Empire of Avarice (59 page)

“Very good, Lord Duras,” Valsan bowed again. “I do bring
correspondence from Kastan, however. The Council wishes to ask what your terms
are for disbanding your army.”

“What? Terms?” Nikos asked incredulously. “There are
none, save for the complete surrender of the Koros and their lickspittle
Council! If they are prepared to deliver themselves into the hands of the Duras
family, then this issue can be resolved. Not before.”

“I doubt they will agree to your conditions, Lord
Duras.”

“Nevertheless those are my terms. Take them or leave
them. Kastan will soon find itself cut off from all trade and it will begin to
starve. You can inform your precious Council that if they delay responding for
too long my terms may change and become more severe!” He stared long and hard
at the diplomat. “Terms? The Council may have made an error in sending you
here. It reveals the Koros are weak and vulnerable, or else why would they
offer terms?”

“I assure you, Lord Duras, there is no weakness with the
Koros. I understand you suffered a military reverse at the hands of the Emperor
recently? It demonstrated military strength, surely.”

The general alongside Valsan stiffened in outrage. Nikos
gave the diplomat the benefit of an unfriendly look. “Fortune smiled on him
that day; he had trained regulars and mercenaries who sold their honour to
fight in that canine’s army, whereas my force was hastily put together. Things
are very different now, I assure you, Counsel. The Koros army is hurling itself
futilely against the walls of Zofela while my new army is being trained to
fight against anyone the Koros can drag out of Kastan’s gutters to die for
their vain cause.”

Valsan decided not to press the point that the
‘regulars’ had included two companies of hastily recruited militia spearmen. He
himself had noted on his journey into Kalkos that the Duras had spearmen and
archers, all practicing by the roadside, but not their numbers or whether there
were more units hanging about. He suspected there were. The men he’d seen
appeared to be smartly attired and equipped, and he guessed that the money the
Duras had in their vaults was going towards the funding of all this. It wasn’t
cheap, but the soldiers looked fit and of the age that professional warriors
normally were. No doubt these were men who had once been in the Kastanian army
but had lost their positions in the cutbacks under the immediate predecessors
to the Koros.

Valsan was worried. There were enough soldiers to
garrison Turslenka and Kastan but none spare to take on the rebel army. They
could rampage across Makenia and into Frasia without opposition, burning farms
and killing anyone should they so wish. The lack of imperial funds to raise
soldiers was beginning to have consequences. The opposition was at last becoming
properly organized.

Across in Bathenia, Evas Extonos was thinking the same
thing. The isolated instances of roadside robberies and attacks had suddenly
increased so that it was almost impossible to travel north to Lodria or east to
Aconia unless heavily escorted, and nobody really had the money to afford that.
The militia forces had been subjected to attack here and there and a couple of
men had died, and now no force was permitted to travel to and from Aconia
unless there were twenty or more under the command of a competent officer.

Evas was concerned enough to call Demtro to his office
again. He noted Demtro’s low mood and lack of the usual irreverent behaviour,
and surmised he had a few troubles of his own. But they were of no concern; the
virtual isolation of Niake from its port and neighbouring provinces was much
more important.

“Have your investigations come to an end, Demtro?” he
asked, an edge to his voice.

“Yes, Evas, they have,” Demtro put a rolled up set of
parchments on the desk. “It’s all in my report here.”

“And?”

Demtro sighed. He desperately wanted to sort out his
business with Clora. The investigation had suddenly been relegated to a lesser
status. Still, if it meant he could get away the sooner, so much the better. “The
clerk who was murdered two sevenday’s ago was in the employ of Lombert Soul,
the rebellion leader who has set up a base somewhere out in the countryside
close to the roads to Aconia and Lodria. He needed funds to recruit soldiers,
and my investigations list the numbers of men he’s likely to have called to his
false colours, given the amounts stolen from the central treasury here.”

“And they are how many?”

