Empire of Avarice (50 page)

Isbel sighed. She had an idea what this was about. “Very
well, show them all in.”

The scarred weapons trainer was shown in, preceded by
Prince Argan as etiquette dictated, and a child the same size and age as Argan
trotted in nervously next. Vosgaris brought up the rear and stood pointedly
behind Argan, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Isbel clasped her hands
together. It seemed people were conspiring together. Well, it had better be
good or heads would roll.

“You have something to say to me, Afos?” The tone was
cool and peremptory.

But instead of being cowed or intimidated, the scarred
man bowed low and addressed her with a strong, even voice. “Your highness, I
have served the empire for many years in the saddle. I am what you might call a
professional soldier and have given many years of my life to Kastania, no
matter who was on the throne. Would it surprise you to know that I served as
one of your husband’s bodyguards in many campaigns, both against the Tybar and
in the Bragal Rebellion?”

“I didn’t know that, Afos,” Isbel was genuinely
surprised. She glanced at Pepil. “Is this true?”

“So it would appear, ma’am,” the major domo inclined his
head. “Afos was recommended for the post of weapons trainer to your son by the
emperor himself. I have the order in my offices.”

“Very well,” Isbel turned back to the patiently waiting
man. “You may continue.”

Panat Afos pointed to his scar. “I got this seven years
ago, saving the life of your husband. We were ambushed early on in the Bragal
Rebellion, before we got used to their method of warfare; we were riding to one
of his family estates that he had heard was being attacked, but it was a trap. Before
we knew it, we were surrounded by hordes of madly screaming Bragal bandits and
General Astiras, as he was then called, was pulled from his horse and was about
to be butchered on the spot. I waded in, hacking left and right, slaying men as
I went, and pulled him up onto my saddle, but as I did one of the animals that
call themselves men slashed at me and caused me great injury. The general rode
both of us out of the trap along with just five others.”

The chamber was silent. Argan stood open-mouthed at
hearing the tale, as did Kerrin. Vosgaris was inscrutable, while Isbel listened
on with her eyes wide in astonishment.

Panat carried on. “I was very ill, gravely wounded, and
many thought I would not survive, but survive I did, and one of the camp
followers who tended me became my wife. A year later Kerrin here was born.” He
smiled down at his son who smiled back. “General Astiras was generous and gave
us enough money to set up a home, but I was unable to carry on as a member of
his bodyguard. My injury was too severe. I cannot ride for very long these days
and I suffer from time to time with severe headaches. Of course, in the latter
days of the previous emperor, the military was not looked upon with any favour,
and the sight of a battle scar was viewed as a mark of shame, not a mark of
honour!” Panat sounded bitter, as might he well. “But thank the gods your
husband took over and restored the military to its rightful place, banishing
those who talk clever but deliver nothing. And although we struggled at times
because nobody wanted to employ an ex-soldier, we came through. Now the empire
once again views people like me with respect.”

“My husband is very keen to ensure people who fight for
the empire are rewarded suitably.”

“Ma’am, many agree with him, myself included. But I hear
that you have an objection to my son befriending Prince Argan. May I please ask
why?”

Isbel looked at the weapon trainer. She was aware all
eyes had turned to her and she felt far more self-conscious than she ought to
in front of a commoner. “It is my decision as a mother to see that my son grows
up with people who will be in his social circle.”

“With due respect, ma’am, is it not true that Prince
Argan here is to be trained by me to be a warrior? And as a warrior he will
require an elite bodyguard, just as your husband, the emperor, has? Is it not
true that many of these bodyguards will be from common backgrounds? I, a
commoner, saved your husband’s life. I nearly gave my life to save him. If it
were not for me, then this fine young man here,” he indicated Argan, “would not
be standing here today. My son, Kerrin, is also to be trained as a warrior, and
who knows, perhaps these two boys will grow up together and become sword-mates.
I beseech you, ma’am, not to disrespect what I have done for the Koros family
and deny these two a friendship that may one day end up with one saving the
life of the other.”

