Empire of Avarice

by Tony Roberts

  “No. You’re a prince and canines are simply not allowed to bite you.”

  Argan seemed satisfied with that. “Being a prince is good,” he declared.

  “Being a prince carries a lot of responsibilities, young Argan,” Mr Sen said. “You must behave well, you must never be seen to be angry, you must always carry on in a pleasant and sensible manner, even if you feel cross and upset. The people will always look to you as a way to behave.”

  “Will they?” Argan looked surprised.

  “Oh, yes Argan. You will be one of the most important people in the whole of the empire.”

  “Wow,” Argan’s eyes went even wider. Any more, Mr Sen thought, and the prince would begin to look like one of the predatory nocturnal birds of prey in his book.

  “So, animals.” Mr Sen looked up into the air for inspiration. “Felines. We have small house felines in Kastania, although I’m told in some parts of the world there are larger hunting felines that would eat a man in one go.”

  “Oh, really? Where?”

  “A long, long way away. Don’t worry, young prince, I doubt you’ll ever have the chance to see any.”

  “Oh,” Argan seemed disappointed. “What about equines? Father and Jorqel ride those; will I have one of my own one day?”

  “Of course,” Mr Sen nodded. “A big one, powerful and fast. There are wild equines in the empire and are often caught to be used as breeding pairs for chargers. Your father probably got his charger from a stables that bred wild equines.”

  “Then that’s what I want when I grow up,” Argan decided. “Any more animals?”

  “We have herd animals bred for meat, like wool beasts and bovines, and fowls and water birds.”

  “Water birds!” Argan pounced. “Do they poo their eggs out?”

  “Oh gosh, no!” Mr Sen was mildly shocked. “They have a second hole where the eggs come out.”

  “What, next to their bums?”

  “Not so loud,” Mr Sen said in a hushed voice. “Yes.” He wondered just who had been putting such thoughts into a five year old’s head. “Just like fowls.”

  “Fowls as well? Gosh. Do chargers lay eggs too?”

  Mr Sen chuckled. “No, no, young prince, they don’t lay eggs. Just think if they did; they would be enormous.”

  He went on, listing what animals and birds, and even fish he could think of, but the conversation seemed to slip down the path of which ones laid eggs and which ones didn’t, and did they produce eggs in the same manner or not. It was getting a little uncomfortable for the middle-aged man. He made a note to ask the empress what he should tell Argan once questions turned to more – basic – subjects, such as breeding, particularly human breeding.

  He pondered on whether he ought to have a set of alternative interesting subjects to distract the young boy with if and when that time came. Fortunately that day Argan was more interested in getting back to his room to play with his presents and finally a relieved Mr Sen dismissed him at lunch time when the call came to eat in the dining chamber.

  Sen noticed besides the usual people a newcomer. This was a priest, quite clearly, and he was intrigued. The Koros’ falling out with High Priest Burnas in particular and the Temple in general was well known and things had become quite strained between the palace and the clerics. Now it seemed the palace was trying to heal the rift – or were they?

  He seated himself and looked at the cleric. He was dressed in the long robes generally associated with priests and was bearded, another symbol of their calling. A chain hung round his neck and a golden figure of a bird dangled down his chest. He would therefore be a preacher of the god Viak, god of the skies. Sen had prayed to Viak on a few occasions but he was not a regular worshipper, only when the situation demanded it. Viak was one of the major deities but not one of the most important ones.

  “Good day to you, cleric,” he began, “it is a change to have a member of the Temple here with us.”

  The priest looked across the table at him. He had light grey eyes and looked about thirty years or so. “It has been too long since a member of the Temple resided here.”

  “Cleric Waylar has been appointed to oversee the religious aspect of palace life, and to teach my two sons the ways of the gods. He is also to serve on the council as religious representative of the Empire.” Isbel smiled at the solemn-faced priest.

  “With the blessing of High Priest Gaurel?” Sen asked.