“Oh, Evas, read it! Too many to venture out with your
garrison on a search and destroy mission. You need Prince Jorqel’s help. Get
him to march up with his regulars. They’ll put this man to the sword soon
enough!”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” Evas said, reaching for the
sealed roll. He broke the seal and opened the parchments up, pinning the ends
down with suitable paperweights. He read the first two sheets and looked up. “Disaffected
former soldiers; household guards of the Fokis family; bandits; brigands. Tybar
irregulars?”

“They’re filtering across the frontier, Evas. It seems
the Tybar tribal leaders are having problems controlling the wilder elements of
their tribes. It’s inevitable, I suppose. The tribes were united as long as
they had a strong warlord to lead them against who they saw as the infidel. Once
they settled down and started administering cities and towns and extending laws
to their subjects, some revolted and quit. All they want to do is to fight, and
Lombert Soul is offering them exactly what they want, and for gold.”

Evas put his hands to his temples. This was worse than
he thought possible. “So we’re at the mercy of Tybar tribesmen?”

“Unless you get Prince Jorqel to come down from Lodria. Your
call.”

Evas shook his head slowly. “It seems you may be right. I’m
in your debt – yet again,” he added bitterly.

Demtro pondered on that, then slowly leaned forward. “In
which case you can repay me straight away.”

“Oh?” Evas didn’t like the sound of that.

Demtro jabbed a finger onto the table top. “There’s an
inn called the Black Rodent close to the Aconian Gate.”

“I’m aware of it, a den of filth.”

“That’s so. I want you to burn the place down.”

“What! Demtro, have you gone out of your mind?”

“It’s a den of thieves and filth. Undesirables gather
there. I wouldn’t be surprised if agents of Lombert Soul lived or worked there.
You need to flush them out.”

Evas sat straight in his chair, staring in shock at
Demtro. “You’re asking me to burn down one of the taverns in this city on an
impression that it’s a haunt of anti-Koros agents and sympathisers? I need more
proof!”

“If you don’t wish to reward my services to you then
that’s your affair,” Demtro said harshly. “But remember who has the ear of the
empress. Your position here is far from secure, especially with that
insufferable kivok Burnas attacking you almost every prayer-day. One day
somebody’s going to take what he says to heart and murder you. You need people
like me to identify potential troublemakers so you can stop the problem before
it starts. I’ve told you the Black Rodent is a den of anti-Koros feelings. How
often have I been wrong? You rely on me too much to be able to do away with my
services, Extonos. Without me you’d be nothing.” Demtro folded his arms across
his chest. “So alienate me and you cut off your right arm. Who have you got to
support you here, out on a limb away from Kastan? Your feckless morons you
employ here? They couldn’t find their own arseholes if you asked them to. I can
be your best ears and eyes, but on the other hand I can be your worst enemy. One
sevenday it would take to have you removed.”

Evas sat immobile, his face turning red. The worst part
was that Demtro was right. He’d spent years in the service of the empire in the
city, making it his own personal domain. He’d smoothly gone along with each
successive emperor and administration so that he’d remain where he was, in
charge of Niake. He’d been pleased when his old comrade in arms Astiras Koros
had become emperor as he thought this would give him extra protection and
immunity, but it had become clear recently that the Koros expected more of him
and wanted him to take more responsibility for the region. There had been the
hint of dissatisfaction with the ongoing issue with the priests in Niake, and
they had also wished him to seek out and destroy Lombert Soul sooner rather
than later.

He needed people like Demtro to send messages of praise
about him to Kastan, not complaints. “Very well,” he said heavily, “I shall
arrange for the tavern to be destroyed. I won’t countenance the deliberate
killing of anyone within its walls, however. I hope you understand.”

Demtro nodded. “I shall leave the details and method
down to you. Shall we say in three nights’ time? I’ll be watching close by.”

“I have no doubt of that,” Evas said tonelessly as
Demtro got up and made his way towards the door.

Demtro paused and turned just as he got to the door. “Arrest
the men who flee the premises. You may find some interesting people. About time
you lifted a corner or two of the dirtier quarters of Niake; you’ve allowed
them to fester for too long. This place is an oil-soaked rag waiting to burst
into flame. They’ll seek your head, you know? Stamp these anarchists out;
they’re a real pain in the arse.”

