Empire of Avarice (7 page)

Mercos stared from one dark shadowy form to the other,
and felt no pity or sympathy towards him. Teduskis was speaking the truth. Mercos’s
bowels turned to ice and his legs began shaking. He opened his mouth to shout
but no sound came, for Teduskis had been waiting for such a move and his hand
clamped over Mercos’ mouth and dragged him down to the rough floorboards of the
workshop, for that was what it was. The smell of sawdust came to Mercos as he
frantically breathed through his nose and the rough feel of wood chippings
against his face added to his discomfort.

One of the men was kneeling on his back, preventing him
from getting up, and his hands were being bound behind him. A gag was roughly
forced between his teeth and his tongue felt the coarse, filthy fabric of some
workshop rag.

He was dragged up and slammed into a creaking chair. Mercos
rolled his eyes in a plea, but the tall, dark, sinister figures in front of him
were having none of it. Teduskis was in the background, idly examining the tools
of the woodman’s workshop. It was one of the palace workshops, located around
the rear of the palace, out of the way of the streets that people inhabited, so
any noise would not be investigated.

“Now,” Teduskis said pleasantly, sitting on the edge of
a bench. “Shall we begin?”

Jorqel was awakened in the dead of night by his
bodyguard, Gavan. The bodyguard called his name repeatedly, getting louder,
until Jorqel’s mind registered it. He groaned and rolled over, opening one eye.
His bodyguard was sat a few feet away, unarmoured, unarmed. He looked as though
he’d been woken only a few moments ago. “Yes, Gavan, what is it? The scouts
have found a village of unmarried young maidens ready for our arrival?”

“Not quite, sir,” Gavan grinned, his teeth visible in
the gloom of the tent. The only light was a single torch flickering by the
entrance of the tent. Two guards could be seen standing ready, armed to the
teeth. “A messenger has arrived in camp; he has a message for you from Kastan.”

“Ah!” Jorqel was instantly on his feet. He was dressed
in a simple white shirt and thin leggings. “Bring him in.”

“You’re not dressed, sir,” Gavan pointed out mildly.

“I don’t care if I’m stark naked, Gavan. Get the man in
here now. I trust he’s been fed and watered?”

“Not as far as I know, sir. I’ll find out.”

“And if not, then get the camp cook to knock something
up for him. Something edible, that is.”

Gavan paused in getting out of his chair, grinned again,
and nodded. He left. Jorqel grumbled. He hated his sleep being disturbed. He
fumbled around and got a candle lit from his flint and steel. By the time he’d
done that Gavan had returned and the messenger, looking tired and sweaty, was
presented to him. The messenger bowed.

“Welcome to camp, my good man,” Jorqel said, standing
expectantly. He hoped to all the heavens that this was from his father and that
all had gone to plan. “I believe you have a message for me?”

“Yes, your majesty.”

Your majesty! Jorqel looked at Gavan and smiled. Gavan
looked back in pleasure, then knelt on one knee and bowed. “Up, Gavan. Me being
a prince makes no difference to our relationship.”

Gavan stood up and nodded. He looked proud. As well he
might. Now he was a member of the royal guard to the heir to the throne.

The messenger presented the letter, sealed with wax. Jorqel
angled the letter so he could see it better in the light. The seal had the
idiom of a bar with two circles next to each other in the middle. The Imperial
Seal. “Have you ridden far?” he asked the messenger.

“Sire. From Niake. I come with the compliments and
professed loyalty of my master, Evas Extonos, governor of Niake.”

“You have been treated well here in camp?”

“So far, yes sire. Although I am thirsty and my charger
needs feeding and grooming.”

Jorqel looked at Gavan. “I thought that had been
arranged, Gavan.”

“Consider it done, sire.” Gavan left and clapped one of
the guards on duty by the tent flap on the shoulder. The guard took it with a
smile. Jorqel suppressed a grin himself. The whole camp would know in a few
moments and they’d all be in good spirits. Good. He looked again at the
messenger. “Be seated.”

As the messenger sat, resting in relief, Jorqel opened
the letter and scanned the writing. It was his father’s handwriting alright. ‘Son,’
it began, ‘good news indeed. We have deposed the old emperor and I am now
ruler. You are heir. Things are confused and chaotic and will be a few days
before we know what is what and who is who. Be wary. There will be those who
will be consumed with avarice and desire your position.’ Jorqel nodded to
himself. ‘Your immediate concerns are to ensure the army is fit to march
instantly north to Lodria and bring the province back under imperial control. You
are to take the provincial capital Slenna and install yourself as governor. Your
rear will be safe as it is in the capable hands of Evas Extonos.’

