Empire of Avarice

by Tony Roberts

She shuddered at the memory. She’d always had a voluptuous figure, and she’d used it to snare Astiras, and, on occasion, to influence a decision in her favour from some man or another, but she wouldn’t describe herself as a woman who flaunted her body. Even in her mid-thirties she still turned heads and caught admiring glances. It pleased her but Astiras was her man and no other. There had been those before who had fully used their beauty and sated their desires, but she was not one. Besides, society was terribly bitchy and once whispers started they would never stop and in the end people would believe them no matter how many times they were denied.

  Amne was not built like her. She was slimmer and fair haired rather than the darker haired empress and was hot tempered like her father. Some men may like that but if Amne was to be a proper princess who would have to bite her tongue and think before opening her mouth. Amne’s mother had been fair like her and it had been tragic that she had died so young, but it had opened the opportunity for Isbel. She had been a close friend of the woman, Mara, and had been around for Astiras while he mourned her death. It was a few years afterwards that she and Astiras got close and that was when Isbel decided she would like to be his new wife.

  Astiras was a complex man. Hot headed and physical, he was always marked down for a life as a warrior. His fiery personality had drawn her like an insect to a flame and she knew he was going to be hard work, but she couldn’t stop herself. He, too, was drawn to her, perhaps for more physical reasons, although she wasn’t entirely sure. He could be gentle and humorous, or stubborn and unforgiving. Sometimes she could scream at him. He was a frustrated man, always believing he was destined for greater things, railing at the stupidity of those above him and crying out for common sense against the tide. It seemed at times he had been the only man to voice his fears about the future while all those around them ignored the perils and did all they could to enrich themselves before the collapse came.

  That had given him the drive to get to the top. Killing an emperor was a terrible thing, but Astiras had been driven to it for he saw only ruin and despair if things had been allowed to continue. In that one act he had leapt on the top of the collapsing pile and forced it to stop by sheer will-power, taking on the entire establishment and terrorising it into compliance. It was no good reasoning with them, for they were not interested in reason. Their only ‘reason’ had been to get rich and to the blazes with everyone else. So Astiras had taken them all on, and so far had succeeded in cowing them.

  How long that remained so was anyone’s guess, and Isbel knew she had to be the one to watch his back, looking after the ‘home’ front. Astiras wouldn’t be any good at that; he was a fighter, a man of action. He needed it to get rid of his energy. Isbel smiled to herself. He certainly did have energy. Shaking the thought from her mind, she left her chamber and glided out onto the corridor outside. The guard there snapped to attention but Isbel waved him to relax. She softly asked him if anything had taken place apart from Argan’s nightmare and the guard replied that nothing had. Isbel thanked him and went along the passageway. It didn’t cost anything to be polite and friendly, and the guards were human after all, putting themselves in the way of danger should it rear its head. She felt it bonded the guards to her family if they were treated in a friendly manner – not too close of course, but friendly nonetheless.

  Ever since the incident with Argan and the reptile, Isbel had made strenuous efforts to check on the guards’ backgrounds, with Vosgaris’ help. Any who had problematic pasts were closely questioned and if they were not satisfactory, told to leave. This had only happened to one, a man who had served in the Fokis household and was currently in debt – to a Fokis moneylender. He was too much of a risk and had gone. The rest seemed fine, but Vosgaris had been told to keep an eye on things, as it was his responsibility to ensure the Palace Guard remained loyal.

  She found herself outside the great council chamber, the one with the map of the empire and the surrounding lands in it. She slowly entered the silent space and found it to be completely dark. A guard was patrolling the corridor and she asked him to fetch a light for the chamber, and he soon produced a flickering torch which the empress took and entered the room, closing the door behind her. Placing the torch in a handy wall bracket, she leaned on the table and peered at the beautifully carved map set within the table.