Isbel considered the faces before her. She lingered the
longest on Argan. Finally she sighed and leaned back. “You are right, Panat
Afos. I have little knowledge of the relationships between warriors, and as you
say, we owe you more than can be measured. Argan,” she looked directly at her
son, “if you wish to be friends with Kerrin here, then you may.”

Argan’s broke open into a beam of such delight that
Isbel’s heart jumped. In that moment she realised she had been the cause of the
rift, not Argan, and not Vosgaris. She had to fight to keep the tears from her
eyes. Argan clasped his hands together and smiled at Kerrin who was smiling
even wider. Isbel glanced at Vosgaris who nodded approvingly. The empress waved
the group out, but she got a smile from Argan which made her feel even better.

“Now,” she said with renewed energy, “what is the first
item of the day?”

“The financial demands from Prince Jorqel,” Frendicus
said heavily. “Is he trying to bankrupt us all?”

Isbel held out her hand for the scroll in the
financier’s hand. Oh well, she thought, back to business.

The new morning in Slenna was met by groans and
complaints from many of the soldiers. The celebrations had gone on well past
the dead of night, almost to dawn in some instances. The more reluctant to
leave had to be encouraged by the unit officers, accompanied by curses and
kicks, and even the threat of punishment.

Men coming on duty that morning were sluggish, clutching
their heads and comparatively silent. The deliberate placing of feet betrayed
delicate heads and stomachs, and more than one unsympathetic comrade shouted a
hearty greeting to those who were suffering.

One of the sufferers was Gavan. He came into Jorqel’s
day chamber somewhat late and sat heavily in the chair opposite his master’s
desk and held his head for a moment. Jorqel, not having drunk too much the
night before, had already begun his work and had been writing furiously. Now he
stopped, looked up and surveyed his silent and white-faced bodyguard. “Overdid
it, didn’t you?”

“Oh, by the gods,” Gavan breathed, “please don’t tell me
I’m still alive and that this is a living nightmare!”

Jorqel put his quill back into his pot and clasped his
fingers together thoughtfully. “You’re not yet dead, Gavan, and if you’re too
unwell to perform your normal duties because you’re holding onto last night’s
poor quality wine, I suggest you empty your guts into the garderobe and return
here looking more like a bodyguard and less like a corpse.”

“Please, sire, take pity on me,” Gavan whined. “I can’t
even remember most of what happened last night.”

“No pity,” Jorqel said brusquely. “Self-inflicted. Now
go throw up in the garderobe and report here after you do. We have work to do
and you’ll be required to ride later today. Woe betide anyone of my guard –
including yourself – who is incapable of escorting me into the countryside.”

Gavan groaned, heaved himself out of his chair, and
stumbled through the opening in the room to the far left and turned out of
sight along a narrow corridor. Jorqel shook his head and resumed writing. Slenna
badly needed work done on it. The existing defences were woefully inadequate
and of such poor quality that anyone could reasonably be expected to smash them
in. Now he was inside he could see just how badly they had been allowed to
decay. If he’d known fully how bad they were, he would have smashed them in
along the entire length of the wall and flooded in.

The castle was falling apart. He doubted any work had
been done on the wooden construction for some years. The roofs leaked, there
were plants growing out of walls and many of the wooden buildings had rotten
walls or roofs. He had asked for hundreds of furims from Kastan but doubted
he’d get much. The port of Efsia needed modernising; the roads needed repair
work. But most of all Slenna had to be rebuilt. So he had laid out plans to
tear down the castle, rip up the existing town walls – which were only of wood
anyway – and lay a new one outside their present line. He anticipated a growth
in Slenna once things settled down and the new arrivals would need space to
live in.

This would in turn require new municipal buildings. How
he was to get the money for this was anyone’s guess, but he’d do what he could.
Then there was the problem of his new project, the mounted archers. The new
stables and training yard had been built outside the walls by his soldiers
during the siege, but they now lay empty because there were no equines or
riders to fill the buildings and stalls.

Gavan reappeared, eventually, and looked ashen-faced but
at least he was moving better. Jorqel completed his paperwork and called in the
castellan, Fostan Caras. “Take these to the riders. They are to be sent to
Kastan and the various noble families who were here last night. They are
clearly marked.”