Evas was left brooding into space, thinking over what
Demtro had said.

The Mazag army had fully moved into or around Bukrat. The
town had been transformed by the arrival of the military. The slavers had been
put to death and their corpses still hung from the gibbets that had been put up
all around the square. All the slaves had been nominally ‘freed’ and then
sorted into types. The males of serving age had immediately been pressed into
the Mazag army; older males had been given jobs around the army, fetching, carrying,
building, storing. The women had been taken by the officers and the prettiest
ones forced into servitude, usually for sexual purposes. The others had been
passed down the ranks so that by the time it got to squad leaders there were
none left to share out.

The children were put into servitude catching game or
repairing clothing, acting as equipment pack-equines, taking weapons and
clothing from the stores to the units that needed them. They were assistants to
blacksmiths, tanners, cobblers, weavers, sutlers and any number of camp
followers that came with the army.

Around Bukrat a huge sea of tents had sprung up, and the
soldiers formed into gangs to fetch wood and construct a wall and towers to go
round the town. Bukrat was already being transformed into a Mazag
administrative centre.

In the very heart of the town General Polak had made his
headquarters in the former town-chief’s house. It was the most impressive
construction there, and the former occupant was hanging from the front garden,
his tongue blackened and swollen and protruding from his mouth. Amne was not
happy with the new décor but said nothing; she was a guest of Polak and the
Mazag and it was not good manners to complain, even if the Mazag were little
better than uncouth barbarians. Polak had a simple solution to any obstacle;
destroy it.

Lalaas was under guard in the basement, with three
guards ensuring he behaved. Lalaas had little choice; his wrists and ankles
were bound and he was chained to the wall by the ironic means of a slave collar.
He was given food twice a day but Amne had been advised that she was not to see
him as he was dangerous and a princess simply did not lower herself to visit
peasant prisoners. Lalaas’ fate was still in the balance. Theros was all for
having him hanged. Amne was vehemently opposed to it, and she in fact advised
that Theros was the one who ought to be chained up.

That evening General Polak was holding a celebration
banquet in his quarters, both to honour his royal guest and also to mark the
conquest and annexation of the newest province of Mazag. The Mazag were tall,
dark and burly as a rule, but there were a few exceptions which told of some
intermixing of bloodlines. Compared to the more aquiline features of a typical
Kastanian, the Mazag were, to Amne’s eyes, found wanting as far as looks went.

Still, she was a royal guest and Theros had repeatedly
told her that her conduct was to be impeccable in front of the uncouth
foreigners. Theros sat to Amne’s left, watching her very carefully. No doubt,
she thought acidly to herself, making notes to pass onto her father and the
court. She shifted herself so that she was sitting as far away from the
courtier as she could. Her only problem was that the big, muscular General
Polak was sitting on her other side, a sweaty, smelly man with boorish manners
and absolutely no idea of how to eat whilst keeping his mouth shut.

She hated being there.

Wine was being passed around. It wasn’t Kastanian, that
was for sure. It was a really heavy and strong red that the Mazag drank in huge
quantities, and they boasted that this wine, native to the plains of Mazag, was
the best the world could offer. Amne could hardly sip it, it was so acidic. She
needed to line her stomach with some food; her last experience of drinking in
Bukrat came to her and she felt a pang of loss for the considerate, gentle and
courteous man locked in a room below her somewhere. It was so unfair. Theros
appeared to hold more influence than she did with the Mazag and she didn’t
understand why this was so. She should be the one listened to but her protests
were ignored. Politely, but ignored all the same.

She noticed that the women servants or slaves were
treated not as people but as objects, being regularly fondled and groped by the
soldiers. There seemed to be no constraints on their behaviour, and it was a
concern to her that perhaps women were used merely as objects rather than being
treated as people by these foreigners. Kastanian society held men and women as
equals in nearly every social level, with one or two exceptions. One was the
rule of succession; no woman was permitted to be ruler. If an emperor died then
the succession went to the eldest eligible male in the family, whether it be
son, brother, uncle or cousin. If none existed, then the throne was up for
grabs to the first male who seized power. Kastania had suffered greatly in the
civil wars that had come at such times of unclear succession in the past. So
now the rule tended to be that when anyone ascended the throne they immediately
had to nominate a successor, one that could take over at once should misfortune
befall the current incumbent.