  The extent of the empire on the map astounded her. It encompassed so much, lands that now were distinct kingdoms in their own right. They had lost so much, lands that now obeyed different rulers in different languages, prayed to different gods, used different ways of doing things. What would Astiras want, she asked herself? Would he be content with securing Bragal, Lodria and those areas still in revolt against the rule of the Kastanian emperors? Or, would he now look beyond and seek to regain that which had been imperial territory in the past? If so, how far back would he look? Ten years? Twenty? Fifty? A hundred? More?

  She ran a finger along the line of what had once been the frontier. So many people, so much to rule. Would it be possible to do so these days? The world was full of competing kingdoms and empires, each intent that none should dominate the rest. If one looked like it was becoming too big, the rest ganged up to teach it a lesson, only to fall out between themselves if one or the other took too much territory for the others’ liking.

  It would be a tough task to go beyond that for which they were fighting at the moment. Venn had laid claim to Epros and its main settlement Drazino. Imperial objections would be brushed aside, even though Epros was regarded as Kastanian territory. Venn would no doubt argue that Kastania had not been in control of Epros for a decade and the rulers there were independent and Kastania had made no effort to regain it. Therefore Epros was ripe for the taking and Venn had already begun to move troops into the region. Kastania could do nothing to stop it. Similarly, way to the west, news was filtering in that the Tybar were moving against Tobralus, another former imperial province which had thrown off Kastanian rule and gone their own way. Astiras would regard both provinces as his and would most likely make moves against them at some time, but Isbel doubted the empire had the military strength to take on either.

  She felt sad. Sad that the empire should be in such a perilous state. It had been so great in the past, so brilliant, so magnificent. Its people were proud of the past and were now bitter at how low the Empire had sunk. They looked to their leaders to give them victories, and in the recent past all that had been reported were defeats and losses. Nobody had any faith in the leadership any more. Even the current war in Bragal was looked upon with indifference; everyone expected it to result in yet another ignominious defeat. The surprise was that so far no imperial defeat had been reported.

  She walked around the table, looking at the contours and lines that marked rivers, great roads, boundaries and mountains. What would the man who had carved this think today? She looked up at the half seen pictures of former emperors, and found she was staring directly at the legendary Junos, a man who had brought the empire almost to the heights of its old original boundaries before it split. Was Astiras hoping to emulate him? That was impossible, for there were too many organised and efficient kingdoms in the way these days. But Junos had behind him a formidable empress, Tabria, and some say it had been she who had been the real ruler. Isbel smiled self-indulgently. Would people say that of her in centuries to come? What would they say of her? She sighed and looked back at the map. Talia, that was the key. The long finger of land that had given birth to the old empire so long ago. If only they could regain that – surely there were too many enemies to defeat to enable it to happen?

  Isbel recalled the fate of the empire in the wake of Junos. His successor had made too many errors in policy and much of what had been achieved was undone. Isbel vowed to continue in her role after Astiras had gone. He was much older than she and it was almost accepted she would survive him and live into the reign of his successor, earmarked as his son Jorqel. Isbel tapped the table thoughtfully. Jorqel and she had not always seen eye to e
ye; they often clashed on matters. How the two would regard one another would remain to be seen, and of course Jorqel would – or should – be married by then and have children of his own. He would wish his wife to take over the palace. Would Isbel be banished? She knew she would have to give up the reins of power when her husband died, but she was equally determined that her policies would not be dashed to pieces the moment someone else took over. She would have to try to make Jorqel see the benefits of a consistent policy, both at home and abroad.

  And what of Amne? Or Argan and Istan? All three would have a stake in the future of the empire. Would they, once they began families, co-operate or compete? Would all this hard work fall under an internal family squabble? She would have to get them all to agree to work together when they were all old enough to understand. That way she hoped the Koros would continue to rule the empire and to bring it once more to greatness.