Caras took the sealed letters and bowed. “Are you riding
far this day, sire?”

“Just for the day. We shall be back before dark.”

The castellan bowed again and left. Gavan stood up as
Jorqel waved him to the doorway, now merely covered by a cloth screen. The
castle was becoming more like a ruin every day. “How are we to get the
materials and men to rebuild the castle, sire? There’s hardly enough to pay the
garrison as it is.”

“I have a plan,” Jorqel smiled mysteriously and led
Gavan out and down the steep staircase to the bailey where the rest of the
fifty-four strong bodyguard unit were waiting. Their equines were saddled,
harnessed and ready for them. They mounted up, Gavan rather gingerly, and
Jorqel led the group out of the castle, the wooden gates being swung open for
them by two guards. Beyond was the town, or to be precise, the large village of
Slenna. The road ran to the square, a dusty space bordered by a few houses,
then they turned right and trotted down a short slope to the criss-cross road
pattern of the main part of the settlement.

After turning left, Jorqel led the men through the main
street two abreast. The townsfolk stepped aside and bowed as they recognised
the prince, who waved back in acknowledgement. Then they were at the town gates
which were swung open for them and they were outside, riding across the bare
ground to the first of the farms. To the right stood the new stables and Jorqel
led them up to them and dismounted. Gavan climbed down too but the rest
remained in their saddles. The two equines were taken by two of the men while
Jorqel and Gavan walked up to the side of the freshly erected main building,
intended as the accommodation block.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Jorqel said, slapping the wall.

“Yes, sire. When do you hope to fill it?”

“That’s the important question, Gavan. When?” Jorqel
slid his hand along the wall as he walked slowly alongside, then dropped it to
his side. “When indeed? We need equines fit for the task. Female equines, true,
but these will take years to mature and train. What we need are female equines
already trained and used to the work, and we can then mate them with our own
chargers at our leisure.”

“Sire, the only trained equines I can think of belong to
the Tybar.”

Jorqel chuckled and nodded.

“Sire – you’re not thinking of – acquiring them from the
enemy, are you?”

“Why not? These scum have slaughtered their way through
imperial territory, killing and raping and burning. They have destroyed a thousand
years of imperial rule, customs and ways of life here without a moment’s
thought. Time we took something from them, and I’m thinking it would be ironic
if it were something that may lead in time to their defeat.”

Gavan looked dubious. “We have nobody trained to use
arrows from the saddle, sire.”

“Not yet, but if we announce in Lodria, and even
Bathenia, that we wish to create and train up a new elite arm of mounted
warriors, and select the best hundred and sixty candidates, then I cannot see
how we can have a shortage of takers.”

“To train them and house them here will cost an enormous
amount of money, sire, believe me.”

Jorqel turned and faced his aide. “I’m fully aware of
that, Gavan. I have a plan in my head that will provide us with money and the savings
from my personal treasury that will enable me to fund this project. Believe me,
we need to fight these filthy Tybar with their own weapons and tactics. Foot
soldiers can’t catch them and are easy targets; this has been proved to our
cost over the past decade. Now we must adapt or fall. I will not allow this to
happen.”

Gavan rubbed his stomach. He wasn’t sure whether he was
going to throw up again or not. His stomach was feeling peculiar. “Sire, if I
understand you correctly, then, you’re proposing we ride over to enemy
territory, steal some equines and bring them here.”

“I’m proposing you ride over there, yes. Clearly I
cannot.”

Gavan shook his head, smiling in disbelief. “You, sire,
if I may be so bold, are crazy. It’s a long ride over hilly terrain. The roads
in western Lodria are terrible; have you seen them? Then we have no idea where
the frontier actually is. On top of that I have no idea, and I expect everyone
else equally has none, of where to find Tybar soldiers who have these equines. Then
we have to bring them back over hostile territory, probably pursued, and return
here safely!”

Jorqel pursed his lips, thinking over the sequence, then
nodded. “I’m confident you can plan a theft accordingly and get away with it.”

Gavan kicked a stone along the ground. “It will have to
be before the winter sets in; up there in the highlands of Kaprenia it’s going
to be colder than here, that’s a fact!”