  There was a long silence. Finally Isbel smiled ruefully. “High Priest Gaurel is in Niake and has his hands full with rebuilding the temples there. I do not need his permission to appoint a priest to teach my sons in Kastan, Mr Sen.”

  Sen picked his words carefully; he knew all too well how sensitive this subject was. All eyes were on him. “That is so, your majesty, but I would say that High Priest Gaurel believes he should be consulted in replacing what he sees as his position. I believe this may cause further trouble between you and him, and between the good Cleric Waylar and the High Priest as well.”

  “High Priest Gaurel is in Niake for exceeding his authority and believing he can dictate to the palace; he ought to have learned his lesson. He retains the title only in name. In reality there is no longer a High Priest and each temple in the empire is no longer beholden to the one same man.” Isbel held Mr Sen’s gaze and the tutor nodded. He didn’t want to lose his place here in the palace so he would not press the issue. Both he and the empress knew the potential problems ahead created by the appointment of Waylar to the palace, but it was not politic to speak about them aloud or in company.

  Mr Sen turned his attention to something more palatable, the freshly baked bread and a plate of cheeses in front of him. This was something much more appealing. But he remembered the etiquette in time not to commit a social blunder. He looked again at Waylar. “Will you bless the food, Cleric, before I die of starvation here?” he patted his ample stomach and smiled wistfully.

  Isbel smothered a smile. Waylar did not possess a sense of humour, but he rose to his feet and bowed to the empress. “With your permission, ma’am?”

  Isbel bowed her head in assent and Waylar raised his arms wide and invoked the blessing of Viak and the other gods to look after those dining at the table, and to thank the gods for providing them with food. It only took a few moments, then all began their lunch, even Argan who had been told not to eat before everyone else. He had sat with eyes on each and every one of the adults, impatiently waiting for the moment he could attack a particularly inviting warm roll of bread that was sitting teasing him on a small plate.

  He bit into the bread and savoured the warmth and the softness. It was much better than the bread he used to have before he moved to the palace. He decided he like living in the palace; he had a room to himself and it was such a big room! Everyone was so much more polite and calling him ‘your highness’ and ‘your majesty’ and ‘young prince’ and things. He had better food, better clothes and more space to run around in. Even better, he could keep away from Istan and his open mouth that never seemed to shut, even when he was eating.

  He didn’t know why the grown-ups were for ever telling him that being a prince was hard work and he would have to be on his best behaviour always. He was always on his best behaviour, much more so than Istan ever was. He thought Istan would be the one who would have to be told lots and lots of times. Even then he’d probably carry on being naughty.

  A plate of cold meats and those awful tasting round things the grown-ups liked arrived next. He was going to avoid the round things – what did they call them? – lovines or something, and instead have those cold meats and the yummy vegetable things in oil. There was a servant coming round with a big silver plate and a pretty looking serving fork, asking who wanted what. Argan looked at him, his face shining in anticipation.

  The servant, a short man with fat cheeks but a kind face, smiled and bowed at the boy. “And what would you like, young prince?” he asked.

  “Oh those meats please!” Argan said, “and the oil
veggy-tables!”

  Isbel smiled, sitting next to him. “Don’t you like the lovines?”

  “Ugh!” Argan poked his tongue out.

  “Keep your tongue in, Argan,” Isbel said calmly, “we don’t want to see what you’ve just eaten.”

  Argan wondered if that was true, whether everyone could see his food on his tongue. It didn’t feel as though there was food there, and he stuck his tongue out as far as he could and tried to peer down at it; his eyes crossed with the effort.

  “Argan!” Isbel scolded him.

  He put his tongue away and looked frustrated. When he got back to his room he’d stand in front of his mirror and stick his tongue out. Maybe there’d be lots of food on it. The servant, ignoring the tongue issues, had placed three slices of meat and a small pile of oiled vegetables on Argan’s plate. “Will that be all, young prince?”

  “Thank you,” he said, as he’d been told to say. His mother looked on in an approving manner. Apart from poking his tongue out and wanting to know about creatures’ bottoms, Argan was the most polite and well behaved boy any mother could possibly wish for. She felt proud of him.