Jorqel angled the parchment more to read the last few
lines. They were words of encouragement from his father and messages of good
luck from his mother and sister. He folded the message and placed it on his
bedside table. “Thank you,” he said to the messenger. “Now go with the guard
and you will be taken to a place where you can rest and eat, and then sleep. On
the morrow you will be given a reply to send back to Kastan via Niake. Now you
may go.”

The messenger bowed low again and backed away. Jorqel
sat down on his low bunk and allowed his thoughts to race around his head for a
few moments. He chuckled to himself. Prince! It was more than he had hardly
dared to believe for such a long time, ever since his father had proved they
had a claim to the throne in the midst of the civil wars. Thanks to the bloody
nature of those wars, rival after rival had been eliminated by one faction or
other, and so it had come down to just their family, the Koros, and the late
emperor’s. His father’s intention to get rid of the ruling emperor had excited
and horrified him in equal measures, and Jorqel had taken the army away from
Kastan so that the intrigues and corruption surrounding the court could not
affect them. It had also opened the way to the palace.

Gavan reappeared. “He’s comfortable, my lord. We have
orders?”

“Yes, Gavan. Lodria! We’re to take Slenna. The army must
be ready to march at first light.”

Gavan scratched his jaw. “Aye, they’ll be ready. I think
first, sire, that they wish to rejoice your elevation to heir to the throne of
Kastania. I would dress before going outside.”

Jorqel smiled again. “Of course. I’ll be a few moments.”

Gavan bowed and backed out of the tent. He stood by the
exit, breathing in deeply. This was just what the men needed. A fight. Too long
sitting around waiting made the men soft and restless. They needed a war or a
fight to keep the edge to their skills, and to keep their tempers under
control. It had been too long now since their last battle. The Bragal War had
been long and tough, yes, but since they’d been withdrawn a few sevendays ago
they’d done nothing but march north, then west, then throw their guts up on the
sea crossing to Bathenia and the disembarkation at the port of Aconia. Another
march north and they’d been at this camp for around ten days.

Now they’d rested they were getting bored. The order to
march north to Lodria had come at the right time. Also they could celebrate
their commander being made prince. That would give them the perfect excuse to
crack open a few casks of ale.

Prince Jorqel threw open the tent flap behind him and
strode out. To his surprise the entire army was standing there in a huge half
circle waiting for him. Many were holding torches. A huge cheer rose up from
their throats as the new prince emerged from behind Gavan. Jorqel stopped,
surprised, then smiled and opened his arms wide to accept the acclamation. He
turned slowly from one end of the half circle to the other, nodding at the
company captains who were shouting as loud as any of the men.

Finally he waved at them to cease and stepped forward
one pace. Filling his lungs, he spoke to them. “Friends, colleagues. We have
rested long enough here and recovered from the wounds received on the campaign
in Bragal. Now we have a new emperor, my father, and he has been swift in
commanding me to take you all on a new campaign, one to the north. The traitors
in Lodria are to be dealt with, and our objective is the town-fortress of
Slenna. That is our prize. The reward for taking Slenna will be that we become
the new garrison and Lodria will be our province to patrol and pacify. The
people are not to be treated harshly, for they will be future citizens of the
empire and we must show them we are just and fair.

“But to those who oppose us and raise arms against us,
we will show them that the valour and strength of imperial soldiers are not
things of the past; you will show everyone, including the new emperor, that
imperial forces are again something to fear and respect!”

The soldiers raised their arms and shouted in agreement.
Jorqel raised his arms again, once more, and drew in a deep breath before
shouting the final line of his speech. “To Slenna, and victory!”

The men roared in response and stamped their feet in
delight. Jorqel clapped a hand on Gavan’s shoulder. “Get the men to pack up
once they have toasted our forthcoming campaign. I want to be away at first
light. No point in trying to go back to sleep now – we’re all too excited for
that.”

Gavan nodded. He stepped forward to accept a cup full of
ale to toast the new prince, and then had it refilled to toast the start of a
new campaign, as was the tradition. Jorqel joined in for that one. Then they
filled their cups for the third and last time, and poured the alcohol onto the
ground as a libation to the gods. They had great need for good luck and favour
from the gods now.