  ____

  The transition to consciousness was a painful one for Demtro. What made it worse was that he was tied and gagged. His head ached and he felt sick. In fact he’d felt much better in his life. It was dark so he couldn’t see much but was aware of light beyond the shuttered window in the room. He appeared to be lying on a bunk, his feet bound together and his hands tied behind his back. His clothing felt loose and he surmised whoever it had been who had hit him had searched him rather thoroughly. How rude, without even asking permission first!

  He groaned but nobody told him to shut up or threw water at him or anything, so he writhed and struggled and eventually rolled off the bunk onto the bare floorboards. He was on his knees and staring at the floor. Planting his forehead on the floor he jerked his knees up and managed to plant his feet on the ground, then bent his knees and threw himself upright, an effort, to be sure, but he managed it.

  Breathing hard through his nose he looked about. One door, shut. One window, shuttered. One bunk, messed up. Unimpressed, he hopped towards the door. It had a handle. He turned round and depressed it, finding to his surprise it opened the door. The door opened inwards so he hopped back, used his head to prise the door fully open and hopped out onto the landing. It was silent and nobody moved. Along the corridor were two more doors. The first opened into a dark small room with nothing at all in it, but the second was a surprise. It was a woman’s room, clearly, and used very recently. There was some furniture. A bed and a dresser with a mirror standing upon it. There were also brushes, a comb, soap and scented oils in bottles on the dresser. Demtro hopped onto the rug covering the centre of the floor and stood over the piece of furniture.

  No blade to help free his bonds, but maybe the mirror might do? He gripped the top of the frame in between his lower jaw and chest, turned round and hopped to the bare floorboarded section, then dropped it. It shattered with a satisfying crash and pieces of glass scattered across the floor. Now for the hard bit. He lowered himself onto his knees and looked at the pieces. One piece was fairly large and he turned round and fumbled with his fingers, brushing pieces of glass and cutting himself on one occasion. Finally he gripped the glass and held it awkwardly, placing it against the twine that bound his hands, and began slowly sawing, using the tiny amount of movement his binding allowed.

  His fingers were aching, joints complaining and sweat was beading his brow, lip and neck, but he carried on. Whoever it was who had done this to him may come back at any time. Suddenly the twine snapped and his wrists felt free. In relief he dropped the glass, tugged and pulled with his hands and suddenly the twine was falling away and he brought his arms round, examining his swollen and reddened hands.

  Next the gag was hauled off and thrown onto the bed, and last the twine around his feet cut. Now he could move around freely. He began to go through the old shop room by room, wasting no time. It was still dark but in the early watch before dawn. He had just about finished when he heard voices. He dashed back upstairs and grabbed the gag, twine and the biggest piece of glass he could find, then slipped into the wardrobe and shut the door. There were plenty of clothes here, many of wormspun, and he rubbed his face against them. Now now, he chided himself, no time for fetishes. Maybe later.

  The voices came clearly to him and were getting closer. A man’s and a woman’s. What they were saying he didn’t know because they spoke in a foreign language. He gripped the piece of glass in his hand, cushioned as it was against his skin by the gag so that only the wicked point was uncovered, the size of his palm. The door to the room opened and the voices, jabbering away rapidly, suddenly sounded as if they were right next to him. Demtro held his breath and held himself absolutely still, then the male voice began shouting angrily and footsteps ran to the room where he had been held. Clearly his escape had been detected.

  The jabbering and arguing – or so it seemed to him – came closer again and this time the woman shrieked and began babbling even faster. Demtro guessed the broken mirror had been discovered. The male voice tried to speak over the woman but it was an impossible job. Both wouldn’t shut up, clearly neither was listening to the other. It sounded like a flock of seed eating avians in a tree that Demtro sometimes heard in the trees in Niake.

  Finally he heard the woman go out into the corridor. She was still jabbering away as she went downstairs. The male was grumbling to himself and began moving furniture. Suddenly the door to the wardrobe was hauled open and Demtro came face to face with a burly, swarthy character with big white teeth and a hooked nose. “Hello,” Demtro said pleasantly, before slamming the glass point into the surprised man’s throat, slicing open the flesh and biting deep into the cartilage. The man choked and staggered back, clutching his fountaining wound, and fell backwards with a loud crash.