  Argan was unaware of this. He was busy tucking into the nicely flavoured meats in front of him. He didn’t understand what the grown-ups were talking about at the table or why they sometimes got cross with each other. On the few occasions he tried to include himself in their conversations they had, politely but firmly, told him it was an adult conversation and he didn’t have to worry about joining in. He had decided a long time ago not to speak to them unless they spoke to him first. That way he knew he was supposed to join in. Anyway, the meats were far more interesting than whatever they were talking about.

  After lunch he was allowed to go to his room to play with his new toys. Excitedly he ran upstairs and practically crashed through the door to his room, in his haste forgetting to shut it properly, to enjoy the castle and figures. He even failed to notice that the customary guard outside his room was no longer there.

  The box with his castle in was on the floor while everything else was on the shelf. He flung open the lid and peered inside, impatient to begin a new game.

  Down in the dining hall the empress and the others were still discussing matters. Their conversation stopped abruptly. Argan’s screams could clearly he heard at even that distance.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The snow was too deep to allow them to continue; Lalaas had conceded defeat and looked for shelter. The beasts were exhausted, the riders even more so. Their heads hung low, clouds of breath hanging around their heads in the still, bitterly cold air. The hunter knew it had been folly to try to pass through Bragal in winter but the emperor had been insistent. When they had been closer to the coast, the air was not as chill and the snow was not as deep, but now they had struck inland they were well into the hills and in the valleys the snow had drifted and collected, and it was simply impossible to carry on.

  A small village lay ahead, the smoke from the chimneys and hearths spiralling up lazily into the air. “We must seek shelter there,” Lalaas advised the others. “We will perish unless we do so. The night is coming and to be out here in the open in these conditions will be fatal. We have little firewood and this area had precious little wood to collect.”

  “But what of the villagers?” Theros asked, his eyebrows coated with ice. There wasn’t much more of his face visible, like the rest of them. “If they find out who we are they’ll slaughter us!”

  “Perhaps not,” Lalaas said, studying the village.

  “What do you mean?” Theros snapped. His hostility towards the hunter had continued, unabated, ever since the incident at the pass. It had been two sevendays now and Lalaas had hardly spoken to the diplomat, and Theros on his part had as little to do with the hunter as possible. The two clerks remained by the side of their master, following his lead, and only Amne spoke to Lalaas in a civil manner, and even her attitude was formal and reserved.

  “These may not be Bragalese,” Lalaas nodded at the haphazard collection of buildings.

  “Explain,” Theros said curtly.

  Lalaas turned round in his saddle. “This region was once populated by Kastanian people. Some Kastanian villages remain even today. The Bragalese sometimes destroy a Kastanian village but mostly they are content to let them be. In any case, Bragal births are far greater than Kastanian. This village does not look Bragalese.”

  Theros eyed the settlement. He couldn’t see that it was any different to the others they’d skirted round carefully in the last two sevendays. “I don’t think it’s worth the risk; the princess here must not be put in danger.”

  “She’s more likely to die out here tonight than amongst the villagers,” Lalaas retorted. “I’m going to ask them for shelter. There’s plenty of barns over there.”

  Amne followed Lalaas’ pointed gauntlet. Animal pens surrounded the large structures, their sloping roofs completely covered in snow. “Won’t it be draughty and smelly?”

  “Smelly, yes, ma’am, but draughty? No. The snow insulates the roof and the walls are low and protected by a surrounding pen, you see? It’s also probably full of hay and straw and we can make very comfortable beds in there. Of course, no fire for obvious reasons, but we can’t have everything. I can bargain for food, too.”

  “With what?” Theros sneered.

  “Coins I took from the two I killed back at the pass,” Lalaas said evenly. “Come on, let’s find shelter before nightfall.”