With that the camp was transformed into a hive of
activity. Tents were packed and rolled up onto wagons, and beasts of burden
hitched to the latter. Wagons were brought forward and other supplies loaded
up. Weapons were checked and put into scabbards, or held in hands. Shields
dusted off, examined for rot or splinters, and then slid into position. The
army marched with them on their backs, ready for use at a moment’s notice. These
veterans were going to take no chances.

Jorqel composed a quick letter and sealed it before
passing it to the messenger who mounted up, waved his farewell, and rode off
south into the night. Dawn was in the air when the camp was finally packed and
torches were extinguished. Fires were kicked into extinction and a last check
made of the area to make sure nothing had been left. The men were glad to move,
for the latrines were becoming fetid with frequent use. Now their contents
could seep into the ground and fertilise the land.

As the sky grew lighter, the scouts were allowed to ride
off to the horizon and Jorqel mounted his white charger. In the saddle he
settled himself and looked around. His bodyguard were ready, all like him,
mounted on strong chargers. To front and rear were the two companies of foot
soldiers, all spearmen, and on the flanks the two companies of imperial archers
were waiting. With a lazy wave, Jorqel set them off southwards towards the
border of Lodria, where imperial rule had been thrown off, the people there
preferring to follow a nephew of a long dead emperor and his family, the
traitorous Fokis. Emperor Astiras would not tolerate this, whereas his
predecessor had done nothing to stop it.

Jorqel felt elated as he rode along the road; he would
show the people of Kastania that the Koros dynasty would not allow rebellion in
any part of the empire!

Argan awoke during the first watch after dawn. He
yawned, rubbed his eyes and stretched out in his clean bed. It felt nice. He
had slept well. His younger brother Istan had his own room now, and it meant
that his crying no longer kept him awake. He decided he liked the palace, even
though he’d only slept there two nights. Well, one and a half, really. He
wondered what was going to happen this day. He’d been told that a new tutor was
going to teach him what he was to learn during the day, and that there would be
a special room where he would be taught these things. It would be only him taught
by the tutor. Istan was too young to learn anything yet.

Argan threw aside the blankets and padded to the window
that overlooked the courtyard. He struggled to pull the curtains aside but
finally stuck his head through the centre, giving up with wrestling the heavy
drapes. It was a clear day and in the courtyard below the changing of the guard
was going on. He liked to see this. It happened twice a day; at this time in
the morning and just before dark. There were lots of soldiers all with the big
long handled weapons marching in lines and other men, without these big
weapons, were shouting at them. Argan wondered whether these shouting men were
cross. They certainly sounded it.

More men came marching from the place where they slept. His
father said this was called a barracks. The ones already in the courtyard then
marched towards the barracks and went inside. The new men split up and marched
to particular places to stand still and watch. That was what was called being
on guard, so he’d been told.

“Ah, you’re awake,” Rousa’s voice startled him. He’d not
heard her come into the room. “Get dressed, young prince; breakfast will be
ready soon, and we don’t want to miss that, do we?”

“No, Rousa!” Argan said and tugged at his sleeping
clothes. “What am I going to wear today?”

“Your new clothes,” the nurse said, throwing open one of
the huge floor-to-ceiling wardrobes that filled in various alcoves. The room
was huge and there was plenty of space to walk around and get things like
clothes out of chests without bumping into anything. The floor was covered in a
thick fluffy carpet and Argan liked the feel of it against his bare feet.

“My new clothes?”

“Yes,” Rousa smiled, holding up a wormspun shirt and
jacket combination that was pale yellow in colour with blue piping on the cuffs
and collar. The collar itself was very decorative and layered. Rousa laid it on
the bed for Argan to get into, then she lifted out of the clothes chest the
small leggings, also wormspun-like and coloured pale yellow. The blue piping went
down the thighs. Resting at the bottom were many pairs of shoes, and Rousa
picked up a pair made of soft felt. These were indoor shoes, as opposed to the
leather ones for outdoors.

“I’ll leave you to get dressed, young prince,” she said.
“I’ll see you downstairs.”

Argan threw on his clothes, patting the jacket. It was a
bit heavy but he got used to it fairly quickly. The leggings were very comfy
and smooth. He supposed because he was a prince now he was allowed to wear such
things. The shoes were a snug fit and he wiggled his toes inside them for a
moment. Then he smelt breakfast and his tummy growled, reminding him that he
was hungry. He ran to the door, pulled down the silver handle that was shaped
like a hunting feline’s paw – he liked that – and trotted out into the wide
corridor. One of the men he’d seen out in the courtyard was standing in an
alcove almost opposite. He bowed as he caught sight of the boy.