“Then start thinking. Meanwhile, I’m going to start my
personal survey of Lodria, visiting as many noble estates as possible. It won’t
hurt to remind them I’m capable of riding to their homes rather than skulking
in Slenna. The Sendral estates are not too far and we can be there and back
before dark.”

“You planning on seeing all nine noble families with eligible
daughters, sire?”

“Of course; I can hardly show a preference. I’ll need to
have the support of the majority of nobles here in order to get Lodria
profitable once more. If I get resistance from the noble families it’ll make my
job that much harder – and prevent Slenna from being expanded.”

They returned to their group and mounted up. The road
that led from Slenna ran through the farms situated close to the town, and ran
almost straight along the plains until it met the main north-south road that
connected together all the settlements of the coastal region of Lodria. The
northern end finished at the River Mendar, and from there it ran due south,
passing the port of Efsia, the town of Slenna, crossed the River Slenna and
then ran to the Bathenian border, after which it continued onto Niake.

They took the left-hand route and trotted along the dirt
road. In centuries past it had been paved but time, the weather and natural
disasters had ruined the old imperial road, and now all that was left was a
pale shadow, occasionally paved but mostly packed earth hiding the jagged edges
of a once great thoroughfare. A short time after turning onto it they passed
workers, tending the fields of wheat. It was getting close to the harvest and
if they were to have bread to eat that autumn and winter, then they would have
to get the harvest in before the weather turned and ruined the crop.

Other crops were growing in the fields. Cereals, animal
feed and root vegetables could be seen. Lodria’s coastal plain was perfect for
the growing of these whereas as the land rose in the hinterland, it became more
suited to wool-beasts and other grazing animals. Here though the land was rich
and money was to be made by someone. Dotted amongst the farms were estates
owned by wealthy landowners, and one of these was the Sendral family. Jorqel
wasn’t looking forward all that much to reacquainting himself with the
possessive Zana, but perhaps in the comfort of her own home she may be
different.

The fields began to change as they neared the turning
into the Sendral Estate, marked by a pair of stone columns linked overhead by
an iron arch with the name of the family inset. A stone wall ran along the side
of the road for a short distance from either side of the entrance, and the
mounted men turned and rode under the archway into the estate. Neat orchards
alternated with fields full of crops, and Jorqel made a careful note of
everything he saw. He would not be pleased if the people of the province
struggled and the rich estates lived in relative luxury; his father had
promised all that this would cease. The indolence and selfishness of the
nobility had led, so Astiras believed, to the rotten state of the empire. Food
needed to be properly distributed to the towns and cities and not kept away and
then sold at exorbitant prices to desperate and hungry people. Such abuses
would not be tolerated in the new Kastania. If it continued, then any new
conquering people might be seen as welcome liberators of an oppressive system. Kastania
needed to come together now, more than at any other time in its long and
somewhat chequered history.

Jorqel was intelligent enough to realise the nobility
would only remain where they were if they treated those beneath them fairly. A
hungry people were dangerous, and those that spoke with a wrathful voice doubly
so. He was not, as some who had run the empire in the recent past had been,
determined to destroy the existing nobility. That way led to civil war. No, he
was equally set on keeping and befriending the noble families, but at the same
time determined to stop the evil practices that some were currently using.

The family home of the Sendral was set in a slight vale,
bordered with trees and neatly tended shrubs. The house was a single storey
construction but sprawled so that the central block was complemented with two
wings. One was almost certainly the servant’s wing, the other probably the
sleeping quarters for guests and the Sendral. The central block looked as if it
were for living, eating, work and leisure.

A curved road of paved stone led up to the low wall that
bordered the gardens that surrounded the house. Outside this wall were low
buildings of stone and timber that looked like pens for animals. The ground
looked churned up and muddy at the entrances. A well stood close to the opening
through which Jorqel led his men and wooden drinking troughs stood both inside
and outside the garden wall. A set of stables could be seen towards the rear
where the road led.

The roadway to the front of the house had been thoughtfully
shaded by tall hardwood trees, and Jorqel noted their size. They must have been
there for two hundred years or more. Hardwood trees grew much more slowly than
softwood species.