This of course meant that any new emperor with an
underage son could not name the boy as his successor. All very well unless, as
was the current situation, Astiras suddenly died, leaving Jorqel to make a very
tough decision. Argan and Istan were too young, and Amne was not eligible as
she was female. However, should she be married, then her husband would be the
obvious choice. She was therefore a very desirable choice as a future wife to
all the noble houses of Kastan. Upon her return to Kastan it was very likely
she’d be the centre of attention of all the young unmarried males of the noble
houses. She wondered whether she would have a choice as to whom she could marry.
Could Lalaas fit into those plans somehow?

Suddenly she felt angry; she was nothing but a
play-thing to the scheming men around her. She was not a person, merely a tool
for their own selfish aims and aspirations. Why should she not have a say in
her own future? Her step-mother ran the empire to all intents and purposes, so
it was not beyond the capabilities of a woman to wield power in Kastania. She
could do the same, and if that ever came to pass, then by the gods she would
ensure nobody used her for their own advantage.

Theros looked at her again. He saw the red spots on her
cheeks and her tight lips. “Your highness,” he said in a low voice, “what is
bothering you?”

“Everything, Theros. You bother me. Lalaas being under
arrest bothers me. Sitting here at this meal bothers me.”

“Please,” Theros hissed, concern on his face, “show some
dignity and decorum; you are a princess of the Kastanian ruling family. You
have your position to maintain!”

“Don’t talk to me of dignity, Counsel,” Amne spat at
him. “You treacherous kivok! You think too highly of your value to me and my
father. We shall put an end to this nonsense here and now.”

Theros paled. “Ma’am, I must emphasise this is a
delicate diplomatic mission and the future of our empire depends on securing a
favourable treaty with these people. I am the only man who can do this. With
all due respect to you, ma’am, you’re merely the figurehead here.”

Amne sucked in her breath sharply. “How dare you! You
shall pay for that!” She turned to General Polak, who was looking at her with
interest. He didn’t understand Kastanian but knew that his two guests were
having yet another disagreement. He had been brought up to believe, as most
Mazag men were, that women were passive creatures and there to service men and
be dominated. This Kastanian beauty intrigued him, even at his advanced age. He’d
had many women in his lifetime, many as rewards for plunder in war, and his
wife had given him five healthy sons. He had no idea nor did he care how many
bastards he’d sired. That was the woman’s responsibility and he was thankfully
free of any ties to them. Princess Amne was a stunning example of womanhood,
and she had spirit, something he wasn’t used to. It tickled his curiosity. Were
all Kastanian women like this? If so, then their feeble empire would be worth
invading and raping. He hoped his King would look north now that Valchia was
his and seek to add Kastania to his growing domain. Polak would take an army
all the way to Kastan City and he’d have his choice of the prettiest Kastanian
females to sate his hunger. War was good.

Dealing with a woman was something he felt slightly
uncomfortable with, and so he readily took Theros’s side in any dispute or
negotiation. He disliked the Counsel, recognising him as a weak and treacherous
man, but he had status so had to be accommodated. To the black pits of doom
with diplomats!

“A problem, ma’am?” he inquired.

“Yes,” Amne replied in her awkward Mazag. “This man is
no longer speaking for my father or my empire. He is dismissed.”

Polak looked past her in surprise. Theros, who spoke
fluent Mazag, opened his mouth in surprise. Polak chuckled. “But ma’am, this
man speaks my tongue better than you and he has diplomatic status.”

“Does he sit on Kastan’s throne?” Amne retorted. “My
father does. I was sent by him to speak to Mazag. I represent my father. I am
of the blood, not this creature here. He is dismissed.”

Polak shrugged and looked at the guards standing behind
him. “Take this man away. He is no longer our guest.”

Theros stood up, alarm on his face. “This is
outrageous!”

