijimur, ambassador of the High Chief of the United Tribes of
Tybar.”

Kijimur. So that was his name. Isbel sat still, fighting
the urge to peer forward. A lone figure came slowly down the carpet, ignoring
the wide eyes that followed him, oblivious, so it appeared, to the slight
edging away of the crowd where he passed. Kijimur was slim, lithe, dressed in a
long single coat of dull yellow with some sort of motifs embroidered upon them,
and upon his head sat a cloth hat with a white feather stuck in the front. The
man’s face was dark and swarthy, and a slim dark moustache adorned his upper
lip. A narrow jutting nose sat above the moustache, and deep black eyes peered
out from under a wide forehead.

His feet were covered in a pair of what looked like wormspun
slippers, so that his footsteps were silent, except for a slight swishing
sound, and she could hear that because there was no other sound at all in the
throne room. Kijimur’s eyes were fixed on Isbel and his features became clearer
to her as he neared. She felt a rising sense of revulsion but suppressed it. He
was a guest.

He had been prepped on the correct procedure by Pepil,
and he now halted at the bottom of the steps that led up to the dais upon which
stood the thrones, and bowed low. “I am honoured to be in your presence, your
highness,” he said with a strongly accented deep masculine voice. He stood and
stepped back a pace, as protocol demanded. The two guards stood at the bottom
of the steps nervously fingered the shafts of their volgars. Their faces
reflected the hostility and apprehension they felt, but Kijimur ignored them. They
were unimportant.

“You are welcome, Kijimur of the United Tribes. I trust
you have been well looked after?” Isbel was pleased her voice was even and
strong, with no trace of a tremor in it.

Kijimur smiled, a row of white teeth flashing in his
dark face. “Very well, thank you. I have a message of friendship from my
master, the Magnificent Klijastlan. He wishes for peace and a future of trade
between our nations.”

A buzz of voices broke out from the people in the room. Isbel
put a thoughtful hand to her chin. “Peace? I am surprised, Kijimur. On what
terms?”

“On payment of a tribute from the Kastanian Empire. It
is here in this document,” and he produced a rolled up scroll, sealed with red
wax. It had been inspected by Pepil earlier that morning, and had been handed
back unopened.

Isbel waggled her fingers at one of the courtiers who
walked down the steps, took it from Kijimur and brought it to Isbel. Vosgaris
edged a step closer to her right. He was there as her bodyguard. It seemed
fine, since both Kijimur and the courtier had handled it with their bare hands
and neither were showing signs of poison.

Isbel noted the insignia of a cup on the seal. It had
been the governor of Imakum’s seal before that city had fallen to the Tybar a
mere six years ago. She glanced up at Kijimur who seemed indifferent to it. Perhaps
he knew, maybe he didn’t. She broke the seal and read the contents, written in
Kastanian. Clearly there was someone in Imakum who was a survivor of the former
administration working for the Tybar now. “An annual payment of a thousand furims?
For five years?”

“Renewable every five years, ma’am,” Kijimur smiled. “The
amount can be negotiated at that time. Perhaps down. Perhaps up.”

Vosgaris muttered under his breath, something
disparaging, but too quiet for Isbel to hear properly. Kijimur didn’t hear it
and he may not have understood the words in any case. They probably weren’t the
ones taught at language school.

“We shall have to ponder on these terms, Kijimur. Should
this treaty not be signed, what do you understand your master would do?”

“My belief, ma’am, is that my master would send raiders
across the border to burn and pillage your farmlands, and then assemble a
mighty army to sweep your forces into the sea and claim Slenna and Niake as
his.” He bowed low once more.

There was an angry muttering that rolled across the
throne room. Isbel held up her hand for silence. “Thank you for your words,
Kijimur. We desire peace, and shall give this treaty very serious
consideration. In the meantime, please make yourself comfortable in your
chambers. If you desire anything, food, drink, entertainment, please ask and we
shall do what we can to accommodate you.”

“Your highness is too kind,” Kijimur bowed low and
backed away, then turned and walked back to the door where Pepil awaited.

As the door closed behind him voices broke out in a wave
of outrage and indignation. “A thousand furims a year!” Vosgaris almost
shrieked. He looked at Frendicus who was shaking his head vehemently.

Isbel stood up and waved at the assembled people. “Please,
please! You heard him. The Tybar wish for peace. We must seriously consider
this. We will give our reply in due course. Now please, we must adjourn and
examine this document. Ladies, gentlemen.”

The crowd bowed and waited until Isbel had gone out by
the door behind her, then began discussing between themselves in little groups
as to what they’d seen and heard.

____

Isbel hurried along the corridor behind the throne room,
escorted by Vosgaris and two particularly large guardsmen, then through a door
that was opened for her and closed behind the group, and along yet another long
marbled passage to the council chamber. Two more guards were already standing
by the entrance and their volgars were smartly pulled aside to allow the
empress and her entourage ingress.