  Demtro skipped out of the room, brushing away the flecks of blood that had struck his face, and slithered down the stairs as fast as he could go. The woman could still be heard at the rear of the building, chattering away angrily. Demtro slipped quietly to the front and prised open one of the windows, pulling free the lattice work with some effort, then slid out onto the street.

  Dawn was just breaking.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The mighty Ister River marked the traditional southern boundary of the empire and had done so for most of its thousand year history. It was a wide fast flowing watercourse and could only be crossed in a few places. It flowed from mountains far to the east, across the wide plains of Mazag and through the narrow defiles and valleys that separated the plains from Valchia and Kral, and indeed Bragal. Further to the west, close to the mighty estuary, the land was swamp and marsh, but here the flood plains were rich with vegetation and the hills on the other side rose with thickly forested slopes into the distance.

  “Is this it?” Amne asked unnecessarily.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Lalaas said, looking at the rapidly flowing river, swollen with meltwater from the hills and mountains. Later, in late summer, it would be lower and more benign, but now was perhaps the worst time to think of crossing. At least in winter it was possible to walk across on the ice. “This is the boundary of Bragal. Over there,” he pointed, “is Valchia. Our route is in that direction,” and he swept his hand off slightly to the left.

  “How do we cross?” Amne asked, frowning. It looked too dangerous to try a crossing by swimming.

  “The bridge over there,” Lalaas nodded to the left. In the distance a single bridge could be seen, a multi-piered stone construction, built centuries ago by the imperial armies, and used to carry out campaigns and raids south of the river. No imperial force had been across into Valchia in many years. There were a few small buildings visible on either side, and figures could be seen moving about.

  “Who are those people?” Amne peered, a hand shading her eyes from the sun.

  “Opportunists,” Lalaas said scathingly, “toll collectors. They will ask for a fee to cross. Probably on both sides,” he added.

  “Can we pay?”

  Lalaas smiled without humour. “Who knows what they’ll charge? I suspect it varies according to what they believe th
e traveller can afford. Robbers and thieves.”

  “Are they Bragal rebels?”

  “Yes, on this side at least. On the other side? Well, Valchian tribesmen; slavers perhaps. If you don’t pay you get enslaved. Probably.”

  Amne shivered. “What are we going to do? I don’t want to end up a slave!”

  “I’ll sort these brigands out, ma’am. Hopefully on this side of the river there won’t be any trouble, but you can never tell.” Lalaas strung his bow and loosened his blade in his scabbard. “This won’t be easy, ma’am.”

  They slowly rode across the fertile soil towards the crossing point. As they neared, the bridge came into full view, a wide, completely stone built affair that could take two equines abreast. There were ten piers of stone, rising out of the river, and Amne could only marvel at the building skills of those who had put it up all those centuries ago.

  On the Bragal side of the bridge there were three buildings; all wooden huts. One was clearly a rudimentary lavatory, and one a storehouse. The third, the closest to the bridge, was the accommodation of those who had taken up residence there. There were four men, all filthy, unshaven and unkempt. They sported spears and bows and stood across the roadway that led to the bridge.

  Lalaas motioned Amne to wait and slowly rode the last fifty paces alone to speak to the tollmen. “Hail and well met,” he greeted them, palm up. “A fine morning, is it not?”

  “Your intention, stranger?” one of the men barked, his expression suspicious. This man was better armed than many who came this way.

  “To cross.”

  “Your business?”

  “Is mine.”

  The tollman snorted in amusement. The fee was going up in his mind. “Four equines? A woman? Your bow looks good quality. Kastanian army issue, is it not?”

  Lalaas slipped the bow onto the pommel of his saddle. “It is. A gift.”

  “You Kastanian army?”