“Hello!” Argan said brightly.

“Greetings, young prince,” the guard said solemnly.

Argan beamed and bounced along the corridor to the
stairs. He liked it that one of the guards was there in the corridor outside
his room. Maybe it was so to stop Istan sneaking into his room to wake him at
night with his crying? The huge staircase went down in one big run. On either
side were high rails and they were too high for him to touch, so he jumped down
from one step to the next.

His sister, Amne, appeared from another passageway and
stopped at the top of the staircase. “Slow down, Argan,” she said. “You don’t want
to fall, do you?”

Argan stopped and waited until Amne came alongside, then
he held up his hand and she took it, and they went down the rest of the stairs
together. “Do you think we’ll have those huge giant fowl eggs again today?”
Argan asked loudly.

“They’re water avian’s eggs, Argan,” Amne said with
amusement.

“Water avians? They don’t lay eggs, do they?”

“Oh yes they do,” Amne said, taking Argan across the
floor-boarded hallway to the dining wing. Servants were carrying food from the
kitchen across a corridor to the dining room. More guards stood on watch and
Amne seemed nervous around these men. Argan didn’t know why.

“How?”

“How, what?” Amne asked, turning her head to look down
at her brother.

“How do water avians lay eggs?”

“Well….. they push them out of their….back ends.”

“Their bums?” Argan asked very loudly.

“Shhh! No, not their bums,” Amne replied, looking wildly
around the room. Her father and mother were both looking at Argan in surprise. Rousa
was frowning as she stood close to the door and a number of other people were
seated at the large table. Argan saw one was Teduskis, while the others were
people he had never seen before. He decided he didn’t want to sit near the
strangers. Teduskis was not a stranger but Argan that morning felt he didn’t
want to sit near him either. He wanted to sit next to his mother.

“What was all that about, Amne?” his mother asked as the
two went to sit in the two seats next to Isbel.

“Argan wanted to know how water avians laid eggs,
mother, that’s all.” Amne pulled out a chair for the young boy who clambered up
into his seat. A servant appeared, holding a thick cushion, and passed it to
Amne who slid it behind Argan. “Argan, stand up a moment.”

Argan, who had found the table top at nose height,
pushed himself up and felt the cushion slide under his bottom. He sat down and
found he was now high enough to use his spoon. He smiled at his sister who sat
next to him. Amne pursed her lips and looked about. There was someone missing.

“Father, where’s Captain Mercos?”

She didn’t see Teduskis look at her sharply, then shift
his eyes sideways at Astrias, but Isbel did. She kept quiet, but regarded
Teduskis with a very long look which the retainer caught and he looked away. Amne
missed all this as she was looking at her father who had made a show of looking
round the chamber. “I really do not know,” he said truthfully. “Perhaps he had
an appointment? I shall find out, of course. I wouldn’t worry unduly about him,
Amne. I thought you didn’t like the man.”

“I don’t,” Amne replied, “but he’s usually on guard or
on duty when Teduskis isn’t here.”

“True. I’ll find out after breakfast.”

Argan didn’t listen as he didn’t really understand what
they were talking about. He was looking hard at the egg that was placed before
him. It was big. If it didn’t come out of the bird’s bottom, then where did it
come out of? It can’t be the mouth as the egg was too big for a bird’s mouth. As
everyone seated was served with an egg and bread Astiras stood and tapped the
side of his cup with a silver spoon. All turned to him attentively.

“Another morning. We must give thanks to the gods for
our good fortune, and to continue to do so. A moment’s prayer of thanks.”

Argan bowed his head and squeezed his eyes shut. He’d
been told if he prayed hard enough the gods would hear him. But he didn’t need
to shout, so his wincing mother had told him after one particular hard effort a
few sevendays ago. The gods would hear him whether he whispered, screamed or
thought the prayer. So Argan concentrated and thought very hard about how he
was grateful to the gods at making him a prince and his father the emperor. And
maybe could the gods tell him where the avians made their eggs?

A servant sliced off the top of the egg for him and then
stood back, a small white cloth draped over his velvet sleeve. Argan struggled
with the height of the egg but dunked his bread into the egg without knocking
it over which was an achievement for him. Amne kept an eye on him, as she
normally did, but the boy seemed to be coping well that morning.