Polak flicked a lazy finger of dismissal and the two
guards took hold of the protesting man by the arms and began dragging him out
of the room. Theros struggled to no avail, then looked over his shoulder. “I
shall see to it that your father hears of this insult to one of his diplomats!”

Amne sat still, trying to compose herself. Her heart was
beating rapidly. She wasn’t sure that what she’d just done was the right thing,
but she felt that she now had more control over her own destiny. The flush on
her face gradually subsided, but now she realised she was on her own in a room
full of big strong Mazag men. They were all looking at her, waiting.

She smiled and cleared her throat. “I apologise for
that. I have one last favour to ask. Can you please free my bodyguard and
return him to my service? Thank you.”

Polak shrugged again. He nodded to another guard who
left abruptly. “So, the Princess of Kastania is at last showing that she indeed
is of the ruling House.”

Amne looked at him sharply, and saw a smile on the
general’s face. There was also a look of respect in his eyes. She suddenly had
a burst of clarity in her mind how the Mazag looked upon people. Strength was
respect. Command was respect. Subservience was looked upon with contempt.

She sat up straight and looked Polak full in the eyes. “General,
you have said you have full authority from your prince to conduct diplomatic
talks with me. My father is eager to secure a deal with our neighbours the
Mazag people. I say we should hold these talks here and now.”

General Polak raised an eyebrow, then smiled again. “Of
course, why not, my lady? I shall call for scribes to record these talks. One
copy for my prince, one copy for your father and one copy to be held here.” He
issued orders, and while they waited for the scribes to arrive, Lalaas turned
up, looking a little worse for the wear but apart from that showing no ill
effects from his incarceration.

Amne brought him up to date with events and he nodded
when told of Theros’s arrest. He hadn’t seen him so he assumed the diplomat was
being held elsewhere. His sword and light armour were returned to him and he
redressed and buckled his sword on proudly. Amne gave him one dazzling beam of
a smile which he caught and smiled back briefly, then took up his position
directly behind her. Standing tall and true, he gave the warriors of Mazag a
level stare. The Mazag nodded to themselves; they recognised a fellow fighter,
and one who had the inner strength to call out to them subconsciously that he
was not a man to take lightly. They did likewise in return and Lalaas gave one
slight nod of acknowledgement. Both parties then ignored each other, satisfied
that their respective strengths had been seen and recognised by the other side.

The scribes arrived and Polak took a long draught of
Kotak wine, the full bodied red of Mazag, wiped his lips on his sleeve,
belched, and then declared the talks open. Amne thought she’d prefer the
courtly horns of Kastan to announce an event, but she was a guest so she would
have to go along with the customs of her hosts. She wondered whether she ought
to belch too, but decided it was not appropriate and she could always ask
Lalaas afterwards.

“Mazag wish for peace with the honoured people of
Kastania,” Polak began in a booming voice. “It is our desire to live as friends
alongside each other, respecting our customs, culture and ways. It has always
been our desire to recognise Kastania as a friend.”

Amne nodded. She had been warned about the flowery use
of such proclamations. Much of it was empty meaningless rhetoric, but it was
only to be expected. She had been told to respond accordingly. “Kastania is
pleased that our neighbours and friends the Mazag wish for peace. We too wish
for this, and are happy to agree with the mighty Mazag nation for a mutual
agreement declaring this to the rest of the lands and kingdoms. Together we can
stand as an example of how nations and peoples can live alongside each other in
friendship.”

Polak showed his teeth. He recognised the pompous tone
as a reflection of his own insincerity. This princess showed promise. A pity he
could not seal the agreement by taking her to his bedchamber for a more
personal alliance of their bodies. He was not of royal blood. Maybe his master
the prince could woo her? That would make any alliance that much stronger. He
would have to get the camp artist to sketch her features so that his prince
could see for himself what a beauty she was. There would be no need to
exaggerate her looks; she was simply and outrageously a stunner. “We welcome
such words of friendship. We are pleased to see the honourable House of Koros
on the throne of Kastania. It was certain that we would not be able to form
such a close alliance with your predecessors. May your House reign for many
years and grow stronger.”