The chamber was already occupied by a number of people,
and they stood as Isbel walked to her seat. Vosgaris stood behind her, sword in
his hands, tip planted on the ground, and the two burly guardsmen came to a
halt on either side of her, scowling mightily. It was an intimidating sight, as
it was indeed meant to be, and the men of the council waited deferentially
until she sat.

“Please, seat yourselves,” she said, the Tybar scroll in
her hand. She waited until all had sat, then looked along the two rows of
faces. Here were the top advisors of the empire; military, religious, diplomatic,
social, financial. Many she had seen before but two in particular were
relatively new to this chamber, even though they were well advanced in years. Both
were scarred and grey haired, and had the look of soldiers.

“Gentlemen,” Isbel began, “you may not know the two new
members here, but they are here on my express wishes. May I introduce Panat
Branas and Alvan Evcar, two former generals in the service of the empire. They
are of noble houses that have served Kastania in the past with distinction, and
it is my hope that their houses will once again in the future.”

The others turned their attention to the two men. Panat
was the larger of the two men and sported a greying beard while Alvan was clean
shaven and had a strong cast to his features, a piercing look and a beak of a
nose. Not a man to trifle with.

“Their names are known,” Frendicus said, nodding. “I
believe you served in the war with the Tybar?”

“Aye,” Panat Branas growled, his voice emanating from
his boots. There was a bitter edge to his voice. “A war in which the army was
unprepared to fight, and was blamed for the defeats.”

Isbel rapped her knuckles on the table top. “Blame is
not the reason why you two distinguished men are here today. It is unfortunate
that our predecessors saw fit to dismiss you and from this moment you are to
have your full pension rights restored. Frendicus, see to it.”

“Uh, yes, of course, your highness,” Frendicus
stammered, caught by surprise.

Panat and Alvan both looked at Isbel in surprise, then
both bowed. “Your highness is generous, and wise,” Alvan intoned, his speech
slow and deliberate.

Isbel bowed in return. “I have need of your advice, and
your counsel to the assembled people here. As you know, a Tybar diplomat is
present here and we have just learned that his master proposes a peace treaty,
at a cost. I doubt we can afford to pay, and we have been threatened with
invasion if we do not comply. Comments?”

Panat and Alvan exchanged long looks. It was Panat who
cleared his throat. “I have been out of circulation for a few years now, but
the memories of the Tybar Horde swarming over my men still haunts me to this
day. What, may I ask, is stopping them from invading us anyway? Why do they
need a peace treaty?”

“That is what I am puzzling over, Panat,” Isbel said. She
looked at Alvan. “You served as commander of the Balq Sea Defence at Taboz. You
lasted longer than anyone else on the frontier. How did you hold out for so
long?”

Alvan snorted. “We stayed where we were. The Tybar try
to lure you into ambushes and traps, then chop your units up into pieces and
massacre them one by one, using arrows until you’re too weak to fight back,
then they go in and finish you off with swords. We refused to abandon our
defences and so they couldn’t beat us. It was only when we were recalled to
Kastan and the locals revolted in fury that the empire lost Taboz. We could
have held out there for years, supplied by the sea. It was a stupid decision.”

“Agreed,” Isbel said, “sadly the empire was run by those
who were not strategists and saw an army presence in Taboz as an unnecessary
expense. I regret you were held accountable for the revolt. That has now been
corrected in the imperial histories.”

“Your highness is very kind,” Alvan smiled.

“And my record of service, may I ask?” Panat looked at
Isbel, his eyes almost pleading. His family name had been shamed by his
dismissal seven years previously.

“Also corrected. The disaster at Kezara was not down to
any action by yourself, Panat, and I have been informed that you in fact saved
the lives of many imperial soldiers. Without your prompt action that day we
would not have had an army to fall back to defend Imakum. This has now been
recorded in our archives.”

“Thank you, Ma’am. You have my gratitude, as well as
that of my family.”

“Now, to today’s problem. The Tybar wish for peace. Why?
I’d like your comments.”

“To see if we can be turned into serfs?” Frendicus
opined. The others frowned at him, so he splayed his hands out across the table
in front of him. “Once we pay for our security, we’re no longer masters of our
own destiny. We are the lackeys of the Tybar, and with our money they can
enrich themselves, gaining power and prestige, and can then suck us dry before
finishing us off at their leisure. It buys them time to prepare for the day
they wish to advance their territories at our expense.”

“No, Frendicus,” one of the council members, a merchant
guildmaster by the name of Elethro Ziban, shook his head. “They probably wish
to see if we still have money so that they can plunder us to their heart’s
content. An attack will come no matter what, but they want to see if it’s worth
their while financially. I hear that the slave market further west has a glut,
thanks to their seizure of our cities, and they need more money for hiring
mercenaries. There are frequent raids by bandits along the roads of their newly
conquered lands and they need to patrol them.”