Astiras ate well and avoided looking at his wife who was
giving him a fairly hard stare from time to time. Conversation was strained and
sparse, and the adults guessed the empress was not entirely happy with her
husband. As a result the diners left fairly rapidly once the eggs had been
eaten and drinks thrown down throats. Teduskis fairly fled from the room, not
wishing to be caught in any conversation with Isbel. That was the
responsibility of the emperor. He was just a faithful retainer.

Amne wiped Argan’s mouth before standing up. Opposite
her the diplomat Theros Pognon stood as well, bowing low to her. His duty that
day was to begin her tuition in the art of diplomacy, as he was to accompany
her to Mazag when the time came. He was plain, slim, and had a really dreadful
basin hair cut around the level of his ears. Amne found him oddly attractive in
a repulsive way. He must have been in his forties. She turned to her mother and
father. “I must be at my lessons. I’ll be in the palace library if you need me.”
She bowed and the emperor and empress bowed back.

Argan waved at her, his smile wide. Amne tousled his
hair and then walked to the door, Theros allowing her to precede him.

“Argan, you must be at your studies too,” Astiras said,
a smile on his face. The young boy was to be taught how to be a prince, learn
the art of war, how to govern a province, and how to speak languages and the
dozens of other skills someone of his station would need. It would take over a
decade, but the end product ought to be worth the effort. A stout, bearded man
with double chins at the end of the table stood slowly, wiping his mouth. It
had been a wonderfully cooked egg and the bread was divine. He was glad to have
secured the job as tutor to the young Prince Argan. His name was Iovan Sen and
he was a man who had tutored many of the young members of the Kastanian
nobility already. He had been in the right place at the right time when the
coup had occurred and had made enquiries at the palace the day before. He had
been interviewed and accepted almost immediately, but he thought it had been
the references he carried on him from the prominent families of the city that
had done the trick. Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained, he believed.

“Come young Prince,” he said kindly.

Argan looked at his parents. They smiled and nodded. “This
is your tutor, Mr Sen. He’ll teach you lots of things. Go with him. He knows
where you’ve got to go,” Isbel said. “I’ll pop in and see how you’re getting on
in a short while.”

“What about you, father?” Argan asked.

“Well, young man, I’m going to be very busy today. Got
to see lots of people. Being emperor means I’m going to be very busy.”

“And your father and I have things to discuss right
now,” Isbel said, putting her hand on Astiras’ arm. Astiras winced, but changed
it quickly into a smile.

Argan hugged the pair and then trotted off dutifully
after the waddling tutor.

Isbel waited until the door had closed before turning to
her husband. “What’s this about that man Mercos? You and Teduskis have done something
to him, haven’t you?”

Astiras eyed the two guards standing dutifully at the
end of the room. “Not here, dear. I don’t want us overheard.”

Isbel looked at the two guards. Neither had given any
sign they had heard the low voices of either herself or her husband. “Our
chamber, then?”

“Yes, but it’ll have to be quick. I’ve an appointment
fairly soon with Frendicus and his tax collectors.”

“Your wife is more important, Astiras Koros! I didn’t
agree to become empress only for you to ignore me, you understand?”

Astiras sighed and stood up. “I know, Isbel. But there’s
so much to sort out and fast. I’d no idea how bad the rot had set in here
before yesterday. If I don’t do something now, we won’t be around in a couple
of years. Come on, let’s get to our chamber and you can say what you need to
say, and I’ll tell you what’s going on.”

Isbel stared at her husband for a moment, then stood up
and was allowed to lead him out of the dining room. Pepil was waiting outside,
rolls of parchment in his arms. Astiras waved him off, saying he would join him
in the treasury, a set of rooms attached to the palace, in due course, and to
get Frendicus and his minions to work at once. Pepil bowed low and moved off
along the corridor. The two went in the opposite direction, up the staircase
and into their chambers. Here the imperial guard were on duty and none of the
suspect palace guard could overhear them.

Astiras sat heavily on the bed while Isbel remained
standing. “Well?” she began. “Just what is going on?”

Astiras bowed his head, then snapped into a
business-like posture. “Mercos was arrested last night leaving a meeting of
conspirators who were planning to overthrow us and replace us with a more –
sympathetic regime to them.”

“Oh no!” Isbel put her hands to her mouth. “Already? It’s
begun so soon?”

“Are you surprised? We live in a fractious time. We’ve
had ten years of civil war, so even though most of the players are now gone,
their supporters remain and anyone gaining power is likely to be opposed by a
fair number of people.”