  “A ghoul as well as a killer and a woman beater,” Theros commented acidly. Lalaas turned his charger round, walked it up alongside Theros and stopped. He stared at the diplomat for a moment, then his fist blurred in the air and landed square on Theros’s jaw, sending him flying off the saddle to land softly in the deep snow. He pushed the now riderless animal out of the way and looked down at the shocked and bemused man, lying in a drift.

  “I’ve had enough of your attitude,” Lalaas said softly. “If you continue I shall leave you and take the princess on to Mazag. My orders were to ensure the safe arrival of the princess here in Mazag; nothing was mentioned about you. I couldn’t care less about you, diplomat. If I were you, I’d practice your art and keep your mouth shut.” With that he turned round and walked back through the churned up snow to the head of the column.

  As he came alongside Amne, she glared at him. “Was that necessary, Lalaas? Not content in striking me you now turn on Theros there?”

  “Ma’am, I had just cause. He’s been snapping at me for the last couple of sevendays. I think he wants my head. If that’s the case I ought to let him rot here. And don’t think I won’t, because I do mean it. He’s your creature, ma’am. It might be to everyone’s benefit if you commanded him to be polite to me until we go our separate ways, which can’t come too soon, as far as I’m concerned.”

  He left Amne speechless behind her face mask and walked his mount through the virgin snow down towards the village. Theros struggled to get to his feet but it was awkward, and the two clerks had to dismount and all three floundered in the drifts for a few moments, Amne watching them from her saddle. Finally Theros grabbed the harness of his mount and pushed his way up to Amne. “Did you see what he did?” he demanded, pointing to his already swelling jaw. “Assaulted me! He attacked me! As one of your staff, ma’am, it’s also an attack against you! My advice is once we get to Branak to have him arrested and put on trial. I’m sure a messenger can get through to your father swiftly enough to authorise the death sentence!”

  “Theros, I shall consider what to do with Lalaas once we do get to Branak,” Amne replied calmly, “but until then we must put up with the manners of a man not used to our position. We must make allowances. It is best not to antagonise him any further, do you not agree?”

  “Very good, ma’am,” Theros growled. He was not pleased. If Lalaas was not punished, then he was sorely tempted to remain in Mazag and transfer his services to that kingdom. The way he – and the princess – had been treated by this ruffia
n called for some kind of response. He would see to it that Lalaas got his just desserts.

  Amne waited in the chill air. She had a headache and went from feeling cold to feeling hot in moments. She was sure she was going down with some ailment, just what she needed now. She hadn’t been feeling too good for a little while, and badly wanted the warmth and comfort of her bed in Kastan. This would definitely be the last time she agreed to go on a diplomatic mission on behalf of her father. When she got back she would tell him in no uncertain terms that he owed her enormously and she would make sure it was something big.

  Theros groaned as he climbed back into the saddle. He hated the snow, hated winter, hated Bragal, hated Lalaas and hated being in the service of the Koros. He would see this mission through; his professional pride demanded it, but his loyalty to the regime was only going to last until then. After that, he doubted he would return to Kastan. Someone like him ought to be treated with more respect than he was getting at the moment.

  Lalaas neared the first houses, squat, high-roofed affairs coated in snow. The windows were shuttered and closed, and signs of life few. The smoke betrayed the presence of many people, but sensibly they were indoors. The animals would need tending, though, and he knew it was only a matter of time before someone had to come outside. The snow in between the houses was about calf deep to him, and his mount plodded stoically through it down what he imagined was the main street.

  Just then a door on the left opened and a woman swathed in clothes emerged, sucking in the chill air and coughing. Lalaas waited until she had stopped, then hailed her. “Good day, mother,” he used a formal method so as to appear polite. “A bad day to be outdoors.”

  The woman stopped in surprise. She hadn’t noticed the stranger on charger-back. What someone was doing here in this isolated place was anyone’s guess, but he looked like a warrior or a hunter with his sword strapped to his back and a bow in its cover hanging from the saddle.

  “There’s nothing for sale here until the thaw,” she said, making her way around the side of the house to her swine pen. The animal needed feeding.